Chapter 39
Evan
Adull, heavy ache weighed down every inch of me. My hips, thighs, and ass thrummed with the phantom memory of being stretched and claimed. It was a deep, physical reminder that I belonged to him, my mate, Gregory.
The heat had been a haze. We lost a whole night and day in a tangle of limbs, sweat, and the overpowering, addictive scent of our own bodies. We hardly left the bed, stopping only for water, our bodies slick and pleasantly spent.
Still half-asleep and relaxed, I woke to Gregory running his tongue along my neck. He was at it again. It was strange and animal-like, but I groaned, lazy and satisfied. “When will you stop licking me?” I slurred, barely awake.
Gregory pulled back. “It’s spreading,” he said, his tone suddenly tense.
I grunted in confusion. My alpha reached toward the bedside table and retrieved a small, silver-backed mirror. “Your neck. The bite.”
I blinked, forcing my limbs to cooperate. Gregory held the mirror, but I was too spent to lift my head. He slid his arm under my shoulders to prop me up. I angled the mirror, tilting my head to the side until the reflection caught the skin below my ear.
I’d expected a normal, bruised love bite, or maybe nothing at all, since his saliva had healed all his other marks on my body. But this hadn’t healed.
My breath caught at the two puncture marks from his canines sitting at the center of a striking, almost frightening pattern. Thin red lines, as delicate as veins, spread from the bite to reach over my shoulder and up my neck in detailed, thorny shapes, like rose branches inked into my skin.
“Is that… normal?” I breathed. I traced the lines where they lay flat against the skin.
“I’m not sure.” His thumb gently followed the edge of the pattern where it neared my jaw. “I’ve only ever seen it on my mother. It’s the mark of a Dragon Lord’s accepted mate. But I’m no Dragon Lord. I don’t understand why…”
“Oh.” I lowered the mirror, my heart racing. I spun my body in his arms and shifted closer until our faces were just inches apart. “What was she like? Your mom? Your family?”
“Loud.” The harsh lines of his face softened.
“My brother and sister… They were wild little things. My mother spent half her life chasing them away from the cliff’s edge and the other half trying to teach me how to be a Lord.
We lived high up where the air always smelled of sulfur and snow.
It was a good life, full of fire and noise. ”
“What about your mom?” I asked softly. “Did she have fire magic too?”
Something tender crossed his face. “No. My mother was a water mage. It’s a rare gift, one tied to the royal bloodline of the Valoren Kingdom.”
I blinked. “So she was royalty?”
“She was.” He said it simply, without pride or bitterness, just a fact.
“But when she mated with my father, she became House Dax. That’s how it works.
The bond takes precedence over birth. She left the Valoren court, her family, her name, all of it, to stand beside a Dragon Lord. She never spoke of it with regret.”
My fingers found the edge of the sheet and twisted it. “And your siblings? Did they take after her or your dad?”
A ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth. “Both. My sister was an alpha, fierce from the day she could walk, and she wielded fire, like my father and me. Burned a hole through her crib when she was three months old.” The smile faded as quickly as it came.
“My brother was an omega. Gentle. Quiet. He had my mother’s water magic.
He could pull frost from the air and shape it into little animals to make her laugh. ”
He paused, his gaze drifting to a space I couldn’t see.
“I was barely old enough to hold a training sword when the Scouring Wars reached our gates. My father went to hold the pass, and he told me to hide them. To keep them safe. But before that…” He lowered his gaze.
“We waited in the deep caverns for days. I kept telling the twins he would come back to lead us out. He was a Dragon Lord—living fire. Invincible, or so I thought.” His voice dropped.
“I didn’t understand then that the Empire had found ways to kill even us. That’s why he was afraid.”
His throat worked as he swallowed hard. “But he never came. And when the Empire arrived at our hiding place, the only thing we could do was run.”
He shut down instantly, his jaw clicking tight as the light left his eyes. He turned his face toward the cabin wall, fixing his gaze on the logs as if the memories were burning him from the inside out.
I didn’t push him for more. Warmth swelled in my chest, separate from the bond’s heat.
He was really talking to me. For a man who did not say much, this small, painful glimpse into his past was a gift.
I was glad he trusted me enough to let me see the boy he used to be, even for a second.
I would have plenty of time, a whole life, to get to know him more.
Gregory sat up, the sheet pooling at his hips, and the movement reminded me of my own soreness. “Let’s get you in a bath,” he said. “Then we’ll eat.”
He carried me to the tub, settling me into the water he heated with his magic. The bath was heaven, and his touch was gentle as he washed me, treating me as if I were made of glass. Every careful stroke was a stark contrast to the bruising, desperate passion of the heat.
We picked at the meal he laid out—bread, cheese, and slices of cured ham—but despite missing a day’s worth of meals, neither of us had much of an appetite. The few bites I took tasted incredible though.
“Still aching?” Gregory asked as I shifted on the bench.
I nodded. “A little. It’s fine.”
“Wait.” He crossed to the cabinet packed with vials of every color.
“You have an entire pharmacy in there,” I noted, rubbing my thigh.
He uncorked a small pink vial and brought it over. “My blood heals most things on its own.” He tapped a finger against the center of his chest. “But it doesn’t always stop the pain. Some injuries linger. This one still hurts.”
Fixing my gaze on the scarred skin over his heart, I reached out to trace the raised, ropy tissue. Gregory closed his hand over mine, stopping the motion to press a soft, gentle kiss to my knuckles. I shivered as a jolt shot through my system.
“This will help. Drink.”
I swallowed the liquid. It tasted of tart cherries, but a wave of warmth quickly spread outward from my stomach, dulling the deep soreness in my joints to a distant throb.
“Better,” I said, surprised. Now that I wasn’t aching, restlessness crawled under my skin. The thought of staying in the cabin to recover made me uneasy. I’d always worked hard in my old life; idleness didn’t sit well with me.
“So, what now? Are we just going to stay here until I’m better?”
“You need to rest.”
“I am resting. My mind isn’t.” I stood, my muscles much looser now. He reached for a fresh linen shirt, and my gaze followed the lines of his bare back before he covered it. There were no horns or scales, just the man who held me. “You still haven’t shown me the smithy. The forge.”
He appraised me, his brow creasing. “Are you sure you’re up for it?”
“I’m sure. I want to see you work.”
The tension left his frame. “Alright. Put these on. Nothing restrictive. The forge gets hot.”
He grabbed a linen tunic and slipped it over my head, his knuckles brushing my skin as he guided my arms into the sleeves. He moved with intent concentration, kneeling to fasten the dark trousers around my calves while I sat there, letting him take care of me.
“You’ll need these.” He slid soft leather boots onto my feet.
Standing up was much easier this time, though getting onto Thunder’s back remained a clumsy process. Gregory gripped my hips to lift me, and I managed to swing my leg over, sinking into the leather seat with a grunt.
Gregory mounted behind me in one fluid motion and wrapped an arm around my waist, anchoring me against his body. Even that simple, possessive touch sent a ripple of memory from the heat, and my skin tingled everywhere he held me.
The ride through the sleeping village was peaceful, and I leaned into his arms until we reached the stone and wood building of the forge. He lifted me down, steadying me before opening the heavy doors.
Darkness surrounded us until Gregory snapped his fingers. Torches along the walls flared to life one after another, chasing the shadows up to the rafters.
I paused and glanced around. “You know,” I said, the fuzzy memories from the other Evan surfacing. “I have these… images about this place. But I also went to a Renaissance fair once back home. They had something like this.”
“A what fair?”
“Renaissance. Like a history fair. Where people pretend to be from the past. But I never expected this to be so authentic.”
Gregory strode to the main anvil. “Did they have this?”
He reached out and heat shimmered in the air, swirling and condensing until it cooled from white-hot to ember-red, solidifying into a hammer.
I gaped at the tool in his grasp, and it was impossible to keep a straight face. I burst out laughing, the noise bouncing off the stone walls. He was being so dramatic.
“What?” he demanded, the tone of his voice indicated I’d damaged his pride. “What do you find so amusing?”
“No,” I gasped, wiping a tear from my eye. “No magic. And definitely no making hammers out of thin air.”
He pouted, and with a flick of his wrist, the fiery construct vanished into smoke. “No,” he grumbled, with a reluctant twinkle in his eye. “I suppose they couldn’t.”
He gestured to a stool near the anvil and threw a folded rag on it. “Sit.”
I sat, my laughter fading into something more eager. “I’m excited now.”
Gregory tied a leather apron around his waist and went to a long chest to retrieve a sword.
It was stunning. The metal was a dark, shimmering silver-black, unlike any steel I’d seen, and red jewels were set into the center of the blade. Even the handle was elaborate, shaped to look like a jagged crown.