Page 17 of Tempest Blazing (The Dragonne Library #3)

Tess

The world snapped back into focus with a jarring clarity that made my teeth ache.

One moment I'd been falling through that suffocating darkness, the next I was standing in what looked like a luxury hotel suite—all cream marble and gilt edges, with furniture that probably cost more than my yearly salary.

The elegance was a lie. Something crawled under my skin, wrong and thick.

The air pressed against me like water. I reached for Thalon through our bond and hit.

.. nothing. Not silence—that would have been terrifying enough.

This was worse. Cotton. Everything dampened and distant.

Even scarier was the absence where Mason's bond should have been, like someone had taken scissors to that connection.

"Thalon?" Panic clawed up my throat.

Nothing.

My chest squeezed tight. Each breath came shorter than the last. This was it.

Strange room, no idea where I was or what was happening.

The escalating danger I'd felt building around the Library—the intruders, the attacks, that sense of something closing in.

And Draven... oh god, Draven was still at the coffee shop, probably losing his mind when he realized I'd vanished.

"The wards are quite effective, aren't they?"

I spun toward the voice, heart hammering against my ribs.

Garanth Kreel lounged against the far wall, his slate-gray skin almost bleeding into the shadows.

Those red eyes gleamed like he was watching his favorite show.

I recognized his voice immediately—the same tone from the coffee shop.

But now, without his human mask, I could see the monster underneath.

"Where—" My voice cracked. I cleared my throat and tried again. "Where am I?"

"Somewhere safe." His smirk showed too many sharp teeth. "For now."

Ice water in my veins. I was definitely not safe. But before I could demand answers, the main door opened with a soft click that sounded like a coffin closing.

Seven feet of controlled menace walked in like he owned the world—which, given the circumstances, he probably did. Expensive suit, ashen skin marked with those glowing cracks that pulsed like a heartbeat. The smell of brimstone followed him, along with cold that made the air itself flinch.

"Miss Whittaker." His voice was cultured, almost warm. Wrong. "I trust you're comfortable? I'm Dominick Graves."

I wanted to laugh. Or scream. Instead, I forced myself to stand straighter, to meet those obsidian eyes without flinching. Years of Mom's psychological games had taught me a few things about not showing weakness.

"Comfortable isn't the word I'd use," I said, grateful my voice stayed steady. "And I'm guessing you didn't kidnap me just to chat about my accommodations. What do you want?"

Desperation made me stupid. "Does this have something to do with my oral history project? I was just interviewing Garanth for—"

Both men laughed, sharp and mocking. Dominick's chuckle was particularly unsettling—rich and amused, like I'd told the world's best joke.

"Oh, my dear girl." Dominick wiped an imaginary tear from his eye.

"Your little academic project? How wonderfully naive.

" He began to circle me, slow and deliberate, like a shark.

"No, Miss Whittaker. You're here for something far more.

.. personal. You see, it's not every day we encounter a human bonded to a dragon. "

The clinical way he said it made my stomach turn. Like I was a lab rat. "Why don't you find out for yourself what that feels like?"

Garanth snorted from his corner. "Feisty little thing, isn't she?"

Dominick held up a hand, never breaking eye contact. "Fascinating. Someone with your particular... capabilities... could prove incredibly useful. In ways you've probably never imagined."

"What do you want?" I ground the words out.

"Direct. I appreciate that." He gestured toward the plush armchair behind me, tone deceptively cordial. "Please, sit. We have much to discuss, and I do so prefer civilized conversation."

Polite words with a knife underneath. I glanced between him and Garanth, calculating odds I didn't like. No idea where I was, no bond with Thalon, facing two beings whose power I couldn't even begin to measure. Running would be suicide. Fighting would be worse.

Reluctantly, I perched on the edge of the chair, ready to bolt. The leather was buttery soft against my legs, a mockery of comfort in this elegant trap.

"Much better." Dominick resumed his circling, hands clasped behind his back like a professor.

"What I want is to understand what you represent.

A human bonded to one of the most powerful dragons in existence—it shouldn't be possible.

Dragons don't choose humans, Miss Whittaker.

You're too fragile, too short-lived, too. .. limited."

"Guess Thalon didn't get the memo."

Garanth pushed off the wall, expression darkening. "Show some respect when speaking of your betters, human."

"Enough, Garanth." Dominick's voice cut like a blade. "Her spirit is precisely what makes her interesting. Most humans would have broken by now—from the separation, from the circumstances, from the sheer impossibility of their situation. But you're still fighting."

He stopped in front of me, studying my face like I was a puzzle to solve. "You know, there are others who've found themselves in similar circumstances. Powerful beings who thought they could resist, who believed their bonds made them untouchable."

He paused, obsidian gaze boring into mine. "Tell me about your mother, Tempest."

The casual shift made me stumble. "What?"

"Kendall Whittaker. Quite the piece of work, from what I understand.

Always so concerned with appearances, with control.

Never quite satisfied with you, was she?

" His smile was gentle, understanding—and absolutely terrifying.

"I imagine growing up with that kind of.

.. conditional love... taught you some valuable coping mechanisms."

My hands clenched before I could stop them. How the hell did he know about my mother? "That's none of your business."

"Oh, but it is. You see, trauma shapes us in such interesting ways. Take your sister, for instance—following all the right paths, earning all the right approval. While you..." He gestured vaguely. "The disappointment. The one who could never quite measure up."

Each word was a knife between my ribs. I could feel my breathing getting shallow, that old familiar spiral of shame trying to drag me under.

Kidnapped and trapped, and now this bastard was dissecting my psyche like a research project.

But I'd learned to recognize the warning signs, to ground myself before the panic could take hold.

Five things I can see, I told myself, falling back on techniques that had gotten me through countless anxiety attacks. Marble floor. Garanth's red eyes. Dominick's glowing cracks. Gold picture frame. Crystal chandelier.

Dominick noticed the shift immediately. "Remarkable. You're using cognitive behavioral techniques to manage emotional dysregulation. Self-taught, I'd wager, given your family's... approach to mental health."

I hated that he was right. Hated that he could read me so easily.

The door opened again, and my heart nearly stopped. A demon entered, dragging a figure behind him—someone barely conscious, feet scraping against the marble.

The figure was clearly supernatural, though I couldn't place the species. Tall, lean, with skin that shifted between scales and flesh. They were covered in bruises, fresh cuts marking their arms and face, but their eyes... their eyes had given up.

Dominick's expression darkened with irritation. "Balthazar. I thought I made it clear we weren't to be disturbed." The temperature dropped several degrees, and I got the distinct impression he'd been savoring our little chat.

"Apologies, sir, but he's about to die in the ring. Thought you'd want to know before we lost the investment entirely."

The ring. Ice flooded my veins. So Dominick and Garanth weren't just connected to the underground fighting ring—Dominick was running it. Where Mason had been forced to fight, to bleed for the entertainment of monsters. This elegant monster was behind it all.

Dominick sighed, the sound carrying genuine annoyance. "Well, it can't be helped." He waved dismissively toward the battered fighter. "Dispose of him. No point feeding and housing someone that weak. We're looking for strength in our ranks, not charity cases."

The casual cruelty made my stomach turn. The fighter's gaze found mine, and I saw something that made my blood run cold. Recognition. Not of me personally, but of what I represented. Another person who'd been where I was now.

"The fighting ring serves many purposes," Dominick continued conversationally, as if he hadn't just ordered someone's death.

"Entertainment, certainly. Profit, absolutely.

But its true value lies in identification—finding individuals with exceptional abilities, testing their limits, assessing their. .. potential for cooperation."

Balthazar hauled the broken fighter toward the door, feet dragging uselessly across the marble.

I watched in horror as they disappeared into the hallway, knowing I'd just witnessed someone being taken to their execution.

The fighter hadn't even struggled—too far gone, too defeated to fight back.

The door closed behind them with a soft click that sounded like a death knell.

"You see, the arena isn't just about punishment. It's about transformation. We take beings who think they understand power, who believe in the righteousness of their cause, and we show them a different path. Sometimes through force, yes, but often through... persuasion."

Garanth chuckled from his corner. "Amazing what people will do when properly motivated."

"The question," Dominick continued, "is what will motivate you? What will it take to show you that your current allegiances are... misguided?"

I thought of Mason's body, mapped with scars from countless fights. The way he'd flinch sometimes when touched unexpectedly. The haunted look that would creep into his eyes when he thought no one was watching. This was where those scars had come from. This elegant monster and his arena of horrors.

"I'll never help you," I whispered.

"Never is such a strong word." Dominick moved closer, until I could feel that unnatural cold radiating from his skin.

From somewhere within his jacket, he produced a silver dagger—ornate, beautiful, and razor-sharp.

The blade caught the light as he examined it with casual interest, like he was admiring a piece of art.

"You know," he said conversationally, testing the edge with his thumb, "I've found that absolute statements often crumble under the right.

.. pressure." He leaned down until the blade hovered just inches from my throat, close enough that I could feel its chill against my skin.

"The human body is so wonderfully fragile.

So many delicate places where even the smallest cut can cause exquisite pain. "

My breath froze in my lungs. The blade didn't quite touch me, but the threat was crystal clear. One tiny movement, one wrong word, and that elegant silver edge would find my flesh.

"But we'll see how long your resolve lasts," he murmured, voice a velvet whisper that made my skin crawl. "You have a performance coming up, Miss Whittaker. The ring is eager to meet the first human Dragon Rider. Such a historic moment deserves... an audience."

He straightened, sliding the dagger back into his jacket with practiced ease. The casual way he'd wielded it—like it was an extension of himself—told me everything I needed to know about how often he used such tools.

From another pocket, he withdrew something that made my blood turn to ice: a collar of black metal inscribed with glowing runes that pulsed like a heartbeat. The magical energy radiating from it felt wrong, predatory—designed to contain rather than protect.

"Now," he said, moving behind my chair, "we can't have you wandering off before we've had a proper chance to get acquainted." The collar clicked around my neck with a sound like a prison door slamming shut.

The weight settled against my throat like a promise of violence. But my mind had caught on something he said earlier.

A performance. In the fighting ring. Where beings went to be broken.

"This isn't about punishment," I realized, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. "You want to study me." The truth crystallized with horrifying clarity.

Dominick's smile widened. "How refreshingly perceptive—though hardly surprising given your.

.. academic background." His voice carried condescension wrapped in silk.

"In all my years, I've never encountered a Dragon Rider so utterly vulnerable.

So thoroughly human. Yet you possess something I require—a connection to power that could serve my purposes beautifully. "

My throat went dry. They wanted to use me for something, but what? The certainty settled in my gut like poison, even as the specifics remained frustratingly out of reach.

"The ring will test you," Dominick continued. "Your strength, your resolve, your commitment to your current... friends. And when you realize the futility of resistance, when you see how much easier cooperation can be... well. We'll be here to welcome you home."

He turned toward the door, Garanth falling into step beside him.

"Rest well, Miss Whittaker," Dominick called over his shoulder. "In a few minutes, the real test begins."

The door closed with that same soft, final click, leaving me alone in the elegant prison. I sank deeper into the chair, my legs suddenly too weak to hold me.

They weren't going to kill me. They were going to try to break me, to turn me into something I wasn't. And the terrifying part was... I wasn't sure I was strong enough to stop them.