Page 9 of The Dragon King's Pregnant Mate

The sound of bells startles me from my dark thoughts—the city's warning system, calling the noble houses to emergency council. The assassination attempt has already spread through the court like wildfire. They'll all be gathering now, circling like vultures, watching to see how their king handles this latest crisis.

I don my formal armor mechanically, piece by piece, feeling its weight settle onto my shoulders like another kind of chain. The crown comes last, cold iron pressing against my brow, a constant reminder of duty and power and the cost of keeping both.

A memory surfaces unbidden: Calliope's fingers tracing the crown's edge, her touch gentle despite her captivity.

She believed me cold, cold as this winter, cold as her storm.

I'd kissed her then, trying to prove her wrong, to show her the fire that burned beneath the ice. But perhaps she'd been right all along. Perhaps that's why she ran—because in the end, I couldn't be anything but what I am: a creature of iron and frost, of duty and possession, of power that corrupts everything it touches.

The bells continue to toll as I descend to my council chamber, where the Lords await with their accusations and demands. I force thoughts of Calliope to the back of my mind, lock away the heart-deep ache of missing her. I cannot be her husband now. Cannot be the man who dreams of her every night, who would burn the world to find her.

I must be their king. Their dragon. Their monster.

Chapter 5 - Calliope

Consciousness returns in fragments, each one sharp as broken glass.

First comes the cold—bone-deep and merciless, seeping through stone walls that could be centuries old. Then pain, radiating from what feels like every muscle in my body. The surface beneath me is too hard to be snow, too soft to be stone, too smooth to be forest floor. A bed, then, though barely worthy of the name. More like a wooden shelf with a thin mattress, stuffed with what might be straw.

I keep my eyes closed, forcing my breathing to remain slow and even as I take stock of my surroundings. The air smells of dust and old stone, with an underlying sweetness I can't quite place. Herbs, maybe, or incense. A fire crackles somewhere nearby—I can hear the pop and hiss of burning wood, feel its heat struggling against the pervasive chill.

"I know you're awake." The voice is male, cultured, carrying a note of amusement that sends ice down my spine. "Your breathing changed."

And I know that voice.

Slowly, agonizingly, I open my eyes.

I'm in a circular room that might once have been part of a watchtower. Arrow slits pierce the curved walls at regular intervals, letting in thin streams of gray light that do little to illuminate the space. The ceiling vanishes into shadow far above, while the stone floor is partially covered by threadbare rugs in faded patterns I don't recognize.

Another tower. My heart sinks like a stone. All I’ve fought, all I’ve struggled, and I am in another tower.

The man sits in a high-backed chair near the fire, one leg crossed elegantly over the other. Golden hair catches the firelight, framing features that are both familiar and wrong—like looking at a painting of Arvoren done by someone who'd only heard him described. The resemblance is uncanny enough to make my heart stutter, but where Arvoren's face is all hard angles and barely contained power, this man's beauty has a softer edge, a charismatic tilt. Of the two brothers, he’s the charmer.

I should know; he charmedme.

"Ulric."

The name comes out as barely more than a whisper.

Prince Ulric smiles, and the expression is like watching a knife being unsheathed. "The very same. Though we were never properly introduced, were we? Or, rather, you knew me by another name. And lest we forget, the last time you saw me, I was rather…indisposed."

Images flash through my mind: that final night in Millrath, the explosion of power that tore through the castle. Ulric, burned and broken, vanishing into the chaos.

Those burns on his skin are gone now. Evidently, some have stayed loyal to him. Someone healed him, freed him. Brought him out of the city.

Someone allowed him to continue hunting me like this.

I try to sit up, but my body protests the movement. Every muscle feels like it's been worked past its limit, trembling with exhaustion. The child's presence is stalwart inside me, a warmth that's both reassuring and terrifying—how much did the magic drain from us both?

"Careful now." Ulric rises smoothly, crossing to a small table where a pitcher and cup sit waiting. "You've been unconscious for nearly two days. The mercenaries did quite a number on you before I intervened. Or perhaps that was your own…stress."

He pours something that steams in the cold air, the same sweet smell I noticed earlier. When he offers me the cup, I hesitate.

His smile widens slightly. "If I wanted you dead, little bird, I wouldn’t poison the good tea. It would be a waste.”

"Don't call me that." The words come out sharper than I intend.

"No?" Ulric sets the cup on a small table within my reach, then returns to his chair. "But we are family, after all. Or perhaps not anymore. It seems we’ve both become estranged from the king as of late.”