Chapter 15

AESON STRAIGHTENS, DROPPING HIS HEAD back while sucking in a deep breath. It’s as though my admission has freed him from a painful constriction around his chest and now he can properly fill his lungs and breathe again. He keeps me pressed tightly against him—not that I’m trying to go anywhere. A rumble of approval rolls out of the commander, the bolstering sound wrapping around my tormentor’s name and carving Aeson’s dominion across his destiny like a dooming slash cutting through the tallies of Wistan’s future.

Aeson doesn’t fill the nonexistent space between us with declarations of what he’s going to do to the Tainted fuck who hurt me, or paint pretty promises of how he’ll fix the unfixable. He doesn’t need to. I know exactly what it means to hand over a name like this to a guy like the commander. The vow of reckoning is silent, but it’s there all the same.

Part of me wants to get lost in the depths of that unspoken promise. It’d be easy to read into it, to wade around in the possibility that’s suddenly swirling around us like Aeson’s smoke. The appeal is most certainly there. I could turn my brain off and let my baser instincts slip lust-first into the haze of dragon pheromones and the dreamy defender-of-my-honor shit that’s growing thicker by the second. But falling for a dragon, let alone Aeson Noctis, is about as smart as an injured gazelle sidling up to a lion for a cuddle. I’m, without a doubt, going to get eaten, and probably not in the way I’d enjoy.

No. I need to stick to the surface of what he’s offering and not dive any deeper. People extend a helping hand for a myriad of reasons, and not many that make the list are completely altruistic. The commander is feeling protective, maybe even a little possessive, but that could have everything to do with him and absolutely nothing to do with me. Is it genuine interest, or is it just a carefully orchestrated and expertly executed plan?

For all I know, the hospital already told the scions all about my injuries and scars, and now they’re using them to their advantage. It wouldn’t be the worst plan: catch me at a vulnerable moment, then get me feeling all warm and fuzzy with the protective dragon schtick. Aeson turns up the charm and taps into some of his undeniable appeal, but just enough to get me nice and chatty until I’m singing like a canary in pursuit of that dick.

If I don’t fall for Aeson’s tune, I suspect Lorn will step in and try his hand at playing me. The two have already started stacking the chips in their favor with the rescuing, the comforting, the touching, and the lap sitting. It’s a good plan—I’d consider it myself in their shoes—but it’s going to take more than a pretty face, a monster cock, and an unspoken promise of beating up the big bads in my life to get me to slice myself open and spill all of my secrets.

Aeson looks down at me, his dragon still staring out of his eyes. He lifts a hand from the scars he’s been tracing on my back and pushes strands of my tangled hair off my shoulder. I’m tempted to tilt my head and see what he might do with better access to my throat, but whatever’s at play here, I need to make sure it’s working for me and not working me over.

It’s time to meet fire with fire.

Deciding if the commander can touch, I can touch too , I lift my hand and lightly run the tips of my fingers up his forearm. Slowly, I trace each of the connecting plates of his scale armor, the hard ridges hugging the contours of his arms perfectly. I expect his armor to be cold, like metal, but his scales are warm, and there’s a subtle texture to them that isn’t discernable with the naked eye.

I’m not sure how sensitive the protective plating is, but Aeson must feel something because a tremor moves through him as my fingers carefully explore. I want to ask him what it’s like to wear it or call it forward. Does it feel the same in his drake form as it does when he’s a dragon? Did it hurt the first time it appeared after he revealed? But I keep my mouth shut. If they know how eager I am for answers, or how little I know about dragons in general, they’ll use it against me.

Aeson’s fingers slip behind the back of my neck, and his thumb smooths its way across the line of my jaw. He gently tilts my head, the motion a demand for my eyes to leave the progress of my fingertips on his arm and focus on his face. His vivid blue stare burns with fervor, and his brow is drawn like he’s trying to root out exactly what it is about me that has him so ensorcelled.

The stubble on his jaw proves entirely too enticing; I give in and run the back of my fingers across his prickly cheek. He closes his eyes for a breath, and when he opens them, his dragon has receded and I’m staring up into the bright blue gaze of his drake again. His nostrils flare and he scents me as though he’s trying to catalog every thought and emotion I might be having while his rage and inner beast start to settle and calm.

Something new heats in Aeson’s gaze as he appraises my face. His other palm finds its way to my hip, his hand so large that it skims across the small of my back and coaxes a small quiver from the muscles there.

I offer him a slow, knowing smile, and he watches my mouth like it’s a precious flower blooming under the rarest of circumstances. I almost hate to ruin it, but I know I have to.

“Are you done with your mantrum now?” I ask, forcing my hands to my sides and refusing to acknowledge the itch charging through them to explore more of him.

Like ice water to red-hot coals, my question douses the building pyre between us. The growing need in Aeson’s eyes sputters, and consternation quickly billows in.

“I thought the Royal Wing were the elite of the elite. A few scars shouldn’t send the best and brightest The Horde has to offer into a full blown frenzy. You should be careful with that chink in your armor, or someone will use it against you.”

Aeson’s gaze is a full-blown glower by the time I stop running my mouth, and his hands fall away from my body as he takes a reluctant step back. My words work exactly as intended, which shouldn’t bother me, and yet the regret that effervesces through me is unmistakable. Hastily I drop-kick the part of me that wants to reach for the commander’s hands and put them right back where they were as he creates even more distance between us.

“Someone like you?” he queries cautiously, like he’s being extra careful not to get caught on the sharp tips of my barbed words.

“No,” I deadpan, not liking the accusation that flickers across his face. He’s looking at me now as though I’m the one who invaded his space and got all handsy, not the other way around. “But not everyone is as stalwart as me,” I add, my offended glare now mirroring his.

A derisive snort slips out of him, and his eyes once again dip down to my lips. “That mouth of yours is going to get you into trouble one day,” he warns, but something in his eyes, in his tone, makes it feel more like an invitation than an admonition.

“One could argue it already has,” I mutter more to myself than him.

The low hum of agreement he makes slips through my cracks and settles low in my belly. I swallow down the annoying butterflies that try to flutter from my stomach up into my chest, and stop myself from running my hand over the scars on my forearm to help anchor me.

Someone purposefully clears their throat. The sound yanks me from the tunnel vision I’ve had on Aeson and shoves me back into the room with everyone I all but forgot about until now. Chastain, Blay, and Farrow are noticeably missing, but everyone else watches on with a mixture of emotion. I rifle through the upset and pity I see, make note of the fact that Razeer and Urser won’t even look in my direction, and zero in on the way Tahir watches Aeson as he retreats until he’s once again standing next to Lorn.

“Hey, Oric,” I call out, for no other reason than I would like her to get on with the scanning and poking she’s here to do so she can fuck off. If there’s a little extra growl in my tone, it has everything to do with how tired I am and nothing to do with the way she’s drooling over the commander like a fucking gor hound cutting a new set of teeth.

Tahir’s head snaps in my direction.

“I’m ready if you are,” I tell her, gesturing to the centrifuge and sequencer she’s still holding.

“Excellent.” She nods, the movement snapping her out of the lascivious thoughts she was obviously just thinking. “Are you in possession of anything else that could interfere with your scan?” Her honeycomb-yellow eyes drop to the anklet sitting on the lush white carpet next to my bare foot.

“Nope. The healers only gave me the one.”

The Oric’s gaze sweeps over me once, seeing for herself if I’m telling the truth. Her eyes pause on the other boot I’m still wearing. With a scoff, I remove it. Straightening, I cross my arms over my chest and arch an eyebrow in challenge. She swallows audibly before daring to step closer. She’s noticeably more hesitant than she was before, but I have no idea if it’s because she’s worried she might spook me or if she’s afraid to get too close, like my scars might be catching.

I hold my arms up when she lifts the wand-like sequencer. I don’t know if I need to stand like I’m about to be frisked, but she doesn’t correct me as she runs the tech stick around my frame. When she’s done, she tucks it away into the mass of ruffles encasing her lower half and holds up the centrifuge.

“I suppose it must be some consolation that they didn’t destroy your face,” Tahir offers amiably as I press a digit to the box resting in her palm. It nips my finger and then sucks a small sample of blood from the pinprick of a wound, just like the Oric said it would. Thankfully, neither sensation triggers any kind of response in me.

For a second, I almost brush off the Oric’s presumptive and rude as fuck comment, but curiosity gets the better of me.

“Oh, they fucked up my face plenty,” I tell her casually, my gaze fixed on her vapid face while my attention is keyed into Jori. “Turns out that my tears have healing properties and stopped me from scarring there. I tried rubbing them into other wounds, but the blood brokers caught on and stopped me from healing myself that way. Couldn’t do much to stop the tears from touching my face though. Lucky me.”

Ignoring Tahir’s response, I glance over at Jori’s pensive face.

Interesting.

Judging by the Render’s expression, I gather that the magic tears thing isn’t a typical dragon trait. But it can’t be a Syphon thing either because all of my dragon perks are on lockdown, at least I thought they were.

I open my mouth to ask the Healer about it, but a high-pitched beep rings out from Tahir’s ruffles where she stashed the centrifuge. She starts tapping at the rose gold cuff on her wrist, and a screen pops up. Data that must mean something to the Oric starts ticking across the translucent display, and she studies it intently. After a beat, her brow furrows and her head tilts.

“That can’t be right,” she mumbles to herself before typing a few things onto the screen and staring at the new streams of data that start to roll across. Tahir’s cheeks pinken to a hue that matches her over-the-top dress, and her frustration starts to spill over when she recalibrates the data a third and then a fourth time. Angry yellow eyes narrow in my direction, and an ugly vein perks up in her forehead as she whirls on me. “What did you do to mess with the sequencer?” she demands.

“I thought you said it could tell if I was tricking it?” I point out as the Oric’s face grows even redder.

“It can, but—”

“Is it saying I tricked the sequencer?” I interrupt, waving at the screen still floating above her wrist.

“No, but you did. You had to, there’s no other way—”

“What does it say, Oric?” Lorn demands regally.

Tahir flinches, shooting me one last scathing look before she turns to the heir.

“My Scion, please forgive me, but she’s lying. The reading must have been tampered with somehow—”

“What does it say?” Aeson growls, his patience paper thin.

A small, frightened squeak sneaks out of the Oric, and I almost feel bad for her. Then I remember that she just called me a liar after insinuating that my body was destroyed because of my scars. And just like that, every ounce of sympathy I might have evaporates.

“B-breed…” Tahir stammers. “Dragon, My Scion. It says that she’s a dragon. But bloodline…her kith…” Anger hardens her features, and her gaze goes from honeycomb to a brittle-looking amber. “It’s flagging her as a Syphon, My Scion. But that can’t be—”

“Thank you, Oric. Your work here is done. I would remind you that everything you witnessed and confirmed in this room stays in this room, or else. You are dismissed.”

Tahir’s eyes grow wide and her mouth opens and shuts like a water-starved fish. Her shocked stare darts from Lorn to me to Aeson and back again.

“But, My Scion, you don’t understand. It says she’s a Syphon, but she can’t…that’s not…there’s mo—”

“You. Are. Dismissed,” Lorn decisively barks, the ice in his tone and eyes freezing Tahir’s stuttered argument before more can slip out of her mouth.

Her lips clamp closed with alarm, and she flinches when Razeer takes a step away from Lorn’s side, striding over to open the door before looking pointedly at the soon-to-be ejected Oric. Tahir hesitates for another second before her head falls in defeat, and she dips into another smooth curtsy that makes me want to roll my eyes while coughing “kiss ass” at her.

“Yes, My Scion,” Tahir submits solemnly, and then she all but sprints for the door, her ruffles swishing noisily in her wake. She shoots me one last vexed glare before disappearing through the doorway, and I quickly add her name to the ever growing list of assholes I need to watch my back around.

The room is dead quiet as Razeer shuts the door and resumes his place next to Lorn. The drakes all around me look surprisingly dumbfounded. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was because they didn’t believe anything I was saying until right this minute. Some of them are way better actors than I initially gave them credit for, because I thought a few were definitely on my side.

I sit down on the bench and stretch my arms across the back, making myself comfortable. “Is this a good time for a “ told you ,” or should I hold off a little longer?”

Lorn scowls at me, but a prickle of unease skitters across the back of my neck when Aeson’s pensive gaze stays locked on the rug at our feet.

“Are there others?” Lorn asks after a beat, the question sounding more haunted than I think he realizes.

I shrug. “Maybe.”

A palpable hope pulses through the room, one I rush to stomp out before it catches.

“If I survived, who’s to say others didn’t? But as far as I know, I’m the last of my kindred.”

Lorn doesn’t even glance in the direction of a Thrasher to confirm what I’m saying is the truth. Not that it would matter. I’m not lying.

I’m also not telling the entire truth.

I am the last born daughter of the Tenebrae line. Enslee, my twin, was born exactly two minutes before me.

I’m not technically the youngest out of all of the survivors, but the other Syphons are kith, not kindred. A pivotal distinction the scions haven’t picked up on.

Lorn shakes his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. “It seems the fates have been busy,” he mumbles to himself.

“Fuck fate,” Aeson and I both angrily whisper at exactly the same time.

Our eyes catch for the briefest of seconds before he looks away. His stare settles on one of the archways and the darkening sky beyond as though it’s beckoning him, and I can see he’s struggling not to answer.

An ache starts to spread through my chest, throbbing in time with my thrumming heart. I rub at it, drawing small circles over my sternum. A cavern reopens between me and the members of The Horde. They watch me like some apparition they’re worried will disappear altogether or coalesce and attack. All of them but one.

His gaze on me shouldn’t matter. My interest in his thoughts should be nothing more than a means to an end. His touch should be repulsive. And yet, none of those things are true. Which is a huge fucking problem because I loathe everything he represents. A fact that should make loathing him and the others easy, but here I stand, my wrong popsicle dripping down my white-knuckled grip as I ponder if I was ever right about anything.

And if I wasn’t…what the fuck does that mean for me now?

Lorn runs a hand through his white hair, brushing the locks back like he’s daring them to disobey. He takes a step forward, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin.

“Well then, Ever Tenebrae, last of the Syphons. On behalf of King Noctis and The Dragon Horde…welcome home.”