by Tessa Dawn
Mina suppressed a reservoir of mounting fears and tried to simply concentrate on Dante’s words. It wasn’t as if she had not heard them before, dozens of times, while being reared in the Keep: Dragons were predatory animals, beasts of instinct. They ruled with absolute power; resorted to force whenever they were defied; and exacted justice, swiftly and without mercy. They were powerful beyond measure, ruthless without restraint, and cunning without equal. She knew all of this, better than most. Still, she had not made the connection when it came to a dragon lord and his Sklavos Ahavi. Somehow, she had believed they would possess a gentler nature when it came to their females, their breed mates, their futures.
At least she had hoped…until now.
“So, when I question you, the beast responds?”
“He rises to the surface quickly, dear Mina.”
“And when I tell him not to touch me—”
“He wishes only to force your submission.”
She swallowed a lump in her throat. “And when I run…”
“He will always pursue you.”
“And if I fight him?”
“He could hurt you.”
“And you?”
“I am a dragon.”
“Never a man?”
“I am trying to be a man as well as a prince.” He spoke in a guttural snarl. “Only now. Only here. Only for you.”
Mina finally understood.
And once she did, she recognized Dante’s ferocity for what it was, an internal war between the prince and his beast. The hands that trembled, yet still remained beneath her breasts; the voice that rose and fell with dominance, reflecting tenuous control; the alpha creature that insisted upon her obedience—all were beholden to the dragon. “Forgive me, milord,” she whispered.
“For what?” he said as his body stiffened.
“For my insolence and defiance. For displeasing you.”
“Do not toy with me, Mina.” His voice was laced with glacial warning.
Mina heard him clearly, the words beneath the words. “Is he close?” she asked, referring to his beast, not knowing if she really wanted the answer.
“So…very…close,” he said softly.
Mina forced her hands to her side, ignoring the proximity of Dante’s thumbs to her most intimate anatomy. She inhaled deeply and tried to concentrate on something—anything—that would bring her mind back to a peaceful state: the color of freshly bloomed tulips in the spring, the sound of the Draconem River as it swept through the commonlands valley; Raylea’s laughter, and the joy her little sister had brought her, before she had been taken to the Keep.
Dante’s muscles began to relax and his iron hold softened.
She leaned back into him, giving way to the submission he craved, and he breathed an audible sigh of relief.
When, at last, he let go, he spun her around to face him. “Kiss me, Mina.” It was as much a need as a test. The dragon was still angry, still searching for control.
Mina stepped forward into his arms, rose up onto her toes, and pressed her lips lightly to his, following the swirl of his tongue as it gently swept the outline of her lips. He growled—that had been him earlier—and then he backed away. “You are mine, Mina.” Despite his burgeoning self-control, he snarled.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Your Sklavos Ahavi.”
“And when the autumn leaves turn, and the king gives you to me, I will take you in every way.”
She gulped. “Until then?” If her words had been any more hushed, they would have merely been thoughts.
“You will come at my command. You will do as I please. And you will accept my feeding as well as my touch.”
Mina didn’t reply, but she did hold his gaze.
At least that was something.
“And you will stay clear of Damian as much as possible,” he added. “He also has the right to command you, so heed my warning, Mina. If you displease him, he will kill you before the Autumn Mating. And no one will punish him for the deed.”
Mina nodded, understanding, as grave as the reality might be. “And Pralina? Is she also a threat?”
He tilted his head, considering her question. “She can be, but not like Damian.”
Mina bit her bottom lip. “Anyone else?”
“Oh,” Dante said, “everyone else: the warlocks in the east; the shades in the west; the ancient Malo Clan of my father’s enemies; the castle servants, when they are jealous or being petty; the Lycanians across the sea; and Wavani, the witch. You were protected at the Keep, and now you are here at Castle Dragon. You are on your own for the next five months.”
Mina dropped her head in despair, even as she nodded with growing awareness. “And that is why you wished to show me fruit and flowers…and places to hide.”
He looked off into the distance, and his silence said it all.
“Is there no one I can trust?”
“Oh, there are always servants you can trust, but their loyalty ebbs and flows; however, there is one who will always remain faithful: Thomas the Squire, a nine-year-old boy who has been with us since he was orphaned at age two. His allegiance is not entirely with my father.”
Mina didn’t dare ask what that meant. Surely, Dante Dragona was loyal to the king, without question or hesitation, but then why did he speak so cryptically about this squire? She curtsied as she had been taught in the Keep. “Thank you,” she said, not knowing what else to say.
He took a measured step forward, but only halfway. “Come to me.” He crooked his pointer and middle fingers in a microscopic gesture, much like he had done earlier.
Mina stepped slowly forward until her toes were touching his. She looked into his eyes and held his penetrating gaze.
He stared at her so intently, it was almost hypnotic. And then he ran his fingers through her hair, traced her jawline with his thumb, and trailed the back of his hand lightly along her throat, across her collarbone, and over her breasts, stopping to trace the outline of each areola.
She shivered and gasped, but she didn’t protest. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she willed it to slow down.
“Don’t ever forget what I am, Mina,” he said in a chilling voice. And then, much like he had done with Pralina, he straightened, shrugged his regal shoulders, and inclined his head. He was all at once as calm, clear, and steady as a crystal pond.
He whistled for the horses, and the two magnificent beasts pranced eagerly to their lord’s side. He gestured toward the white gelding and nodded, returning to his original intent. “Take your mount, Mina.”
As before, his voice was a quiet command.
Chapter Three
Dante Dragona sat back in the well-worn saddle, adjusting his weight to flow effortlessly with the powerful gait of his majestic horse. He was deep in thought, trying to prepare himself for what was soon to come: the execution of two Warlochian traders at Dante’s hands. His royal brothers, Damian and Drake, fell into an easy pace beside him, both of their mounts prancing excitedly beneath their imperial riders, as if sensing the drama to come.
He stared ahead at the winding path, considering the state of the Realm and the role he was soon to play as the prince of a tumultuous providence, wondering at the wisdom of his father’s inevitable decrees…
King Demitri had already chosen a ruling territory for each of his three sons: Damian was to be given the western mountain territory of Umbras, home of the treacherous shadow-walkers, beings who assumed solid form in the day yet sank into the shadows like ghosts at night; Drake was to take the southern region, or the commonlands, where the mortal humans made their home, including the devious Malo Clan; and, of course, Dante was to reign over the warlocks and witches, with their infernal gargoyle pets, establishing a Warlochian Court in the east.
As far as Dante was concerned, the king’s choices made sense.
Damian was the most aggressive of the three, the angriest by far, and he would rule with an iron fist, subjugate his citizens by force…and with fear. He would rule as a tyrant, ye
t his power would be respected. After all, the shadow-walkers—or shades, as they were often referred to—were nearly soulless beings who lived predominantly to satisfy their carnal natures, to prey on the souls of others. They revered power and treachery above all else.
Drake, on the other hand, had a much more reasoned mind. He was a shrewd and deliberate thinker, and as the prince of the commonlands, he would rule with wisdom and deliberation. His talents were best suited to a human population, and it could only be hoped that he would manage the Malo Clan with wisdom and finesse.
And Dante?
Well, he was as perceptive as he was cunning, not to be taken lightly or trifled with. His keen awareness of energy, as well as his proficiency with magic, would give him the greatest advantage when working with a race of beings who were always up to witchcraft.
He shifted in his saddle once more and took special notice of the vivid green leaves as they rustled in the tall linden trees which lined the winding path of Forest Dragon, the trade route that snaked from the royal district to the three outlining provinces, ultimately comprising the Realm. The forest was especially beautiful in May, alive with brilliant colors, teeming with wildlife, and bursting with infinite promise—it seemed strangely at odds with the ever-increasing burdens that weighed upon Dante’s shoulders like a cloak plaited in stones.
He glanced sideways at Damian and sighed: The male’s mouth was set in a harsh, implacable line, as always, and his dark brown eyes, framed by a faint one-inch scar on his right temple, were practically brimming with anticipation, alight with eagerness for the upcoming kill.
Damian was a loose cannon to put it mildly, and keeping him in line, or, rather, balancing his impulsive, reckless behavior with the mounting needs of the Realm would be one of Dante’s greatest challenges. As much as it saddened Dante to admit it, Damian could not be trusted, neither with his subjects nor his court. He was simply too dangerous, too broken, too hard to contain. He was the second-born child of King Demitri and Queen Kalani—well, that is, if one didn’t count Desmond, Dante’s twin, who had taken his own life nearly ten years ago—and he had been conceived in brutality, nursed in black magic.
The story was as tragic as it was important…
One hundred fifty summers ago, at age nineteen, Dante’s twin Desmond had fallen deeply in love with a simple peasant girl from the commonlands. Her name had been Evangeline Stone, and with eyes the color of polished blue glass, hair the texture of fine-spun silk, Desmond had been prepared to give up everything he held dear in order to make Evangeline his bride. Needless to say, the late Queen Kalani was not pleased in the least. Not only was Evangeline beneath Desmond’s station, as far as the haughty queen was concerned, but by choosing her as a bride, it would mean that Desmond could not—would not—choose a Sklavos Ahavi as his consort when the time came.
And that meant he would not be guaranteed royal male offspring.
Although Queen Kalani had been the first Sklavos Ahavi in the history of the Realm to be elevated from the servitude of consort to the status of queen—in fact, King Demitri had gifted her with immortality in order to make it possible—she had repaid the king’s gift and his affection with bitter betrayal.
She had ordered Evangeline’s execution, and she had kept the order a secret until it was, at last, viciously carried out.
The loss of his beloved had catapulted Desmond into an inconsolable state of grief, and the realization that his mother had ordered Evangeline’s murder had ultimately pushed him over the edge. Alas, on a warm summer’s night, beneath the softly hanging branches of a sycamore tree, just beyond the castle’s outer walls, Desmond Dragona, second-born twin of the first royal birth, had consumed a vial of witches’ tonic in his desolation, and when that hadn’t worked fast enough, he had hanged himself in the tree, thus taking his own royal life.
Dante bristled at the memory, and his horse grew uneasy beneath him, as if sharing the painful recollection with him. Dante did not care to think about that fateful day, about the fact that he had not been there to save his twin, or about the truth of his mother and father’s so-called marriage, who they had truly been and what they all had become after Desmond’s tragic death. To this day, King Demitri remained a heartless, vacant shell as a result of the suicide.
Dante turned his attention back to Damian and what the tragic story meant for the Realm…
When the king found out what had transpired, he had flown into a virulent rage, his beast emerging with unrestrained ferocity, his temper flaring into merciless wrath: As far as King Demitri was concerned, his queen, a Sklavos Ahavi—nothing more than a glorified slave—had been handed the keys to the kingdom only to commit unspeakable treason. She had gone behind his back and given a royal order, one she was not entitled to give, and in that perilous act of sedition, she had cost the king his son. To this day, Dante didn’t know if Evangeline’s death had ever meant anything to his father, or if his rage had only been fueled by his wounded pride…by a dragon’s need for revenge.
Either way, the results were the same.
He had punished Kalani with a brutal beating, and he had forced her to conceive another son, the coupling being an act of violation, not love.
While it had been too late to retract her coronation or reverse her immortality, too late to remove her from the throne, the king had withdrawn his affection and his respect, and the wound had never healed for either one of them. In retaliation, Kalani had cursed the unborn child. She had practiced dark magic throughout the pregnancy, in hopes of giving birth to an ally who would one day avenge her; but instead, she had given birth to Damian, a child without a conscience.
A prince without a moral compass.
A dragon with a tainted soul.
Two years later, the king had forced Kalani to conceive once again, and Drake was the result of the pairing. Not long after Drake’s birth, she had died in her sleep. According to the king, her immortality had not completely taken—her conversion had not been properly sealed—and the pregnancy had weakened her beyond recovery.
Dante winced at the pathetic story.
Immortal beings didn’t pass away in their sleep.
In fact, it took a grave act of violence to kill them.
Either way, Drake had been the last child the embittered couple had ever produced.
“Dante…Dante!” Drake’s voice pierced the silence, jolting Dante out of his trance. “Are you alert, brother?”
Dante shook his head, as if he could physically dislodge the memories, before turning his attention to Drake. Drake was another responsibility altogether—rather than being born too wicked, he may have been born too kind. While he could certainly hold his own as a prince and a dragon, he was hardly a tactician of war. His Court would require constant military support and intervention, even if it was only comprised of humans, and the Malo Clan might prove to be his undoing if he didn’t remain on his toes. “Yes, I can hear you,” he called in response. “What is it?”
Drake inclined his head in a nod, gesturing toward the upcoming village. “We are approaching Warlochia…and the prisoners.”
“You need to stay alert, brother,” Damian snarled, reining in his horse. “This should be done swiftly and with authority.”
“Do not counsel me on how to rule my future province,” Dante retorted, avoiding eye contact with the surly dragon. “I know what needs to be done.”
“Yay, indeed you do,” Damian replied, taking no offense at the banter. Strength, he understood.
Dante scanned the approaching piazza before them—the townspeople were gathered in fearful clusters; the prisoners were already manacled to a pair of wooden posts; and at the center of a wide semicircle, the local sheriff awaited the prince’s approach.
Summoning his dragon’s fire, Dante kicked his horse into a run and galloped into the center of the plaza with authority.
*
The Warlochians parted to make way for the charging horse and the dragon prince, who sat so proudly erect o
n the stallion’s back. No doubt, Dante looked like a knight of old, summoned to a field of battle, only this battlefield was a village square, surrounded by tall, spindly trees; bounded by a smooth earthen floor; and dotted with dilapidated old structures: an outlying stable, various rickety benches, and an aged stone well.
Dante dismounted in one lithe leap, landing directly before the prisoners, his thick raven hair blowing softly in the wind. “Sheriff,” he called, waiting for the appropriate subject to answer.
A short, stout mage, nearly fifty years old, shuffled over quickly, all the while reining in his pet gargoyle on a short leather leash.
Dante ignored the obnoxious little ornament, refusing to acknowledge a three-foot-tall monster as a subject. “See to my horse and bring me the decree.”
The mage bowed low, his obeisant eyes reflecting the fear that always shone in the presence of a dragon. “As you command, my prince.” He turned to a nearby errand boy—the child appeared no more than eight years old—and gestured toward the stallion’s reins. “Feed and water your prince’s horse,” he commanded, and then he turned back to Dante; retrieved a rolled-up scroll from a purse strung over his tunic; and placed it gently in the palm of Dante’s hand.
Dante examined the seal.
It was blood red, embossed in gold, and in the center of the stamp, there was the outline of a dragon with a diamond-shaped eye. It was the unmistakable signet of King Demitri Dragona, the tenth of his line, the imperious ruler of Dragons Realm. He broke it and read the decree out loud in the common tongue, his voice traveling across the Warlochian Square like rolling thunder. “For the highest crime of treason against the realm, I, King Demitri Dragona, regent of the royal court, hereby sentence the traitors, Wylan P. Jonas and Sir Henry Woodson, to death by execution at the hand of their future sovereign. The execution is to be meted out on the fourth day of May in the 175th year of the Dragonas’ Reign, the season of the diamond king.”
