An exasperated sigh slips out of Lorn, and he reaches over me to pluck the water from Jori’s hand. He brings it to his lips, his eyes locked pointedly on mine, and drinks. His Adam’s apple bobs in the center of his throat as he swallows a mouthful, and I suddenly find myself very thirsty.
“Just normal, everyday water,” Lorn chirps. “It’s not poisoned,” he adds loftily, as though the notion itself is ridiculous. He takes another sip, humming with pleasure and overexaggerating just how good the poison-free water is.
I shake my head, unimpressed with the bad acting. “It might not be poisoned, but now it’s got your backwash in it,” I grumble as I begrudgingly take the drink from him.
An easy grin spreads across the scion’s face, my words not ruffling his scales in the slightest. His hand flexes against my hip, and he relaxes under me like this interaction is completely normal for him. Maybe it is. He probably has females throwing themselves at him every hour on the hour, and this sort of intimate familiarity is commonplace. The same cannot be said for me.
I was raised by the last few surviving members of my mother’s guard. They looked out for me the best they could. They shaped and sharpened me into a soldier they could be proud of, but I never found much softness in those battle-hardened warriors. They didn’t hold and coddle me. They didn’t talk me through my nightmares. Flashes of weakness called for more training, more honing. I had Enslee and the other Syphons, but they were nursing their own wounds, triaging their own trauma. I never wanted to burden them with mine.
I don’t know why Lorn felt the need to comfort me. I don’t know why I let him. Aeson did the same back in Lairwood, and I allowed it then too. I need to stop doing that.
I ignore Lorn’s intense gaze as it roves over my face, and look around. We’re in someone’s rookery, but I can’t tell if it’s Lorn’s or Aeson’s.
The room itself could comfortably fit a few fully revealed dragons with plenty of space for them to stretch their wings without hitting the vaulted roof or the smooth walls. There’s a fireplace, a living room area that could easily seat twenty, and a balcony that displays a breathtaking view of the mountains.
Lorn and I are sitting on a long bench that rests against the foot of a bed that’s entirely too big for one drake or twelve. The bedding is ivory with fluffy pelts draped across the bottom. There are more pillows than any one person could ever need, and I notice images of dragons flying, fighting, and fucking carved into the tall headboard and all over the rest of the room.
With a jolt, I realize where I am. This is a mating suite. I don’t know which of the scions it belongs to, but it’s without a doubt a room meant for their Bonded Mate.
My stomach drops and I scan my surroundings again, pulling in deep breaths to determine if someone already stays here. I don’t smell anything other than my blood and Lorn, but that doesn’t mean anything. I look back at the heir, a multitude of implications fighting to get out.
Why would they bring mehereof all places?
Is he bonded?
Is Aeson?
Why do I give a fuck?
Enslee warned me that The Horde was greedy, that they would want to use me. But they can’t possibly think I’ll fall right into one of their beds…can they? My heart kicks up in warning, but I dismiss the disturbed direction of my thoughts. I haven’t revealed, which means I can’t bond, forced or otherwise. I’m safe on that front at least.
That thought calms me, and then I recall the conversation in the hallway and realize I’ve read this all wrong. They needed somewhere secure, somewhere they could get answers and not worry about those answers being compromised or leaked, especially after that nice little bomb I dropped about King Tenebrae and who killed him. What better place than where they live, where they know they’re safe and protected.
The problem is my father thought that about his rookery too, and look where it got him.
Subtle movement catches my eye by one of the colossal archways that leads out to the balcony. I find Aeson there, watching me. The big drake from the elevator, the one with dark brown scale armor, is standing in front of him, facing me.
I can’t tell if the Thrasher is positioned to protect the scion or if he’s there to keep the commander back for some reason. Aeson’s stare is intense, but I don’t know him well enough to discern what it means. I can’t tell if he’s trying to incinerate me with a glance, study me, or if he’s simply ensuring I’m okay.
Why am I in Lorn’s lap and not his? Does this bother him?
I drop-kick the useless thoughts away. It doesn’t matter. I need to get my head on straight and stop being distracted by a pretty face and surly attitude. The other Syphons would lose their shit if they saw me like this.
“Please drink, dragoness,” Jori once again encourages, and like a taut rubber band, my attention snaps back to the Render. “You’ve been through a lot today. You have to be hungry and thirsty. I’ve called for food, but that will have to wait until we get you all cleaned up and theOric’scome and gone.”
I tense at the mention of The Horde’s genealogist. I figured at some point they’d call one in to corroborate my claim. I’ve never seen one in action, but they sound like beings that strictly deal in the old ways of knives and ichor. I’ve had enough of that kind of shit to last me several lifetimes, but I don’t say anything. My objections wouldn’t matter anyway.
“Princess,” Lorn rumbles, a note of rebuke in it.
I turn to glare at him. All too aware that I’m still in his lap and his hands are still on me. Now that my head is clearer and my thoughts in order, my instincts want me to get up and move away from him, but that feels too close to retreating, and I don’t want to give him that either.
“Drink,” he orders like the arrogant fuck he is, but it saves me from having to make a decision or trying to move when I don’t know that I can.
You don’t survive The Scorch without building up a good tolerance to some pretty nasty toxins and a wide range of poisonous creatures, so I lift the cup to my lips, flipping my middle finger up for good measure, and take a sip. I only intend to take a small drink, for the sole sake of proving to this peacocking prince that I’m not unreasonable or scared of what they might have done to it, but of course Horde water has to be the cleanest, most delicious, crisp mouthful of rejuvenating goodness I’ve ever had.
I empty the cup in two swallows and then hold it out greedily for more. A satisfied hum sneaks out of Lorn as a floating pitcher fills and then refills the cup four more times before Jori waves it away, cutting me off.
“You haven’t revealed. Is that why you can’t heal?” Jori asks, going right for the jugular of all my problems despite his sheepish intonation as he voices what so many of them must be wondering.
