by Tessa Dawn
Say something,” Dante urged, his heart racing so frantically he could hear the beats echo against the heavy stone tiles of the Great Hall of Umbras, even as the resonance seemed to reverberate to the cathedral ceilings and hover above him as part of the massive iron chandelier.
“Sons…” Damian entreated, immediately correcting the word. “Nephews…say something.”
Ari, Azor, and Asher Dragona sat solemnly on various tiers of the aged stone steps that led from a balcony to the center of the hall, their legs sprawled lazily, their broad shoulders relaxed, their arms in various positions of repose.
All of that changed in an instant.
Ari sat forward and braced his elbows on his knees, and the tattoo of a dragon swallowing a sword, emblazoned on his left temple, seemed to come alive from the strain.
Azor shielded his eyes with one hand and absently fingered the thick, braided chain of gold, copper, and silver plaited around his right bicep, with the other. The band was a gift Dante had given him on his sixteenth birthday, a keepsake that Azor had never taken off. Well, he’d undoubtedly removed it to bathe, but Dante could not recall a day when the dragon hadn’t worn it.
And Asher virtually shifted his torso to the side, thus hiding his features and giving his back to Dante and Damian. His long, midnight-black hair hung well below his shoulders, and with the front section tied back in a familiar white leather thong at the crown of his head—the thong itself adorned with the single plume of a white owl feather tucked inside the loop—Dante couldn’t help but see his own seal all over the loyal dragon. Indeed, the plume had come from the white owl in the windowsill, the day Asher had been born, and Asher had worn it every day with pride, despite not knowing its full significance.
Dante sighed. And then he fixed his gaze on his eldest son. “Aurelio, please—you were never one to bite your tongue. Say something…son.”
Ari shifted pensively on the cool stone step. “Prince Dante, if you would…I would like to take my leave. I…we…can speak again later when I’ve had time to digest all you’ve said.”
Dante’s heart constricted.
Prince Dante…
Aurelio had used his formal title.
As Ari rose from his perch on the stairs and strode to the bottom step, preparing to exit the hall through a rear stone archway, Prince Damian sidestepped in front of him, blocking his route. “No, Ari. You need to stay. We need to see this through. All of us.”
Ignoring the male in front of him, Ari spun around on his heel and gawked openly at Prince Dante. “So…you murdered my real father? You killed Prince Damian?”
Dante shook his head. “No, Ari. I am your real father. I removed your uncle Damian from this realm for the good of the kingdom.”
Ari sniffed, and his dragon tattoo appeared to undulate on his temple. “And you pretended to be my uncle all these years?”
Dante nodded.
“And you”—Ari finally cast his emerald gaze on the male standing in front of him, on Damian—“you pretended to be my father?”
Damian shut his eyes.
Ari swept his hand through his short, clean hair, the longer, wispy front falling over his brow, and shook his head slowly from side to side. “So my uncle is in love with my mother…”
At this, Dante stiffened. “Ari…please…I know you are angry and perhaps confused, but you’re smarter than this. Please, do not play childish games. Your father is in love with your mother, and I always have been.” He felt his dragon stir with the need to reestablish dominance, perhaps in a corporal manner, and he suppressed it with all his might. In a rare moment of restraint and vulnerability, he chose to bare his soul instead. “And for whatever it is worth, your father has always been…will always be…in love with you, too.” While the turn of phrase was romantic in nature, Dante knew Aurelio wasn’t a fool. He would know there was no unseemly insinuation in the words, but rather a confession of affection so raw—so honest and exposed—that the only way to express it was with an all-encompassing declaration. “You were my firstborn, and you have resided in my heart ever since the day you took your first breath. I have lived for you, Ari—for all of you—and I would die for any one of my sons.” He swept his gaze around the room before bringing it back to the firstborn dragon.
Ari blinked three times, and Prince Dante felt the weight of the dragon’s emotion welling within him. By all the gods and goddesses, Dante and Ari were like best friends. So what if their titles had changed! Their relationship was still the same.
Wasn’t it?
Prince Damian had reopened his eyes, and he was staring at Ari with both desperation and pleading mired in his dark brown gaze, but he didn’t venture to speak.
Drawn by that plaintive stare, Ari turned to face Damian squarely, and his expression was stamped with guilt. “But I…I love my father…and…I am loyal to my prince.”
He looked so lost.
So forlorn.
And yes, Dante got it…
The dragon did not want to betray the male who had raised him.
Understanding Ari’s divided loyalty as easily as Dante—the conflict stirring within the forlorn prince—Prince Damian placed his hand on Ari’s shoulder and squeezed it gently. “And I am equally loyal to you, nephew.” He turned to each of the “boys” in turn. “To each of you. Nothing has changed in terms of our fidelity, in terms of our devotion, or our fealty. Your father and I are your loyal servants unto death.”
Just then, Asher rose from the bottom of the staircase, stepped tentatively forward, and stood before Dante. Then he stared into Dante’s eyes as if he had never seen the ancient male before, and his proud shoulders trembled. “Father?” he said tentatively.
Dante met Asher’s eyes. He studied each of his chiseled features unabashedly and slowly nodded. He wanted to voice a heartfelt reply, to say something reassuring or profound, but the words completely eluded him. Finally, he bit out the dragon’s name, and his voice was infinitely hopeful. “Asher.”
Asher held out his hand as if to clasp palms with Dante, but his eyes were filled with so much longing…a handshake would not do.
Dante drew him into a full-bodied embrace. “Asher…” He breathed the word into the dragon’s thick hair. “Son. My son.” He choked back emotion—he would not cry.
Azor stood up next, leaned against the ornate railing, and glanced up at the coffered ceiling, crisscrossed with heavy wooden beams. “Fuck.” He stared pointedly at Damian, the prince who had raised him. “So, you are called Matthias Gentry?”
Damian declined his head, to acknowledge the truth of his full identity, and then he immediately gave Azor a warning. “I am called Uncle Damian…always Damian.”
Dante pulled away from Asher, leaving a reassuring hand on the dragon’s lower back, even as he angled his shoulders toward Azor. “We must never speak that name aloud,” he said sternly—fatherly—standing in absolute solidarity with his brother. It was still far too dangerous to call the prince of Umbras Matthias: In a world teeming with shadows, warlocks, and shifters, even the wind had ears. Today was a necessary—and singular—exception.
Azor nodded, and then he gestured with his chin toward his uncle Damian. “So…you don’t love our mother, then?”
The dark brown of Damian’s eyes thinned to shades of hickory as if obscured by a heavy mist. “No. Not in that way.”
“Do you sleep with her?” Ari interjected.
Leave it to the serious soul to wonder such a thing, Dante thought.
“No!” Damian bellowed. “I have never.”
“Then who…” Azor’s words trailed off, and he broke into raucous laughter. “Ah, hell, you’re in love with Aunt Raylea, aren’t you?” He exchanged a knowing glance with Asher, who cocked his brows in return as if to say, Told you so.
So, the “boys” weren’t blind, deaf, or dumb, Dante mused.
Damian glanced away, and his silence spoke volumes.
“Son of a bitch,” Azor snarled. And then he took a deep, exaggerated breath�
�ostensibly for courage, or in demonstration—before inclining his chin toward Dante. “So…Dad…can I have a new pony?” His eyes lit up with mirth. “I’ve had my eye on that prized Lycanian stallion, the gray that stands eighteen hands tall and struts when he advances like he owns the entire world.”
Prince Dante smiled for all he was worth: This was Azor’s way, and the brass, familiar humor felt like a balm to Dante’s soul. “No,” he said firmly, “you may not have a new pony.” He chuckled wryly.
Azor shrugged. “Why not?”
Dante and Damian answered in unison. “You do not want to be beholden to King Thaon.”
At this, Azor laughed as well.
Dante held out his hand, ushering Azor forward with his eyes. “Son?”
Azor shook his head. “Maybe later.”
Dante angled his head to the side. “Azor.”
“Ah, hell,” Azor said. He pushed off the railing, took the remaining stairs two at a time, and strolled as confidently as he could to Prince Dante, where he stood stoically in front of him. “Father,” he whispered with true affection—
And Dante Dragona cried.
Hell, he had done his best to contain his emotions.
Shoulders trembling, breaths ragged, Dante took his middle son into his arms and held him close to his heart. “For a minute there, I thought you were going to run me through with your sword,” he breathed into Azor’s ear.
Azor snorted, but he couldn’t keep up the ruse. “You have always been like a sire to me,” he said, pulling back to grasp Dante by both broad shoulders. He glanced askance at Damian and nodded. “It makes sense now. It all makes a lot of sense…”
Dante felt his brow soften as if decades of worry-lines, an unseen map of consternation, had simply smoothed out. “I love you, Azor.”
The male stared into Dante’s sapphire orbs like he was gazing into a midnight cauldron, and a thousand unspoken words passed through the dragon’s intense expression.
Dante allowed the moment to linger, even as he remained aware of his remaining two sons—what Ari was feeling, what Asher was needing, how they were each processing the truth—and he realized that he had expressed his love in a raw, ardent manner to Ari, and now Azor—he needed to express the same to one more son. “And you, too, Asher,” Dante said, fervently, “because it needs to be spoken aloud.” The corner of his usually harsh mouth turned up in a sly, cheeky smile. “I love you, Prince Asher,” he amended, realizing he hadn’t actually said the words.
Prince Asher softly bristled, his throat convulsing in waves. It wasn’t that he resented the confession; rather, it was a matter of stoic male pride.
Dragons were not hearts-and-flowers creatures.
They did not go about confessing sentiments of love or showing great affection. Hell, it had taken Dante years to express his innermost heart with Mina, and he still used that particular phrase rather sparingly. Luckily for him, his Ahavi understood—Blessed Nuri, Lord of Fire and Bringer of Rain, Mina had taught him the meaning of the word—she had taught him how to love.
He stepped forward toward Asher, clasped the male’s jaw between his hands, and pressed a tender, demonstrative kiss on his forehead.
Propriety be damned.
Asher smiled, and in that moment, the entire hall lit up from the brilliance of the dragon’s spirit. “Father,” he said, the word flowing fluidly from his tongue, “what about Dario?” He took a cautious step back and his hands tightened at his sides, not into fists, but visibly tense. “You say you love our mother, yet you fathered a child with the Sklavos Ahavi, Cassidy, and you have raised him as your own for thirty years. Do you keep two consorts?”
Dante sighed.
Leave it to Asher to pivot so quickly…
Normally, and under much different circumstances, it would have been a question of little significance: After all, the Sklavos Ahavi were born to serve the dragons with blind obedience. They were chosen by providence for a sacred, and far too narrow purpose: to bear sons for a dragon’s line of succession. Period. While they were mated to the fiery lords during the autumn ceremony, they were not considered wives, not unless and until a special bond formed between them. Typically, and as long as the practice had been recorded, the dragons also kept Blood Ahavi, in addition to their mates, to feed their beasts and slake their carnal needs. Right, wrong, or indifferent, it had always been the way of the Realm, but in Dante’s case, he had pledged his fealty to Mina Louvet—and he had been faithful all these years.
In Prince Damian’s case, the dragon had fallen in love with Raylea, and he had remained chaste because of that love, even though the two of them had never acted upon it—could never act upon it.
And as for Prince Drake?
Well, Dante had never asked his younger brother such a question—are you faithful to Tatiana? It was not the kind of conversation one dragon prince had with another. Based on all he’d seen and heard, Dante had simply assumed the prince of Castle Commons had eyes for only one woman: his Sklavos Ahavi. But even if he didn’t—if he hadn’t—that was still the way of the Realm, the nature of dragons for as long as Dante could remember. His own sons would be free to choose their individual paths, to navigate the quandary as they saw fit. Of course, they would be given Sklavos Ahavi when the time came, just as they would continue to have access to Blood Slaves. The former were absolutely necessary (the Realm needed dragons to survive), even as the latter were equally indispensable (there were many times when one’s consort was not available, and while a dragon could feed from anyone, the Blood Ahavi were well trained in the nuances of the dangerous act—one female could not safely feed an immortal dragon by herself…)
Yet and still, Prince Dante was hopeful that Mina would make several changes to how things were handled between the Ahavi and the dragon princes—she had already devised a short list: Never again would a governess lord over the Sklavos Ahavi with absolute power. Never again would the chosen females be sequestered from their families while at the Keep, nor denied the right to pursue their own intrinsic interests. Never again would a wicked, morally corrupt dragon be free to rape, brutalize, or demean whomever he chose without consequence. While Dante believed the latter was more indicative of King Demitri’s rule than a dragon’s mores—corrupt kings spawned corrupt courts—he agreed that it was time for the Realm to change.
Which brought him back, front and center, to Asher’s question…
Drawing himself out of his musings—now was not the time—Dante swept his hand toward the bottom of the staircase and nodded at all three sons. He had so much more to tell them. “Sit; there is still much we must discuss.” He glanced askance at Prince Damian. “There is still much to be revealed.”
The dragons meandered toward the stairs, but not without stopping to address their uncle.
To regard Prince Damian—
Matthias.
To their credit, and as testament to their great, enduring affection for the dragon who had raised them, they lined up before Prince Damian, dropped to one knee, and bowed their heads in the ultimate show of reverence—dragon princes bowed before no one but their king, thus making the gesture both heartfelt and sublime.
The ultimate veneration of three grateful sons.
An unspoken vow of eternal love and adoration toward the male who had once been their father.
A promise of fealty, a reaffirmation of familial ties, and a pledge to always honor Damian’s contribution to their lives.
And for the first time since Dante had plotted with Prince Damian—since the two had defined their roles, established boundaries, and carried out the boys’ unusual upbringing as co-parents, father and uncle, each role reversed—Dante couldn’t hold Prince Damian’s gaze. For surely, he was taking the wealth of a lifetime, a bounty more valuable than steel or gold, away from the faithful dragon, even as he was giving him back his life…a chance to live with the woman he loved.
Dante heard the barest shuffle of clothing, and he knew that Damian had knelt
in front of the boys as well. In fact, he could feel a shift in the energy around the guild, a vacuum close in the air, as Uncle Damian embraced Ari, Azor, and Asher, and spoke words so earnest and true they drifted like sands through a timeless hourglass to Prince Dante’s ears…
Always…
Great affection…
And solidarity…
A promise to see the boys often, to remain in their lives.
At last, Prince Ari spoke the words “Father-Uncle,” all three dragons repeated the phrase, and Dante had never been prouder.
Father-Uncle…
Damian had earned the special title.
As one by one, Ari, Azor, and Asher rose to their feet and took a seat, side by side on the third-to-last stair, leaving plenty of room to stretch out between them, Prince Dante inclined his head in deference to Prince Damian, and the Ruler of Umbras returned the nod.
It was done.
And now it was time to answer Asher’s question—to answer many questions. “Asher,” Dante spoke softly, “I have never lain with Cassidy Bondeville. Not even once.”
A collective gasp filled the hall.
“Father,” Asher replied, “does Dario know this? Surely, he cannot.” His face grew pale. “What? How? Who is his sire? Our cousin will be devastated.”
Dante rubbed his brow.
Indeed, Dario’s heart would be laid bare, and the lad’s greatest source of certainty and pride would be stripped from him like a satchel of coins taken by a thief in the night. And honestly, Dante had not planned on telling Cassidy’s son the whole truth, not ever. But now he knew he must. There was no way to reveal some secrets while keeping others clandestine. He could not reclaim—and reinvigorate—the Realm with lies, half-truths, and hidden paternities. When the season of the diamond king came to an end and the sapphire season began, it would have to be pure and untainted in every way.
Feeling the weight of his burden like a suit of heavy armor bearing down upon his chest, he drew back his shoulders to hoist the heavy load. “King Demitri is Dario’s sire, and no, Prince Dario has no idea. I believe King Demitri either knows the truth of this, or he suspects it—but Cassidy continues to conceal it. She believes she got away with treachery.” He could have added that she also believed she and Dante were lovers, as he had planted the erroneous memories in her mind from time to time to keep her content, but that was more information than his sons needed to know.
