Page 1 of Davoren (Dragon Master Daddies #1)

T he jasmine incense couldn't mask the stench of sulfur seeping through the silk curtains. I shifted on the bench, silver chains singing their soft metallic song against the lacquered wood. They were ceremonial shackles, beautifully filigreed, but that didn’t make me any less of a prisoner.

Across from me, Mira dozed fitfully, her handmaid’s uniform still pristine despite the dust that found its way through every gap in the caravan's ornate construction.

Dawn light filtered through red silk, painting everything in shades of blood and fire.

Fitting, considering where they were taking me.

I flexed my wrists again, testing the give of the restraints.

The chains were beautiful work—delicate patterns etched into each link, moonstones set at regular intervals to catch the light.

My father had insisted they were the finest craftsmanship, part of the traditional marriage procession.

He'd said it with that same distant smile he'd worn since my brother died, the one that never quite reached his eyes.

Through the beaded partition separating us from the driver's platform, I counted shadows.

Two guards sleeping, one keeping watch. The morning shift change wouldn't come for another hour at least. My fingers found the hairpin hidden in my elaborate braids, its point filed sharp over weeks of secret preparation.

Not sharp enough to pick locks, perhaps, but sufficient for other purposes if needed.

Mira stirred, catching me mid-assessment. Her eyes widened slightly before dropping to her lap—a servant's trained response to finding her betters engaged in something questionable.

"Did you sleep at all?" I kept my voice low, intimate. The kind of tone that invited confidences.

"Some, my lady." She glanced at my wrists, then away. "Are they . . . are they very uncomfortable?"

I managed a rueful smile. "My father assured me they're the height of fashion in Ashfall. Apparently, Lord Solmar appreciates a bride who arrives properly adorned." The bitter irony tasted familiar on my tongue.

Mira's fingers twisted in her lap. She was young—maybe seventeen to my twenty-two—with the kind of nervous energy that suggested she'd never traveled beyond her home district before this journey. Perfect for what I needed.

"Have you served in Lord Solmar's household long?" I asked, shifting to ease the pressure on my spine. The bench hadn't been designed for comfort.

"Only since last month, my lady. When your engagement was announced." She darted another glance at me. "They brought six of us from the capital to prepare for your arrival."

"Six?" I kept my tone casually curious. "That seems excessive for one bride."

"Well . . ." Mira lowered her voice further, leaning forward slightly. "There's talk among the senior staff. About the previous ladies."

I held my breath, careful not to seem too eager. Information was currency, and I'd been trading in it since childhood. "Previous ladies?"

"Two wives before you, my lady." Mira's words came faster now, the universal need to share gossip overcoming servant's discretion. "The first died in childbirth, along with the baby. Red fever, they said, though some whisper it was something else. She was very young—barely sixteen."

My stomach clenched, but I kept my expression mildly interested. "And the second?"

"Lady Rosanna. She lives at the mountain estate now. Retired, Lord Solmar says." Mira's voice dropped to barely a whisper. "But the cook's assistant has a cousin who delivers supplies there. Says she never leaves her rooms. Says she talks to people who aren't there."

The hairpin bit into my palm where I'd clenched my fist. Two wives, both conveniently removed from public view. My father had to have known. The trade routes between our territories were too lucrative to ignore such details.

"The roads through the Fire Wastes," I said, changing the subject before my anger showed. "Do you know which route we're taking?"

Mira blinked at the shift. "I . . . no, my lady. The guards don't tell us such things."

"We're following the Old Serpent's Trail.

" I traced the path on my skirt, a habit from years of map study.

"It's longer than the Northern Pass, but safer during drake mating season.

See how the light's shifting? We'll reach Ember Oasis by midday, then push through Bali's Crossing before nightfall.

" I caught myself before launching into a dissertation on volcanic soil composition and its effects on pack animal endurance.

Old habits from my tutor's endless lessons.

"You know so much, my lady." Mira's admiration was tinged with something else—pity, perhaps. All that education, and here I sat in chains, being delivered like a prize mare.

I worked the hairpin free, keeping my movements small.

The lock was standard merchant-class, more decorative than secure.

Three tumblers, if I was lucky. Four if my father had actually invested in quality, rather than just looks.

The pick slipped almost immediately, my angle hampered by the short chain between my wrists.

"Damn," I muttered, then caught myself. Ladies didn't curse. Ladies certainly didn't know how to pick locks. But then, ladies weren't usually sold to pay their father's debts either.

Mira watched with wide eyes as I tried again, saying nothing. The second attempt went no better. The chain was too short, the angle impossible. I'd need both hands free to make any progress, which defeated the entire purpose.

A soft sob made me look up. Tears tracked down Mira's cheeks, though she tried to muffle the sound with her sleeve.

"What's wrong?" I abandoned the lock, leaning forward as much as the chains allowed.

"I'm sorry, my lady. It's just . . ." She hiccupped. "There was a boy. Back home. We were going to . . . but then the summons came, and I had to leave, and I'll never see him again, and—"

"What's his name?" I interrupted gently.

"Toma. He works in his father's bakery." She smiled through her tears. "Makes the most wonderful moon cakes. Honey, cinnamon and white butter. He was going to speak to my father after harvest festival."

My heart twisted. Another life caught up in the wreckage of mine.

"When we reach Ashfall," I said slowly, "I'll petition Lord Solmar to bring Toma to work in the kitchens. A great house always needs skilled bakers."

"You would do that?" Hope bloomed in her voice. "But why?"

Because I knew what it was like to lose everything. Because protecting others was the only control I had left. Because maybe, if I could save one person's happiness, it would balance the scales somehow.

"Everyone deserves a chance at love," I said instead. "Plus, I love white butter. It’s divine!"

The geysers of Ember Oasis sent up clouds of mineral-scented steam that made the air shimmer like a fever dream.

I pressed my face to the gap in the curtains, grateful for even this small glimpse of the world beyond my gilded cage.

The trading post sprawled around the largest spring, a collection of mud-brick buildings and canvas-covered stalls that looked impossibly solid after hours of swaying movement.

Our guards clustered near the station master's hut, voices raised in the universal song of commerce and complaint.

Fees for watering. Fees for shade. Fees for breathing, probably, if the station master could figure out how to charge for it.

I knew the dance—had watched my father perform it a thousand times.

The key was to complain just enough to show you weren't easily fooled, but not so much that you caused actual offense.

Movement near the silk merchant's wagon caught my eye.

A boy—maybe twelve, thirteen at most—struggled with a water barrel nearly as tall as himself.

His arms shook with the effort, sweat cutting clean lines through the dust on his face.

The merchant, a soft-bellied man in rich purple robes, watched with the kind of anticipation that made my skin crawl.

The inevitable happened. The boy's grip slipped, water cascading across the packed earth and spattering the hem of the merchant's silk display.

The first blow caught the boy across the shoulders, sending him sprawling. The merchant's walking stick—ivory handled, because of course it was—rose again.

"Stupid wretch! Do you know what water stains do to Qarashi silk?" Another blow, this one to the boy's ribs. "I'll take it out of your hide, you careless—"

I moved before thinking, the shackles around my wrists be damned.

The caravan door burst open under my shoulder's impact, and I stumbled out into blazing daylight. The guards turned at the noise, hands reaching for swords, but I was already moving. I didn’t know what my plan was, other than to stop the boy’s beating, but I didn’t get the chance even to do that.

My ankle caught on something—a rock I didn’t have time to see—and I pitched forward with a cry of dismay.

I crashed directly into the merchant's substantial bulk.

We went down in a tangle of silk and outrage, his walking stick flying one direction while I rolled the other. By pure chance—terrible, unfortunate chance—he landed face-first in the pile of drake dung the stable hands hadn't cleared yet.

"My lady!" Mira appeared at my elbow, helping me struggle upright. The chains made it appropriately difficult, adding to the performance. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm so terribly sorry," I gasped, pressing a hand to my chest in feigned distress. "These chains, you see. I'm not accustomed to the weight. And the heat—I felt quite faint—"

The merchant sputtered and spat, pulling himself from the muck with murder in his eyes. Before he could speak, I noticed my pearl hair comb lying in the dust near the boy's feet. The one my grandmother had given me, worth more than most people saw in a year.

"My comb!" I pointed dramatically. "Boy—yes, you—retrieve it at once. Careful now, it's quite valuable."