Page 45 of Veiled Flames (Destiny of Dragons #1)

Thirty-Two

Tynan

M y gauntlet record was broken. I shrug off the sting, as Rosshall is carried off the stage.

“He’s still a runt,” I say to Burchard beside me. “Even the smallest dragon will rip him in half—assuming he lasts long enough to try.”

Burchard and the others around me all chuckle, but I can sense their pity. Pity for me.

Failures are unacceptable. You must be punished to learn that lesson.

My chest tightens, and my mind fogs with red haze. My every instinct urges me to lash out, to hurt someone—anyone—so I can ignore my self-hatred.

I can’t let rage win. Pretending I’ve spotted someone on the other side of the room, I stride away from my compeers, and then tuck into a dark corner behind one of the large columns. Rage and panic have mingled into a poisonous mix inside me.

My failure must be punished, and I’m shaking with the urge to find someone to suffer in my stead.

Making it worse, it was the runt who showed me up.

I must reassert my dominance amongst the candidates.

I need to stay on top, until I successfully mount a dragon.

When Treacher mentioned the three and ten candidates who died on the gauntlet today, he didn’t mention the four of my compeers who perished trying to mount a dragon. Soon it will be my turn again.

They were weak. They failed. They deserved to die. I will not fail.

The red haze expands, and my fists shake at my sides.

If Saxon were here, he’d tell me to take deep breaths. To recognize why my anger was sparked and move past it. But I’m not sure I have that kind of energy tonight.

Leaning back against the column, I bend forward squeezing my head between my fists. My breaths are coming too quickly as my rage builds alongside my shame.

I’m better than this. I’m not in Khotor.

My father and grandfather are not here to punish me.

Nor are my brothers here to ridicule me with their words, fists or boots.

Here at camp, I face dangers, but I won’t be beaten or mocked for my failures.

And I don’t need to be the best at all things. Even if I usually am.

I draw long breaths, practicing the skills I learned from Saxon, and repeating the words he’s oft shared with me. Saxon might hate me for things that I’ve done, he might resent my royal blood and noble station, but I can’t deny that he’s helped me.

Still bent over with my head in my hands, slowly, my muscles unclench, my mind clears, and my heart slows to a more reasonable clip. I’m feeling better, but still not under control. No one can see me like this.

A hand falls onto my shoulder.

I straighten, turning away from whoever approached, so I can properly affix a grin before facing them.

“Are you quite well?” a voice asks.

It’s Rosshall .

I spin, turning my faux grin toward the boy. The runt’s eyes flash with so much compassion and understanding that my pasted-on expression crumbles under an explosion of reignited anger.

“Quite well? Am I quite well ?” Pushing his shoulder, I shove Rosshall back a step. “I am beyond well, runt. In fact, I am excellent . I am always excellent.”

Rosshall nods. His gaze lifts toward mine, and lights flicker in the kid’s pale purple eyes. Thrix, why does this runt of a boy affect me?

And I can’t help but resent his bravery and belief in himself. Objectively, he should have none of either. He’s so small. So inferior to me. So weak. But there’s something in his eyes…

Anger and resentment have hardened my cock. There’s no other explanation for why that has happened.

“About the record,” Rosshall says. “I wouldn’t have even survived the gauntlet, if I hadn’t carefully studied your demonstration.”

“Serves me right for going slowly.” I shrug. “I held back so you newbies could see.” It’s not true. I went all out, but perhaps if I repeat this lie, I can make it true. “I’ll regain my record the next time.”

Rosshall nods. “I’m sure that you will.” The boy’s eyes are full of pity.

This runt dares to pity me? I can’t have that. The red haze returns. Time to show him who’s boss.

Grabbing him, I pin his body face first against the column. Before he has time to react, I kick his legs apart and use my superior weight to crush his much smaller body against the granite.

“See,” I growl, using a tone well learned from childhood. “You will never best me.”

Rosshall’s ribs push back as he fights to breathe. I knocked the wind from his chest. Good.

“Get off me.” His voice is little more than a squeak.

Rosshall’s scent is sweeter than any boy’s I’ve known—like strawberries under a hot sun—and I lean toward his slender neck and inhale, growing intoxicated as inexplicable yet undeniable feelings rise inside me.

Lust. I feel lust for this boy. And that makes me even more angry.

“Let me go,” he says more firmly.

“Give me one reason I should do anything you ask?” In spite of my words, I adjust my position, taking some pressure off his back and letting him breathe more easily.

But my movement transfers my weight, and now my hardened cock is pressing against his backside. Not helping.

“Get. Off. Me.” He struggles.

His movements double, triple, quadruple my lust. The friction between us further stiffens my cock and solidifies a new plan.

Shifting, I press my forearm across the top of his back, easily pinning him against the column with one arm. I’ve never seen a grown boy with such narrow shoulders.

“It’s time I teach you a lesson,” I growl into his ear. “Time to prove that you’ll never be able to mount a dragon.”

Under Saxon’s guidance, I’ve learned a modicum of control over my cruelest impulses.

Impulses drilled into me from birth. But tearing open this boy’s asshole will be an act of kindness, not cruelty.

He’ll feel intense pain. He’ll hate me tonight—perhaps forever—but his pain and blood will convince him he’s too small to ride dragons.

I rub my stiffened cock against his breeches.

His ass muscles tighten, catching the ridge of my rod between them.

I stifle a moan, grateful he can’t see my face.

He can’t know how much I want to do this.

He can’t guess that I might get even an ounce of pleasure from the lesson I plan to teach him tonight.

The corners of this ballroom are dark by design, oft used by candidates and riders to wet their wicks in the juicy clefts of the courtesans and servants—and sometimes in each other’s bum holes.

Here in the shadows, while his fellow recruits dance and drink, I plan to give Rosshall a lesson he’ll never forget.

He doesn’t need to know how desperate I am to do it, or that my own pleasure is bound to be great.

Rosshall’s will be my first ass. I’ve never had difficulty finding a willing wench to dive into, and so I never saw the appeal in taking a man.

But right now, my cock throbs at the thought of how small and tight his asshole will be.

Far tighter than a wench’s cleft, I expect.

Especially the well-used ones here at camp.

Rosshall’s class has not yet started their sphincter training, and I remember how unyielding my ass was the day I first tried.

And in spite of my accusations, I don’t truly believe Saxon plowed this boy’s ass. Saxon is a zealot in his quest to find his special rider. He wouldn’t do anything to risk his position here.

My fingers search for Rosshall’s mounting flap. To gain better access, I release my hips’ pressure.

The boy spins, catching me off guard.

He ducks away, but I grab him.

Lifting him, I slam his back against the column, letting his legs dangle. His breath is once again stolen, but he glares at me, more with hatred than fear. Foolish boy. He’s going to pay for his misplaced bravery.

“You are right to fear me,” I say sharply, willing his fear to exist. “Don’t forget I am Prince Tynan of Khotor. You know of my family’s reputation.”

I glare at the boy, staring into his bewitching eyes, my heart racing out of control.

“But you’re not like your kin,” Rosshall says. He’s far calmer than he deserves to be. “You’re not cruel like they are.”

“Tell yourself that,” I reply. “You’re about to find out that you’re wrong. Very wrong.”

Rosshall’s legs bend. He kicks my thighs, hard, putting me off balance. But I capture him again, keeping his feet planted on the ground this time as I pin his shoulders against the column.

This runt is strong and fast, not to mention brave and cunning, but he’s no match for my superior size and strength.

I glare down at him, hoping to put the fear of Othrix inside him and to prove he’s misjudged my capacity for cruelty, but he defiantly meets my gaze.

“I know you aren’t cruel,” Rosshall says. “If you were truly cruel, you wouldn’t be so sad or so scared.”

I suck in a sharp breath, like I’ve been punched in the gut, and I nearly lose my hold on him again. Does this runt have magic to see inside me?

“Scared?” I laugh. “I am never scared.” My laughter sounds false.

Every part of me is trembling from fear. I’ve been scared my whole life. Scared of my father and the beatings he gave me. Scared of my inadequacies. Scared that I’m a terrible person. Scared that I’m like my father and his father before him.

“It’s okay.” Rosshall’s small hand lands over my pounding heart. “I’ve witnessed the cruelty of your male kin. I’ve seen things they do to those weaker and with less power. You are not like your kin. The truth lies in your eyes.”

My breaths come fast and heavy under this boy’s hand. And my mind swirls, as I fight to deny what he’s said. How can he know me so well? How can he possibly see what’s housed in my heart? He sees things I didn’t even know were inside me until Saxon helped me unveil them at camp.

And then…

Then I finally see him . Or rather—I finally see her .

A sense of ease washes over me, as I stare into Princess Rosomon’s eyes. This runt isn’t a boy at all. It’s the Princess of Achotia. The girl who was meant to marry my grandfather. How could I have been so blind?

Given the grave insult she brought to my family, and the ones she delivered this night, I should snap her neck this very instant.

No. I should send her back to my grandfather. Let him do his worst. That would be a thousand times crueler than killing her tonight in this ballroom.

But I don’t want to do either. Not yet. Not before I bury my cock deep inside her.

Realizing her identity has both explained and amplified my lust. One way or another, someone in my family will ruin this duplicitous bitch.

If I punish her in this room, someone will hear her screams and stop me before I fuck her to death.

Lucky for me she has a private bed chamber. Unlucky for her.

Chuckling, I release her and stride away. Stride as best I can, with an intensely stiff rod in my pants.

My cock needs relief. It won’t wait until Rosomon is alone in her room.

If I can’t will it to deflate, I’ll head to my chambers to seek some short-term respite in my own hand.

Fucking another wench would be a poor substitute for what my cock wants tonight.

Plus, I don’t want to risk wasting an ounce of my anger on anyone but her.

Once everyone’s asleep, I’ll visit her room and show her just how cruel I can be. Yes. I’ll introduce my should-have-been grandmother to the kind of pain she truly deserves.