Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 85203 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85203 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
And the whip in Dorian’s hand.
He rips the thorny switch away with a snarl.
"How dare you hurt my wife?"
His voice is low and guttural—barely human. There’s a deep resonance beneath it like stones grinding together, and every hair on my body stands up. That’s not just him talking—that’s his Drake—I’m sure of it.
Dorian must know that too. He flinches and then tries to hide it, drawing himself up and puffing out his chest.
"She’s my wife too," he says sullenly. “You forget I was the one who married her first.”
Coward, I think. I can see it in his eyes—he’s scared to death of his older brother. But he’s trying not to show it in front of the Nobles. He takes a step back.
But he moves too slow.
Xaren’s hand shoots out, catching him by the throat. Dorian’s eyes go wide as he’s yanked off the ground like a rag doll.
"You little bastard," Xaren growls. "I should break your fucking neck!"
Dorian is choking, gasping, clawing at his brother’s wrist. His boots kick in the air, scrabbling for leverage that doesn’t exist.
Xaren shakes him once—hard. Like a dog shaking a rat. And then drops him.
Dorian crumples to the ground in a heap, coughing and gasping. He scrambles backward on his elbows like a crab, one hand clutched to his bruised throat.
"You brute!" he wheezes. "I’ll tell Mother!"
"Tell her," Xaren growls, his voice cold as ice. "I don’t give a fuck." He crouches, getting in Dorian’s face, his golden Drake’s eye blazing. "And while you’re at it, tell her I’ll kill you if you touch my wife again. You’ve been warned."
He jabs a finger in Dorian’s face—so close I half expect it to stab through the skin.
The Royal Garden is deathly still. Even the wind seems to stop blowing.
The Nobles, who just moments ago were jeering and sneering, now stare in frozen horror.
The two men holding me drop my arms like I’ve burned them. Good—I just want to get away.
Xaren straightens and rounds on them.
"Do you want to explain yourselves?" he snarls.
They back away, stammering excuses, but Xaren isn’t listening. He turns to me instead, his expression softening the moment he sees my face.
"Come on, little dove," he says, stepping forward.
I try to move, but pain lances up my thigh. My legs feel like raw meat. I stagger and nearly fall.
Xaren catches me without hesitation.
Before I can blink, I’m in his arms. He lifts me as though I weigh nothing at all—just scoops me up and presses me to his chest like I’m precious to him.
I feel safe there, pressed against him. For the first time since this nightmare started, I feel safe.
"It’s all right now, sweetheart—I’ve got you," he murmurs.
He carries me out of the Royal Gardens, past the silent Nobles and the blood-red roses.
The Queen’s prized blooms wave gently in the breeze. Their curling black-red petals shine in the sunlight like velvet dipped in ink. The switch Dorian used still lies broken on the path, its thumb-sized thorns glinting with ruby droplets of blood—my blood.
The sight turns my stomach, but I’m not afraid now because Xaren has me.
And he isn’t letting go.
22
ELAINA
Xaren carries me through the echoing halls of the Citadel, his arms hard and sure around me. I can feel his fury in the tightness of his muscles, the way his heartbeat hammers against my cheek. The air around him feels alive—too hot, too charged—his Drake must be close to the surface.
The thought should frighten me—he carries a huge, unpredictable beast bigger than a house hidden inside him—one that can breathe fire. But I know his anger isn’t directed at me. So the menacing presence has the odd effect of making me feel safe. No one in their right mind would come after me now—not when I’m in the arms of such a fierce protector.
We get curious stares from the Nobles we pass. The servants and guards are smart enough to keep from gawking. I’m sure we’re providing all kinds of grist for the rumor mill that the upper-class lives for here in the Citadel, but at the moment, I don’t even care. I just want to get somewhere private where I can tend my wounds.
Xaren must think the same, because he takes me straight to his rooms. He says nothing as we descend the stone stairs into the lower keep. Only when we reach his chamber—his sanctuary carved from black marble and shadow—does he stop. The door closes behind us with a low thud that seems to shut out the world.
Without a word, he takes me straight to the bathing room. Steam curls from the deep marble tub as he opens the golden taps and begins to draw a bath. The water glitters in the witch light, filling the chamber with warmth and the scent of mineral salts, which he adds from a jar which sits on the edge of the tub. They smell of something darkly sweet—myrrh, maybe. I hope they won’t make the water sting too much—my legs already feel like raw meat.