The Dragon's Ambivalent Sacrifice: a Dragon Shifter Romance (The Last Dragons Book 2)

by Ines Johnson

  "Please," Beryl said. He was a desperate man. He was barely holding on to his beast as it was. It was aiming to rip the Valkyrie's head off, something that would spell certain doom for man and beast.

  Morrigan sauntered around her dragon. There were two human-sized sacks on its back. Beryl smelled blood coming from one. That had to be her capture for Valhalla. The Valkyrie usually didn't kill their prey before bringing them beyond the Veil. Briefly, Beryl wondered what had caused such ire for her to kill the man early.

  But that sad sack was instantly forgotten in favor of the second. Beryl’s gaze flitted to the sack the Valkyrie removed. Morrigan lifted it with no effort.

  Beryl could smell the delectable scent coming off of it. It smelled of something sweet but not from nature. There was also an acidic smell that reminded him of the potions in Corun’s lab. Underneath all of that was the smell of something light, like a breeze over a small body of water. He reached for the sack.

  Morrigan snatched it back. "Unh unh unh. Payment first."

  Beryl grit his teeth. "Follow me."

  He led the Valkyrie into the entrance to the mines. He skirted past Corun's ruby mines and Kimber's diamond mines. He took the entrance into his own mines where emeralds were buried beneath the rock.

  "Take what you want," he said to the Valkyrie.

  Her eyes glowed again but out of greed instead of anger. She handed him the sack and went shopping.

  For a moment, Beryl just held the sack in his arms. She weighed nothing, but she felt heavy with importance. Slowly, he pulled back the sheath of fabric to reveal a round face. Soft strawberry curls framed her face. A small button nose split her features into two perfectly symmetrical halves. Her lips were small, heart-shaped, and full.

  "There's fire in her blood?" Beryl asked.

  Like it mattered. The bundle in his arms was his, and he was keeping her whether she could birth him whelps or not. If she had no fire and couldn't carry a dragon, he could still hold her and protect her. His beast didn't need the physical to sate him. He just needed a cause. And she was his cause.

  "She's a fire blood."

  Relief sailed through Beryl. The words he’d thought a moment ago crumbled in his mind. She was beautiful, and he wanted her physically. With the confirmation, his loins ached to have her this very instant.

  “Even better,” said Morrigan, “look closer, she has scales."

  Cradling his prize in his arms, Beryl slipped the cloth from her delicate shoulders. He gasped at what he saw. On her pale skin were golden spots. They were soft to the touch, but he knew instantly what they were.

  "What's her name?" he asked.

  "I didn't ask. Gird your loins, though. She was about to castrate my mark before I could claim him.”

  Beryl grinned at that pronouncement. His female was feisty, just like Cardi and Chryssie. She was perfect. He uncovered the rest of her and began the ritual of binding.

  Chapter Four

  She was definitely dead.

  How did she know for sure? She was being snuggled. Snuggling only happened with moms in the real world, and her mom was dead.

  Since she was young, Poppy had seen many a mommy backhand a kid, or strong-arm them in the direction they wanted them to go, or give them a shove or a pinch to get in line. But Poppy had lucked out. Her mom gave her snuggles in bed from time to time. But only during the times her mom’s bed wasn’t occupied with a client.

  Those were the times Poppy felt safe. Those were the times she didn’t have a desire to fly away to some imaginary world she’d seen on television.

  When she was inside her mother’s arms, the world stopped being a dangerous place where food was scarce, and voices were always raised, and men looked at little girls like afternoon snacks.

  It had been an afternoon when Poppy had lain in her mother’s bed and dozed. School had let out early, and she’d come back to an empty trailer. When arms came around her, they hadn’t felt warm. They’d been sweaty and rancid with the stench of unwashed man.

  No.

  Poppy’s eyes were closed in the present. She shut them tighter. She wouldn’t go there. She was safe, dead, and finally back in her mother’s arms.

  Her mother had taken care of the stinky man who’d put his dirty hands down Poppy’s clean underwear. There had been blood on the bed, but it wasn’t Poppy’s. And then her mother had brought Poppy into her warm embrace.

  It was the last one she’d ever had.

  Until now.

  Poppy had known death was nothing to fear. Now, she could be back with her mom. She’d get warm hugs for all eternity.

  It was just, had her mother’s hugs always been so tight? She’d used to be able to twist her body and turn to lay her head against her mother’s beating heart. She couldn’t do that now.

  Her mom’s arms had always been thin. Just not as thin as a piece of rope. Also, her mom had two arms, and they weren’t that long. But somehow they were wrapped around her arms, her stomach, and her legs.

  Something was wrong. Poppy lowered her head to quiet the rising nausea. Her chin was able to touch her chest, but her stomach clenched. She opened her eyes and saw that she was indeed in an embrace. Ropes cradled her, not her mother’s pale, track-marked, man-bruised arms.

  For a moment, she could only stare and admire the handiwork of the ropes. They crisscrossed her body in an intricate pattern. She looked like she’d been wrapped like a gift. She waited for the fear to claw at her, for the need to escape to drown her.

  It didn’t come. She couldn’t help the sense of peace that washed over her at being bound. She felt secure, safe.

  Great. So, she’d lost her mind in death as well as her freedom.

  It was still better than being in that shithole with Bruce. It couldn’t be too much worse, being the slave to that angel of death. At least Poppy wouldn’t have to lie on her back to earn her keep.

  Or so she hoped. Were angels lesbians? Did they have sex? They must do it to make angel babies.

  She’d considered lesbianism in her teens after her first sexual experience with a boy. Later she rejected it when Joanna Wilcox, the homecoming queen, and meanest girl to walk the hall, came out of the closet. What was the point of switching teams if brutes existed in every sexuality?

  Sex or no sex, there was an even worse issue with her new captivity. Her spots were showing. The ropes rode the dress up on her thighs. Being bound was one thing. Bruce had tied her up before. He’d even locked her in a closet once for getting the wrong brand of beer. But being on display like this would not do.

  Poppy squirmed. She moved her hips right and left, trying to get the hem of her dress into her hands. If she could just give it a tug, she could cover the biggest spot on her right thigh.

  “Stop,” said a deep voice. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

  Poppy did as she was told. Partly because of the command in the man’s tone; she had been broken into obedience from a young age. But mostly because the voice was that of a man. It looked like she would be working on her back again after all. And with a man who liked his victims helpless and bound.

  “I smell fear on you, little one.”

  Little one? If that was his idea of an insult, she’d heard worse. Pimpled Prostitute, Trailer Park Tigger, Dirty Dalmatian. She’d survived those, she could live with Little One. But what did he mean by he smelled fear?

  “No one and nothing here would dare harm you.”

  With the ropes pressing into her skin, Poppy doubted that. But she knew better than to argue with a man. It brought nothing but pain. Still, she was exposed, and embarrassment pushed words from her throat.

  “Please, mister, I don’t like to be exposed.”

  “Exposed?”

  His voice sounded like it had been given to him by a bear. It was way too deep to be that of a man. Then he moved, and the room flooded with light.

  Poppy had thought she was in darkness. Her eyes had just needed time to adjust. When they did, she went slack against the ro
pes. Her exposed spots went forgotten.

  She wasn’t in a room. She was outside. Or rather inside something that was outside. There was a scent of fresh earth in the air, along with that damp chill that came from being close to a body of water at night. There were rocks all around her. She had to be in a cave. The green gems sparkling from the rocks cinched that idea. She was in an emerald mine.

  The man who’d spoken to her came into view. He towered over her, blocking out the green light. The green was now coming from his eyes like they were made of emeralds. His face was cruelly beautiful, sharp angles and chiseled bone. He was built like a wrestler, but he looked like a model; a fitness model for a bodybuilding magazine. His bulging muscles were stuffed into a yellow Gold’s Gym T-shirt over gray gym shorts that left nothing to the imagination.

  One meaty hand lifted to her face. Poppy braced herself for her first punishment. Instead, a warm hand brushed down the side of her face. The gentleness of it shook something inside her. Never had a man handled her with anything resembling care. Were things backward in death?

  “Are you cold, little one?”

  “I …” She wasn’t sure how to answer?

  Poppy didn’t understand the question. It had nothing to do with him or his needs. It appeared to be centered on her. Was he asking about her wellbeing? About her comfort?

  All other questions about herself had been along the lines of Are you stupid? Or Did you get dropped on your head? Or Where’s my dinner?

  The big man pulled his shirt over his head. Poppy was treated to the sight of muscle upon muscle. He dropped the shirt over her engulfing her in warmth and his scent. He was sweaty, but it was nowhere near approaching stench territory. He smelled of fresh air and warm heat and man. His shirt covered her from her shoulders down to her toes. With her spots under wraps, she relaxed and inhaled more of his scent.

  “Tell me your name?” he asked as she tucked the edges of the shirt around her body as though it were a blanket.

  “Poppy.”

  “Pop pee.”

  “It’s Penelope. But everyone calls me Poppy.”

  He made a rumble in his throat and then said her name. Over and over again, like it was a chant. Poppy stared at his mouth as he formed her name.

  “I am Beryl.”

  “Hi, Beryl.”

  “Hi, Poppy.”

  She grinned back at him. “Beryl, I’m sorry for asking, but is there a reason you’ve tied me up?”

  "You've been bound for your protection," he said.

  “My protection? From what?"

  "From me."

  All the warmth left her middle and flushed out her fingers and toes. “You're going to hurt me?"

  "Never." He spoke so vehemently that she believed him.

  "You have been given to me as a sacrifice," he said. "The rest of my life will be spent ensuring your comfort and pleasure."

  Again his words made no sense. Sacrifice? The rest of her life? Her comfort and pleasure?

  "You no longer have anything to worry about. I'll take care of everything for you."

  Nope. Still not registering.

  “But before that happens, I must mark you.”

  “Mark me?”

  "This will hurt. But only for a second. Then I promise you nothing but pleasure for the rest of your days."

  Her eyes were fixed on his lips and his teeth moving closer to her. She found herself arching her neck toward him. A second before he clamped down, a loud thud sounded behind him, and another man darkened the doorway.

  “Stop,” growled the newcomer. “I challenge you for her.”

  "She's mine!" roared Beryl.

  There was a thunderous explosion as the green-eyed man and the dark figure clashed. Poppy’s voice caught in her throat. Her bound body went tense. She could do nothing but stare at the violence unfolding before her.

  Chapter Five

  Beryl ducked Ilia's first punch. It was easy as his brother was as predictable as a robot. As slow as one too. That was the reason the Terminator lost to two, puny humans. When Beryl ducked his brother’s punch he caught sight of her; his mate.

  Poppy.

  She was everything he could've ever wanted in a mate. She spoke softly, which pleased his beast. There was so much yelling and posturing in this castle. Even Cardi and Chryssie raised their voices and, though his beast loved the two, he shrank each time they shrieked.

  But not his mate. Poppy had only struggled because she was cold. An oversight on his part. Thank the Goddess he’d covered her before Ilia could see her body and the beautiful scales covering her flesh. Beryl’s incisors had watered at the sight, eager for a taste.

  Ilia’s jab to his head caused Beryl to bite down on his lip. He tasted blood. It wasn't what he'd planned to have on his lips. But it helped clear his head.

  "I challenge you for her," shouted Ilia.

  The runt of the litter was always challenging one of them. He'd given up challenging Kimber and Corun as the two were now mated and settled. Rhoyl would only fight in dragon form. And Elek simply didn't care enough to assert any dominance. So that just left Beryl as the brunt of Ilia's mantrums as Cardi called them.

  "She's already chosen me," said Beryl.

  “You haven’t marked her,” said Ilia.

  “‘Cause you crashed a party where you were unwanted.”

  Ilia’s scowl dropped, and anguish colored his features. He had been unwanted when he was born. Their father had left Ilia outside to die, believing he wasn’t strong enough to survive. At times, Beryl believed the only reason Ilia did was to prove the beast of a man wrong.

  Beryl hadn’t meant to bring that sore spot up, but he couldn’t have Ilia crash his mating. He got in another jab and cross. Ilia tumbled back. His eyes flashed the dark jade of midnight. Scales pushed out of his flesh, claws extended from his fingers. He leaped up on legs and landed on thick dragon hindquarters. Fire flamed out of his mouth.

  As a man, Ilia was slight. But his beast was a behemoth. Nearly twice the size of Beryl’s. The dragon had protected the little boy who had been left to die and grew into a ferocious protector. But this was one prize Beryl was unwilling to give up. Ilia’s dragon was also reckless, more reckless than Beryl’s. The dragon did not like to lose and would go to extreme measures to win.

  Beryl dashed in front of Poppy and spread his wings just in time. Heat bloomed to the top of the cave’s walls down to Beryl’s toes. He took it all, bearing the brunt of his brother’s careless blaze.

  “Stop,” Beryl roared. “Or you'll hurt her."

  That was the only thing that could ever calm a crazed dragon. The reality of putting a woman in danger. The flames immediately died down.

  Ilia’s dragon gasped, pulling the flames back inside of himself. He shifted back into his human form and rushed forward. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

  Beryl shoved his brother’s chest, pushing him down to the ground. Ilia fell on his bare ass. He didn’t put out his hands to catch himself. He didn’t put them up to ward off Beryl’s rough kick to the gut.

  “You are not worthy of her,” snarled Beryl. “You can’t even control your beast.”

  He was one to talk. He’d nearly killed a man last night because his beast was out of control. But in this, he was right.

  He was also in complete control of himself and his beast. Ilia wasn’t. He couldn’t have her. He’d nearly burned her to a crisp.

  "You're far too reckless for a mate."

  Ilia hung his head, much like Beryl had done after his fight where he’d nearly killed Leander. Ilia’s shoulders hunched. Though he wasn’t sporting a long dragon’s tail any longer, his ass sank between his legs as he trudged off and out of the room.

  Beryl turned back to his mate. Her eyes were wide with shock. He took her chin in hand. He turned her to face him. The moment her eyes connected with him, she screamed.

  She hadn’t made a peep the whole fight. The shock must have just worn off. Beryl winced at the shrill sound but waited until i
t was all out of her.

  “Please, don’t hurt me,” she begged. “Please, I’ll be good.”

  “I would never let a hair on your head be harmed.”

  Her eyes were still filled with fear. His dragon paced back and forth inside him. It didn’t like the smell of her fear. It urged him to bury his face between her thighs. Pleasure would take away the fear. But Beryl wasn’t the blockhead others believed him to be. He knew better. He knew that would only scare her more.

  He brushed her tears away. She winced at the prick of his claws. A small trickle of red blood pooled at his claw tip. He cursed under his breath. He’d just broken his promise to not hurt her, but it was an accident.

  He had to remind himself to be gentle. She was human. She was fragile. She was precious.

  He retracted his claws. The room changed from bright green to normal colors as his dragon sat back on its haunches and let the man have total control.

  Beryl set to work loosening the ropes binding her. When he was done, he pulled her into his arms. She didn’t fight him. That helped to settle the beast inside him. She was covered in his scent. She would accept his mark; she would accept his claim.

  In his embrace, she held still. Tension rolled off her small form in waves. "I don't want to be dead anymore,” she whimpered, her eyes shut firmly closed.

  "You are very much alive, little one.”

  "I want to wake up.” She rocked her small frame inside his arms as though she were trying to soothe herself.

  Beryl cradled her closer, rocking her gently. “You are awake, my precious gem.”

  “What's happening?” Her hands were balled into fists against his chest. He could feel her throat working, swallowing again and again as though she were trying to get something large and bitter down. “Am I going crazy, or did that man just turn into a dragon?”

  Beryl nodded. Then realized she couldn’t see him. “Yes.”

  “And you’re a dragon, too?”

  "I am."

  The swallowing stopped. Her head tilted back, and she looked into his face. She was even more beautiful than she had been a moment ago. Small and warm and delicate.