Page 85 of The Dragon Warlord

He runs a wild hand through his hair. “It’s just … my inappropriate dream. I thought it was better if we touched less. I’m sure it’s just a phase, Warlord,” he says with a tremble in his voice. “We’ll work through it as we have everything else with the bond.”

The way he says that has me suspecting that it’s more than just a dream, but if it is, he’s right; it’s better that I don’t know. The tremble in his voice sets me off. The need to pull him in my arms grows.

“Likely,” I agree. “But if it’s something we both feel is best, then we should try it. Another experiment.” Our lives are filled with these little experiments.

“Oh, Gods. I shouldn’t have made a decision like that. I …” His lip wobbles. He doesn’t know where to put his hands. “All this uncertainty is making me crazy.”

The need to go to him heightens and sears across my flesh, but his words further prove my point. “Neither should I have. We should have made the decision together. We will from now on.”

But this leaves us panicked about the same issue for two different reasons and our rational minds have flown the coop.

All the while, the burn in my blood worsens to damnable intensity, the bond demanding what it wants from me regardless of how I feel about it. My hands shake. I want to collapse in a ball. “I think you should go, Riv.”

“But, Tristan—”

He rarely calls me that and usually when he does it’s the most soothing and beautiful thing. Today I’m on the edge of madness.

I can’t have him, and I can’tnothave him. Dragon anger wins, exploding as fury and before I’m consciously aware of what I’m doing, I’ve clawed everything off my desk. It feels good to let it out, so I don’t stop there, knocking my desk over. Setting fire to the carpet.

When I finally look up from my tantrum, River is frozen with the fire burning around him and utter heartbreak shattering him from the inside out.

I did that. I did that to him.

“You’re right, Warlord. I-I should go.”

He runs out and I let him even though it takes all my might to not run after him. I can’t run after him right now or I’ll just hurt him more if that’s possible. There’s only one thing I can think of that might take my mind off everything.

And huh, once again, I understand my man Alrik a little better.

Picking up my sword, I let the magic of the blade rage through me and walk to the portal intent on dueling with whichever foolhardy warriors want to enter a blood dance with me.

* * *

It’s a slaughter. Well, not the technical definition of that. I don’t kill anyone, but I’ve injured many. To make it a somewhat fair fight, I tossed my jacket over a tree branch and went to town. My shirt hangs off me in tatters, I’m sliced up good, and I’ll have some gorgeous bruises. I must look a sight with blood dripping down my mouth and likely staining my gums from sinking my teeth into any available skin. My hair is disheveled and magical rage dances in my eyes.

I’ve lost track of how many I’ve fought and bested. I don’t see faces anymore, just another place for me to sink my wrath.

Spinning around, my sword clashes with a new opponent and I almost fall to my knees.

“Hello, pet.”

“Alpha.”

“Come on. Let’s do this.”

I take that as a signed invitation to kill him and this is the “bad timing” Father always talked about. He lectured on and on about controlling my emotions even when it was hard because the enemy isn’t going to wait around for me to have a better day. This is where I find myself, wanting to lob his head off with my sword, but wishing to do it when I’m calmer.

Why? Because the dragon lord is no joke. He held my position for a long time before he became the dragon lord. He was Markaytia’s first Warlord. I’ve read every book filled with every battle he fought before he left. He was magnificent. I looked up to him. It’s how I came to idolize him.

Shite. Could there be some of that left in me somewhere?

Before I came to experience this side of him, I’d jammed my head with heroic facts about the man whose namesake I am. He was only ever the good guy in these stories, and that belief dies hard.

Tears spill over my lower lids. “Do I have to fight you, Alpha?”

“I won’t make you, but I would think that you’d want to try.”

Oh, I do. If only just to say that I have. But it won’t bring me peace, just more rage, and the rage is finally eating at me rather than fueling me.