Damian’s vision blurred, and his blood began to boil. He lunged at the shifter, grasped him by the throat, and lifted him several feet off the ground, calling his own primordial fire.
“Do not kill the messenger!” Thaon roared like the cornered beast he was, already beginning to shift into his aboriginal form in response to the unexpected threat. His jaw elongated into the muzzle of a bear; his eyes took on the cast of a jackal’s; and his muscle-bound torso literally trembled from the effort it took to restrain the transformation—he obviously wanted to avoid a lethal confrontation. “Not after all we have done! Not after all we have achieved! We are so close, Prince Damian. Think! For the gods’ sakes, consider the future!”
Damian shook from his rage, but he let the shifter go and took a measured step back, trying desperately to clear his head. He struggled to regulate his breathing—
Thaon was right.
The true fault was not with the messenger—it was with the scandalous Ahavi.
Yes, Dante had betrayed him as well, but that element he almost understood.
Almost.
Mina Louvet was a beautiful woman—stunning, really—and hadn’t Damian already sampled Tatiana Ward for the very same reason? Truth be told, he was mildly impressed with Dante’s audacity as well as his reckless virility.
Still, the duplicity could not go unchallenged.
It could not remain unanswered.
“You are right, Thaon.” He nearly spat the words. “The sin is not yours.” He quirked his lips in a half smile, half snarl, and growled in spite of his reason. “I will rip that unborn child from her womb; I will break every bone in her traitorous body; and then I will repair the damage, just so I can plant a true heir in her belly to replace Dante’s bastard.” He drew back his shoulders and raised his jaw in defiance, daring Thaon to utter a single, solitary word.
The Lycanian returned to his human form, and he didn’t move a muscle.
“If we are finished…” Damian snarled.
Thaon inclined his head. “We are.”
Damian nodded, and his voice grew eerily steady. “Then you know what to do. Travel southwest to Umbras and take lodging in the Gilded Chalice Inn. They will ask no questions of a stranger, but just to be safe, remain out of sight. In seven days’ time, you will be escorted by my loyalists back across the sea to Lycania, and once there, it will be up to you to overthrow your brother, to usurp King Bayard.”
Thaon flashed a wicked, bestial smile. “Alas, the task should be easy.”
Damian snorted, but he didn’t reply.
There were just no words.
There was only his Sklavos Ahavi…and his utter disgust…and his vengeance.
Oh yes, there would be plenty of vengeance…
He turned on his heel and strode away, headed for the tent of Umbras.
*
Beneath the moonlight, Thomas the squire wriggled against the cold, dry ground, shifting anxiously against a jagged rock that was poking him in the back. He shoved a pile of arid bramble off his chest, swept away the brittle leaves, and sat up in the ditch, turning to regard Matthias with alarm. “Did you hear that? What Thaon told Prince Damian?”
“All of it,” Matthias grunted, his anger leaching through his words. “Enough to know that Damian is going to kill her.”
Thomas nodded, his eyes wide with fright.
“I have to go, Thomas. Prepared or not, I know what I must do.”
Thomas spit out a mouthful of sandy grit and grimaced at the bitter taste. “You’re not strong enough, Matthias. Not yet. Not by a long shot.”
“Am I not a dragon?”
Thomas sighed. “Not like Damian. Not like that. The prince will tear you in two. He will leave your body for the buzzards, Matthias. You cannot take him on. You can’t win.”
Matthias narrowed his deep blue eyes and stared at the ground, as if in all his desperation, even he knew the squire’s words were true. “Then you had better get to the tent of Warlochia quickly, in time enough to relieve me. Find Prince Dante. Tell him what we overheard. Even if the prince is not willing to protect a slave—the brother is unable to defy his own blood—surely, the dragon will fight to save his unborn son.”
Chapter Twenty-five
It was close to 9:30 PM; the beach outside the tent of Umbras was disconcertingly quiet—the sands of Dracos Cove were still filled with the dead and the dying—and Mina Louvet was sitting on the edge of her bed, of Damian’s bed, wearing a cross-laced silk nightgown and combing out her hair.
Why she even bothered to remove the tangles, she couldn’t say.
She certainly did not want to look beautiful for Prince Damian, the evil hound, and the gown had not been her choice—it had been packed by her maids. Yet and still, there was something detached and soothing about the mindless, repetitive motion, something calming about the feel of the ivory teeth and the stiff boars’ hair bristles sweeping through her hair, something that kept her from leaping off the bed, running from the tent, and throwing herself into the restless sea to drown.
At the moment, drowning seemed like a much better option than trying to make a life with Damian.
She sighed, placing the comb on the bedside table, and glanced for the hundredth time at the entrance to the room: The evil prince should have been back by now. After all, the king had laid waste to the enemy, and the fertility elixir Damian had poured down Mina’s throat only lasted for thirty-six hours. She was already on hour number thirty-three.
A wave of nausea undulated through her stomach, undoubtedly brought on by her nerves, and she almost retched from the stress. Dearest Goddess of Mercy, as if being there in the tent of Umbras—as if being Damian’s whore—was not enough to contend with, she now had to worry about consummating their union within the next three hours. There was just no way around it. She had to “get pregnant” tonight, and she had to convince Prince Damian that the child she conceived was his. The thought made her want to curl into a ball…and die.
As if summoned by her mounting anxiety, the heavy canvas at the back of the tent flung open, and Damian Dragona stormed into the compartment like a crazed, wild animal, charging into a territorial fray. His nostrils were flared, as if he were struggling to breathe; his dark brown eyes were ablaze with fury; and his mouth was literally contorted in a savage, unnatural scowl. The dragon wasn’t just angry—he was murderous. “Get up!” Damian shouted, spittle flying from his lips. “Get up! Come here! And kneel!”
Mina leaped from the bed and tried to run for the door. She had no idea what was going on, and she really didn’t care. She only knew that she would rather be scorched from behind, burned to a crisp, than have her throat slit while she cowered before Damian on her knees. And for what offense, this time? Surely, he couldn’t know what she had done.
The dragon moved with impossible speed.
He covered the distance between them in an instant, a mere blink of an eye, meeting her retreat with a swift and brutal backhand. She launched into the air like a giant stone shot from a catapult before landing squarely on her back, on the bed; and before she could scramble to her feet, try to flee once again, Damian was on top of her, seizing her by the throat, and squeezing the life right out of her.
“My prince!” She choked as she spoke, her voice ripe with fear.
He slowly licked his lips and angled his head to the side. “My dutiful, faithful wife.”
Mina froze at his words, too terrified to breathe, as the word he had used sank in.
Faithful.
Oh gods…
She didn’t want to hear his explanation. She didn’t care to see death coming. She could only hope it would be quick.
Damian sensed her surrender and relaxed his hands, removing them from her throat. He crawled off the bed, grabbed her by the ankles, and yanked her to the left, to face him. And then he simply stood there, hovering above her, towering at his full, imposing height, while glaring into her eyes, scanning her body from head to toe, and sneering at her mi
ddle. “Did you think I wouldn’t know?” he whispered icily.
Mina gulped and bit down on her tongue, terrified of making a single sound. Dante had assured her that he had masked his scent, as well as the scent of the unborn child. He had sworn to her that he’d used some sort of magic…
She had no idea what Damian knew.
Perhaps he just suspected some sort of betrayal.
Perhaps it was something else…
So she watched him like a hawk.
And gods be merciful, whatever it was, he was going to beat the sense out of her—it was written all over his pitiless face. She drew a deep breath for courage, and he smiled. “My prince?” She finally found her voice.
He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back as if the entire world was his to command. “I have yet to consummate our pairing; and yet, here you are, already with child. Tell me, my Ahavi: How does that work?”
Mina closed her eyes and tried to expunge her mind of all sentient awareness, but it didn’t work.
Oh dear ancestors…
She was as good as dead.
But how did he know?
How could he possibly…know?
Was he simply baiting her for a confession?
What in the name of the gods was going on?
There was no point in speculating. There was no point in arguing or explaining. And there was no point in fighting back.
She opened her eyes once more and glanced at the back entrance to the tent, calculating the distance between the edge of the bed and the partially open flap. There were only two options that might yield some mercy, however slight: She could either escape, which was highly unlikely, or she could bait Damian into killing her swiftly.
She would try the former first.
She rolled to the other side of the bed, dove from the coverlet, and hit the ground running, pumping her arms at her sides to gain speed. Her bare feet kicked up sand as she scurried like a frightened rabbit toward the waiting door. Her heart pumped in a furious, unstable rhythm, but just like before, Damian moved like the wind.
One moment, he was standing on the other side of the bed, threatening her with those eyes; the next, he was simply standing in front of her, blocking her chosen path. His strong, muscular arms flexed—once, then twice—before he caught her by the shoulders, lifted her as if she were virtually weightless, and tossed her across the room, back onto the bed. He measured a hate-filled glower in her direction, and just like that, she was pinned to the mattress, shackled by invisible bonds. He was doing it all with his eyes—with his intent.
Mina whimpered like a pitiable child, wriggling beneath the invisible restraints, praying to an absent savior for pardon, for absolution…for death.
Damian paid her no heed.
He sauntered across the room to the fire-pit, removed a golden-handled dagger from his waistband, and placed the blade in the flames. While the bronze heated, he turned to regard her with contempt. “I will not kill you this night, my love.” He savored every word. “Oh, no; that would be too easy, and we simply don’t have time.” He shrugged his massive shoulders. “Besides, I do not blame my eldest brother for mounting you. I’m actually rather proud of him for having the balls.” He glanced over his shoulder to inspect the dagger, and Mina followed his gaze: The seven-inch blade was serrated on one side, and it had turned a deep coral red from the heat. Whether fueled entirely by the fire, or by his wicked intentions, Mina didn’t know. Damian licked his lips. “No, I rather intend to make love to you, myself.” He chuckled at the sardonic turn of phrase, and then he pressed his ear to his shoulder, lazily stretching his neck. “But you do understand that I must first remove that fetus.” His face contorted into a mask of hatred. “That abomination that lives in your womb.”
He reached into the fire with his right hand, as if he were simply dipping it into a bowl of water, and moaned at the exquisite sensation of pain as he withdrew the now-molten dagger from the flames. He held it up in the lantern light and grinned.
Mina screamed.
She bucked against the invisible chains, harder and harder, with every step Damian took toward the bed, and the moment he released her from the supernatural bonds, she kicked out at him with a fury.
He caught her ankles in his left palm—first her right, and then her left—demonstrating an uncanny level of dexterity, a complete mastery of speed and agility, that truly boggled the mind.
Mina never even saw him move.
It was all just a blur.
He pinned her ankles to the bed with his knees and crawled above her, lifting her nightgown with a calloused left hand, bunching it up at her waist as he creeped.
She gasped in horror. “No!” she shouted, unable to contain her panic. “No, no, no, no!” She bucked so hard she strained her back, and then she struck out at him with both clenched fists, swinging wildly at his jaw, his nose, his eyes—anything—just to divert him from his path.
Damian laughed like a hyena.
He was enjoying her fear almost as much as his own machinations. He loved seeing her squirm. He ripped the nightgown, straight down the front, and tossed the scraps to the side, watching as they floated to the ground like so much garbage. “Punch me again, and I’ll break your wrists,” he snarled. “I will crush them into dust beneath my hands, and your pain will be even greater.” He stared at her bare, exposed breasts and groaned. “Think of it this way, my Ahavi: This is going to be a gruesome, bloody, and entirely unnatural process, butchering this thing from your womb”—he shrugged—“but once it’s over, it’s over. I can put you back together, and we can get on with our own exquisite coupling. So why don’t you just concentrate on that.” He bent low, drew a circle around her right areola with his tongue, and then drew back, flicking away the remaining vestiges of the gown with the knife, careful to avoid searing her skin with the heated blade.
For now.
It was all so sadistic.
When he transferred the dagger to his left hand, reheated the blade with his own dragon’s fire, and then reached for the lace on her undergarment, she practically came undone: Mina fought like a hellhound released from the depths of the abyss. She twisted and bucked; kicked out and screamed; pummeled the dragon with blow after wild, desperate blow, utterly uncaring that she would further provoke his wrath.
She wanted his ire.
She needed his rage.
She had to incite him to kill—to take her life, swiftly and finally, right here and now: Mina Louvet wanted to die, and it was up to her to make it happen.
In a series of movements too rapid and exact to be countered, Damian snatched her by the throat, thrust her thighs apart with his knees, and braced her legs to the bed with his own, all the while, lowering the sweltering blade to her pelvis.
Mina shrieked in terror, and that’s when Matthias Gentry lunged toward the bed. He snatched Prince Damian from behind, wrapped his powerful arms around the dragon’s chest, and wrenched him backward. At the same time, he released a deadly pair of fangs and sank them deep into Damian’s neck.
Mina gasped at the sight of Matthias Gentry snarling like a rabid dog. She could hardly believe her eyes as he wrenched his head to the right, and then the left, literally frothing at the bit, tearing into the prince’s throat, bound and determined to eviscerate his esophagus.
Damian dropped the dagger and scrabbled for his throat, tearing Matthias’s teeth from his flesh with careless abandon. He spun about in midair, an act of amazing legerity, and landed lightly on his soles, like a cat ready to spring into battle. His skin began to harden with the sudden appearance of scales, supernatural armor, even as his chest expanded in girth, his claws shot forth from his hands, and smoke wafted between his scornful lips. “Who. The. Hell. Are. You?” he bellowed, glaring at Matthias as the rebel crouched low before him, matching each of Damian’s preternatural feats with one of his own.
“I am your father’s son,” Matthias snarled. And with that, he lunged forward and thrust a fearsome, serrate
d hand toward Damian’s chest in an effort to seize the prince’s heart.
Damian moved much too fast.
He sucked in his stomach, bowed his chest, and leaped backward, narrowly evading the swipe, even as he grasped Matthias’s wrist and snapped the radius like a twig.
Matthias winced in pain, stunned but determined. As if drawing on some ancient, unconscious instinct, he sucked in a deep breath of air and released it with a hiss, conjuring a narrow red-hot flame in the process and heaving it at Damian’s golden hair.
The dragon prince disappeared.
He simply vanished in thin air, and Matthias spun around like a wild beast, trying feverishly to locate his prey. A huge, wicked gash opened up on Matthias’s side, the ugly wound taking the shape of a barbed, triangular claw, as Damian reappeared to Matthias’s left.
“My brother?” the evil prince mocked, and then he laughed like a certified lunatic. “Well, I’ll be damned.” His expression turned all at once serious; his glowing red eyes narrowed into two venomous slits; and he growled, deep in his bestial throat. He threw a right hook at Matthias’s jaw and jolted in surprise when Matthias caught it in the palm of his hand and shoved the fist forward, sending Damian flying through the air, spinning into a summersault, and crashing into Mina’s traveling chest.
The trunk split open, splintered into a dozen pieces, and littered the room with shards.
Damian catapulted to his feet and brushed the dust away. “Well done,” he drawled lasciviously, seeming almost aroused by the game. “I’m impressed with your lineage, dragon; at least you have a heart. However, you are insane to think you are my equal, when you are yet a pitiful neophyte. Alas, it is time to end this silly duel.”
Just like that, Damian Dragona unleashed the full fury of his wrath—the full powers of hell—calling on his feral beast for supremacy, drawing on his blackened soul: A pair of enormous webbed wings punched out of his back, and he flew at Matthias like a demon possessed, engulfed in a ring of fire. He latched onto Matthias with both sets of claws, making full use of his talons, his teeth, and his speed. He ripped at the fledgling’s skin and tore at his muscles like a bird making sport of a worm. He undulated, coiled, and struck in precise serpentine motions, drawing upon decades and decades of training as he sliced, punctured, and withdrew. In a matter of seconds, Matthias was lying at Damian’s feet—bloodied, battered, and broken—nearly lifeless on the floor.