Page 38 of Dreams and Dragon Wings (Clean Fairytales for Adults #2)
Aurelia
G reen. That is the color I choose to wear—the color of Earth, in honor of the magic Rowan must have wielded to aid me.
I limp out of my bedchamber, moving slowly, doing my best to pretend to still be in excruciating pain. An easy enough feat, given the heavy chains I drag behind me.
Ghoul hops from foot to foot, impatient. His bare, clawed feet clack against the floor. “Hurry, hurry. We can’t keep King Malice waiting any longer.”
Rowan snaps his sharp teeth at the other goblin and waits for me to finish trudging into the corridor before he closes the doors to my room behind me. “ Na’theryn will not be kept waiting long,” he croaks.
The moment the doors snap shut, Ghoul scampers ahead, leading the way. Leaving me and Rowan to shamble along behind.
I slant a sidelong glance at the goblin, studying his sharp features in profile. After a time, I gather the courage to whisper, “Thank you.”
He shoots me a warning look. “I need no thanks, Therya’fey . I have done nothing.”
I bow my head, accepting his answer.
Together, we continue on in silence.
Beyond the windows lining the corridor, twilight creeps over the land, swaths of purple and pink bleeding through the clouds. I have lost track of the time. The days.
How long have I been here?
How long does Bene have left?
I do not know.
I do not even know if Malice will tell me if I ask.
By the time we finally reach the dragon in question, my muscles burn from dragging the heavy chains behind me. The skin of my ankles stings—chafing beneath the shackles meant to keep me grounded.
But they are unnecessary. I cannot leave. Not without Bene and his aunties.
“Where is Velda?” I ask as Malice turns to face me, his arms clasped behind his back, his tall frame wrapped in black velvet.
At the question, he arches a single dark eyebrow. “Good evening to you, too,” he drawls, sarcasm dripping from each word. “The pixie is safe. For now.”
He inspects me with a quick head-to-toe sweep of his gaze, taking in my emerald-encrusted diadem, bejeweled choker, and spangled silk gown. A faint smile catches at the corner of his mouth.
“Leave us,” he barks at Ghoul and Rowan, sending the goblins away. Leaving me alone. With him. When next he looks my way, he plainly observes, “You match my eyes.”
My heart skips a beat. It never occurred to me that he would think I had dressed to please him. I hold my tongue, refusing to correct him. Perhaps it will be in my favor to keep him in a good mood for the moment.
But whatever good mood my appearance might have sparked within my captor dissipates in the next moment when he extends his hand toward me, as if in an attempt to capture mine, and then stops—kept at bay by the invisible wall still standing between us.
Fury flashes within his eyes like green fire. “Still you keep me from touching you?” he hisses, twitching away from me.
My throat tightens around the apology I feel beholden to utter. Not that I am upset by the prospect of Bene’s uncle never touching me again. But I wish I at least understood what I did to put us in such a predicament in the first place.
“I do not trust you,” I answer after a moment’s pause. It is not quite the truth, but certainly not a lie.
Malice’s expression shifts. It smooths. I can’t possibly begin to decipher the unreadable mask he wears now. “You wish for me to gain your trust?” he quietly asks, his eyes searching mine. “Like a man seeking to court his drakira ?”
I rack my mind for what drakira might mean, but my rudimentary Draconic fails me again. The only time I can even remember hearing that word was back in Spindleton when Bene snarled it at Friedemar. Na’drakira .
My drakira .
“I am Bene’s drakira —” I start to say.
But Malice cuts me off with his sharp laughter. “No, you’re not,” he corrects me, taking a single step closer.
I retreat in response, my chains clinking against stone.
His eyes burn against mine, smoldering with a heat I dare not name when he asks, “Are you my nephew’s betrothed?”
“No—”
“Are you his wife?”
“No, I—”
“You are not even his mistress.”
Blessedly, that one is not a question. But still my cheeks burn in the wake of his latest observation.
He huffs out a breath through his nose, nodding to himself. “You are not his drakira , then, my dear. A drakira is a bonded mate. A wife . You are beholden to no dragon… which means you are perfectly free to be courted by another.”
I wet my lips, my mind scrambling to make sense of the sudden turn our conversation has taken. Why did Bene tell Friedemar I was his drakira ? To protect me?
Why is Malice speaking of me being free to be courted by another dragon now?
I already know the answer to that question, of course.
But I don’t like it.
Delicately, I suggest, “I am no longer sure this is an appropriate topic of discussion for us to be having together, Lord Malice.”
His eyebrows knit together. Slowly, he takes a step backward, his eyes skimming across me again. Searching for something. “Why are you suddenly acting like a lady?” he asks.
A spark of indignation ignites within me. “I beg your pardon?”
“Yesterday, you suggested I give you a blade—I can only assume because you wanted to stab me with it—and today you are…” He gestures vaguely with a wave of his hand. “… acting like a wilting flower.” A deep frown etches itself onto his lips. “Have I extinguished your fire already?”
The realization that Malice seems to prefer when I hiss at him like a wet cat leaves me swiftly turning away before he can register my surprise. I bite back my disbelieving laughter as I gaze out the window, watching the sun finish setting.
Malice’s presence thrums just behind me. He stands close now—as close as the wall around me will allow. “I think it is time for me to be perfectly honest with you, Aurelia,” he rasps, his voice soft. As if he intends to share a great secret.
My heart seizes at the idea. “I would rather you didn’t.”
“You are a rather handsome woman, and I am—against my better judgment—attracted to you.” He speaks the words as if they pain him to admit.
Though I do my best to continue to hold my tongue, I cannot stop the twinge of pride that urges me to whisper back, “In stark contrast, I am not the least bit attracted to you.”
“Regardless,” he snarls, undeterred, “it is my desire to make you my drakira and, when the time comes, my Therya’kai .” His voice lowers further, his words now unfurling on a dark whisper when he promises, “Let me amend: I intend to make you my drakira . By either your will or mine.”
Drawing in a deep breath, I let my eyes flutter closed. He is trying to lure a rise out of me. I know that. It is my indignation he wants. My anger he craves. He wants me to lash out at him. To shout that I will never marry him.
But I refuse to give him that pleasure.
So it is that I turn back to face him with my eyes lowered and my hands clasped before me. Softly, sweetly, I observe, “But surely this will be a difficult feat to accomplish, Lord Malice, will it not? When you cannot even touch your future bride?”
He scoffs, palpable disgust radiating off of him. But my meekness has the desired effect.
He steps away from me, as if no longer able to stomach standing near. “Walk with me,” he commands before starting off down the corridor, clearly content with leaving me behind.
Hiding my smile, I shuffle after him, dragging my chains behind me.
“You have sought to bind yourself to the wrong king,” Malice coolly informs me as we walk toward a set of double doors that lead out onto a balcony overlooking the Shadow Lands. “Though your loyalty to my nephew is admirable, I fear it is misplaced.”
The moment he steps out into the night, a deafening roar fills the air. The sound sees a pit yawning open in my stomach as I continue forward, dragging my chains, until I can join him there.
What I see steals my breath and stops my heart.
Goblins, what appear to be giants, and more dark creatures still fill what appears to be an army’s encampment. Hundreds. Thousands. They swarm like ants in the darkness. More monsters than I could ever count.
With me now standing at Malice’s side, illuminating their master with my golden glow, the cheers grow louder—more feverish—as if they think I stand with them. As if I approve of their presence.
I shrink back, returning to the shadows of the doorway. “What is this?” I whisper.
A smile returns to Malice’s countenance when he turns to face me yet again. Despite my best efforts to do otherwise, I have clearly delighted him with the question.
“Why, it is our army, of course,” he breathes, stalking back in close. “And tomorrow morning, it marches for the Aerie.”
Suddenly breathless, my pulse fluttering wildly, I do my best to appear as if the very idea pains me when I ask, “And… do you intend to march with them?”
Malice’s smile disappears. Like a candle being snuffed. “No. I fear you will not be rid of me so easily. I intend to remain here until my nephew finally dies of natural causes. Then and only then will we ”—he makes a point to emphasize that word—“make for the Aerie and claim my throne.”
When I have no retort to that, a frown claims his visage. “You bore me tonight,” he whispers, stepping past me and walking back down the corridor. “Come. I will return you to your chamber. Ghoul and Grime will fetch you in the morning. You will join me for watching the troops depart.”
Dryly, he commands, “ Do remember your personality next time.”