Page 51 of Veiled Flames (Destiny of Dragons #1)

Thirty-Six

Tynan

M y grip is slipping. My fingers ache, but the biggest risk to my life is my own sweat. I try to calm myself to keep my palm from dampening further.

“Easy,” I say calmly, talking to both myself and the dragon. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to set you free from this pen, so you may fly with your brethren.”

I rest the hand that’s not holding on for dear life against the dragon’s scales.

They pulse under my palm and fingers, and I can sense the dragon’s anger—and his panic.

I’ve touched several dragons before. This isn’t the same.

This dragon is most definitely male. Every bone in my body tells me that.

And he’s furious .

I could actually die today.

Across the canyon, Treacher and Saxon, along with Stran and Jakeon, have landed their dragons atop a high wall. The dragon I’m holding, raises his head and shoots fire so far it nearly reaches the dragons ahead of us. Then he shrieks so loudly I fear for the integrity of my eardrums.

Surath shoots fire back in response.

My dragon—the dragon I hope will become mine—seems to calm. I continue to stroke his scales, and hope rises inside me. Perhaps I won’t die. Not just yet.

The dragon has granted me permission to mount him.

I’m sure of it. If I’d properly secured the mounting rope before leaping, I’d be able to climb atop him properly.

Treacher’s command took me by surprise, and I leapt without thinking.

Early in life, I learned to instantly obey commands or suffer the painful consequences.

Shifting my arm, I let the rope slip, and my hand barely grabs it before it drops to the ground. Again, I curse myself for jumping before the rope was secured.

Holding the rope in one hand, the spike with my other, I can no longer stroke the dragon’s body.

Instead, I press my cheek against his scales, remembering how Princess Rosomon calmed Surath that day in the field.

That day was the first time I’d seen anyone approach a dragon with such ease.

At least someone who was not already bonded.

But it worked that day. Not only for Rosomon, but for the others who copied her approach.

And it seems to be working for me now. Against my cheek, against my ear, I can sense the dragon’s demeanor changing, almost as if he’s speaking to me. This dragon wants to fly. He knows he needs my help to do it, and he’s desperate to join the dragons perched ahead of us.

This must be the connection the masters have described. How the dragons are able to communicate with their riders through feelings. And I’m not yet even mounted.

Pulling up as far as I can, I position the rope in my other. I can’t see the spikes atop his neck from this angle, but going on instinct, I ask Othrix to guide the rope’s path as I fling the loop overhead.

The dragon shifts.

I fear he’s about to buck me off, but the rope becomes taut. The loop caught! If I didn’t know better, I’d think the dragon guided a spike toward my rope. That’s impossible. Not only is he facing the wrong direction, he can’t see.

I breathe for a few seconds before starting to climb, pulling myself up, using both the rope and my grip on the spike.

I pause again, pressing my face against the dragon. This angle is awkward and the spike’s hard to hold. Vowing to be brave, to trust my instincts, I let go of the spike so I can grip the rope with both hands.

“Use your legs,” Treacher shouts. “He won’t mind.”

Sensing that Treacher’s advice is sound, I press my boots against the side of the dragon’s powerful body as I climb up to the base of his neck.

The shrieks of the unmatched dragons stop. Or perhaps they stopped some time ago and I’m only just noticing the utter silence in the canyon. The only things I can hear are the dragon’s smoke-filled breathing, my heartbeat, and the fluttering of his scales as he shifts.

My body shakes as I recognize how high I am off the ground.

The dragon’s back rises close to two men’s heights beyond most others in the enclaves.

The only dragon larger is the behemoth, and no one dares approach that beast. According to the masters, it’s been more than fifty years since anyone has been crazy enough to go within a furlong of where the behemoth is penned.

When I arrived at camp, my candidate class were warned to never venture near there. We were warned that over the centuries, dozens of riders, some dragon masters even, have been burned alive, or torn to shreds by the behemoth.

All dragons are dangerous. All dragons must be respected, but the behemoth is in a category of its own.

And thinking of that dangerous beast won’t help with my mounting.

Treacher has assured me that I’ll naturally find the correct position on the saddle and my mounting flap will open.

I sling my leg over the beast, so that I’m facing his front. Holding on with my thighs, I let out slack on the rope as I edge along the ridge of the dragon’s spine toward his saddle. I soon feel the handles as they slip under my thighs.

I still feel certain this dragon is male, even though dragons lack visible genitals.

All jokes aside, the masters and other riders have assured us that the pommel I’m about to lodge in my ass isn’t a sexual organ.

There is no part of the human anatomy to compare to a dragon’s pommel, and all dragons, male or female, have them.

The pommel strikes my backside.

I shift, letting it edge inside my flap. It grazes my flesh, and I pull forward again. It’s warmer and smoother than the other parts of the dragon, and excitement dilutes my remaining fear.

This is it. Successful or not, I’m about to attempt a mounting.

I’ve already accomplished far more than I did during either of my previous attempts. The first time I was granted the opportunity, the dragon threw me off before I even reached her back. And the second dragon tossed me, as I was trying to get my legs astride her.

I smashed against the stone wall, breaking my ribs, and then she pinned me under her talons until handlers rushed in to distract her with supper—offering her three cows and a sheep in exchange for my life.

Remembering the rope, I coil it up and secure it on another spike, so it won’t be lost in the wind, and will be ready to help me dismount—if I survive.

Shifting back, I feel again for the pommel. It slides into my flap and strikes my body. I brace for pain.

But remembering my training, I tell my body to relax. According to the masters and other riders, even though this dragon is huge, the pain of mounting should not be unbearable. Not if I relax.

Drawing long breaths, I take hold of the handles at the front of his saddle. I can see why Treacher saved this beast for me. The tallest at camp, I’m the only one with a chance to reach these handles while mounted.

Urging myself to relax, I slowly sit back, and the pommel nudges my asshole.

I seize in fear. Our sphincter trainers, even the largest, are narrow at their insertion point. This pommel is decidedly not.

To gather courage, I decide to count to three before I push back.

One—

The dragon shifts and the pommel presses inside me.

I gasp in shock.

It’s not painful. Not painful at all. In fact, the thick saddle pommel feels as if it belongs inside me.

Strange sensations and even stranger visions, invade my mind and body. I feel full, fuller than with the largest trainer I’ve used, but I don’t feel as if the beast is fucking me, nor that he intends to.

While using trainers, I’ve often felt aroused—especially when my movements caused friction, or when my mind turned to thoughts of fucking. I’ve even stroked my rod while I had a trainer inside me. This is nothing like that. My own rod remains quiet.

I search to find words for all I’m feeling, so I can better recall and recount it to my compeers.

The pommel expands, and I suck in a breath. The section that’s a few finger-widths inside me, doubles, perhaps triples in size.

This is the knotting. I’ve heard it described, but no description could explain the experience. I thought I felt stretched wide before. I had no idea.

The knot continues to expand, and all the breath is forced from my lungs as I accommodate and absorb the dragon’s massive and expanding pommel.

I’m hit with a strong wave of emotion—and a deep sense of understanding.

Xendus . A deep voice enters my mind. But it’s not really a voice, per se. Not exactly.

Yet, I’m certain I know the beast’s name. Xendus. And his deep voice confirmed that he’s decidedly male.

Raising his head, Xendus roars, and shoots a stream of fire ahead of us.

Surath rapidly beats her wings and rises. But instead of flying toward us, Saxon keeps her hovering, about fifty spans above the wall, as if he’s waiting for me to move.

Fly, I think. Take flight, Xendu s. How do I make this beast move?

Suddenly my vision changes completely. I can still see through my own eyes, but it’s like I’m also seeing through the dragon’s.

The world is so much bigger now, so much brighter, and I can make out details far into the distance.

The jagged peaks of the mountains between us and the veil come into sharp focus.

Xendus lifts his head, blocking my eye line, and yet I can still see ahead. I don’t understand.

But I don’t have time to think. Xendus stretches his wings, pushes off the floor of the canyon and takes flight. Excitement rushes inside me, along with the rushing air against my ears and eyes as we rise.

Higher and higher, Xendus takes me straight up, and I remember that I’m supposed to tell him where to go. But I’m not sure where we should go. To the veil? I’m not armed for combat. In my haste, I left the loaded saddlebags behind and have only the broadswords on my back.

Another dragon rushes past us, coming so close that the wind nearly knocks me off my mount. Then the dragon sweeps past us again in the other direction.

It’s Saxon and Surath. They’re flying around us in a tight circle. Is this a trial of some kind? Is Saxon trying to knock me off my mount? But then I realize how secure I feel. With his knot, Xendus is holding me tightly against him, and he soothes my fears through our bond.

Saxon and Surath fly forward, following the other three dragons. I didn’t even notice when those three left their perches.

Xendus surges forward, creating intense pressure inside my body. As we soar, the pommel expands yet again. But the connection makes me feel even more secure atop his back, as if invisible straps have wrapped around me, as if Xendus and I are now one.

“Follow Surath,” I say, even though I’m not sure if he can hear or understand me.

I sense pure joy from Xendus. Joy as strong as if it were my own. And some of the joy is actually my own. I’m thrilled that I succeeded to mount this dragon, but Xendus is perhaps even happier.

As we fly after Surath, our combined joy expands. Xendus is off the ground, after Othrix knows how many years, and I’ve found my life’s purpose.

I am a dragon rider.

I’ll never again return to Khotor. At least not as a mere member of the royal family.

Should I ever choose to return, I’ll return as a dragon rider, demanding respect from my elders. Perhaps I’ll have Xendus punish them for all the things they have done to me. Incinerate them for their cruelty.

Riding a dragon is better than being a prince. Far better.

And through my intense joy, my mind flashes to Rosomon.

Is she watching from below?

As I think of her, Xendus turns, swooping down over the candidates, and I spot her cropped pink hair. Most of the group ducks as we pass, but Rosomon turns her face up toward the sky, her smile bright and full as she watches—a beacon calling up from below.

Another, even stronger wave of emotion floods through me. One so powerful I’m not certain whether it’s mine, or if it originated with Xendus.

But whatever the source, the dragon’s senses are amplifying everything I’m thinking and feeling, heightening my every sight, my every thought, my elated emotions.

And as my happiness expands, all I can think about is sharing this utter joy with Rosomon.

Telling her how fabulous this feels. Like me, she longs to ride dragons, and if any woman can achieve that feat it’s her.

Even if it’s not possible, I want to tell her how this feels. I want to share my elation with her.

My whole life I’ve sought purpose. I thought I’d found satisfaction when I came here to camp, but holes remained inside me. Holes I now know how to fill.

I know what I want most in life. What I want even more than I wanted to ride a dragon. I’ve never been more certain of anything.

I want Rosomon.

I need Rosomon.

I can’t fully explain why—we barely know each other, and she has every reason to hate me—but I’m beyond desperate to win her respect and affection. Last night, Rosomon actually saw me, as if she could see my true heart, and I long to retract every harsh word I’ve uttered, to withdraw every threat.

As soon as I land, I’ll go to her. I’ll beg her forgiveness. I’ll grovel. I’ll do whatever she demands, as long as she lets me be near her again.

I’ve never cared about any wench I’ve fucked in the past. Some were more amusing than others, but as long as the lass wasn’t hideous, one served my needs as well as another, but suddenly the only woman I want to be around is Rosomon.

And it’s more than just sexual. Yes, I do want to be her lover—one look from her and I’m hard—but I want so much more. I want to be her friend. I want her to like me. I want her to see and accept me—even my dark and horrible parts, of which there are many.

Last night she didn’t cower when I showed her my worst self. Instead of showing fear, somehow she tamed my raging beast and saw beneath my anger.

Soaring the skies on this dragon, I’ve never felt so elated, but as wonderful as I feel at this moment, I don’t think I’ll feel true happiness until I see Rosomon again.