CHAPTER TWO #3
When I brought my attention back to Arthur, he had already shed his clothing.
All I could focus on was the image of the dragon sprawled across his chest, disappearing over one shoulder.
Black ink was stark against golden skin.
The creature's wings spread over his collarbones, tail coiling down toward his abdomen, talons splayed possessively across his ribs.
He was beautiful in his horror.
He settled his large body between my legs, and the feel of his hardness against my thigh was solid and overwhelming. His fingers worked at laces I hadn't known were there, fabric falling away until nothing separated us but heat and hunger.
I could feel the large head of him pressed against my opening, and a wave of fear overcame me, forcing me to close my eyes.
"Look at me."
When he entered me, I gasped—the stretch and fullness tearing a sound from my throat I'd never made before. As I watched him thrust himself within me, his gaze never slipped from mine.
"I own you."
I swallowed hard against the words that echoed through my mind, knowing with every fiber of my being that I should despise and reject them outright.
They were the words of conquest, of ownership, of a possessiveness that went against everything I valued.
I should have been revolted by the notion that I could belong to anyone, let alone this man whose kingdom I'd been sent to infiltrate and destroy.
And yet, despite all logic, there was some treacherous part of me—in some deep corner of my soul—that thrilled at the words.
That responded to the raw claim in Arthur's voice with a heat that had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with the most basic, fundamental desires I'd tried so hard to suppress.
The realization terrified me.
As he moved inside me, the dragon also moved. Scales rippled with each thrust. Wings flexed. The serpentine neck curved, and those painted eyes opened—ancient amber fixing on me with recognition.
You are ours, a voice sounded in my mind, layered with echoes of something vast and hungry. You belong to us.
Not Arthur's voice. Something older, darker, speaking from beneath his skin. The dragon.
You can never leave us.
Arthur's rhythm intensified, driving deeper, and the dragon writhed in response—no longer a tattoo but something alive beneath his flesh, pushing against the prison of his body.
You are our treasure.
His hand fisted in my hair, yanking my head back to expose my throat.
Instantly, his mouth found the vulnerable column of my neck, teeth scraping against my flesh, and I shattered around him—pleasure so sharp it bordered on pain, my water magic flaring wild and uncontrolled, causing snowflakes to suddenly dance in the air above me.
Arthur's eyes blazed gold as I erupted with pleasure around his cock, which was still buried deep within me. Then he stilled and pulled up from me, his attention captured by the chamber surrounding us.
"Brothers. Kings of old. Come and feast."
Arthur's voice rolled through the hall, resonant with command that raised the hair on my arms.
I then caught the sound of the lids of the crypts beginning to groan—massive stone slabs grinding against their marble bases in a symphony of protest that echoed through the vast burial chamber.
The sound reverberated, a deep, guttural scraping that seemed to come from the bones of the earth itself.
Then came the rattling—a percussion of bone—of skeletal fingers drumming an impatient rhythm on tomb edges.
Burial shrouds whispered against marble as bodies that should have remained at rest began their grotesque resurrection. I could hear the squelch of decomposing tissue separating from bone, the drip of grave moisture hitting the floor in steady, horrible drops.
I refused to turn around and allow my eyes to affirm what my ears were reporting. Meanwhile, each sound built on the last until the entire hall filled with a cacophony of the dead stirring to wakefulness—responding to their king's call like hounds summoned to hunt.
"Enjoy her flesh," Arthur called to the dead as he pulled out of me, and the realization of what he intended hit me like a lightning bolt.
"No." The word stuck in my throat, barely a whisper.
He stepped back, that golden light still burning in his eyes, his expression serene. Satisfied.
The first king—little more than a skeleton wrapped in tattered burial shrouds—wobbled up to me.
Empty sockets fixed on me as bony fingers scrabbled at the tomb's edge.
Behind him, another rose, flesh hanging from his jaw in gray strips.
Then another. And another still. A procession of the dead, shambling toward me with terrible purpose.
I looked at Arthur, my mouth hanging open in shock and revulsion. "Please—"
"—you owe a tithe." His voice remained unconcerned, conversational. Bored even. "The kingdom demands payment."
Skeletal hands closed on my ankles. I tried to pull away but couldn't move, paralyzed as the first skeletal king positioned himself between my thighs.
When he entered me, I clenched my eyes shut but couldn't ward away the sound of bone scraping flesh as the corpse thrust into me with determination.
No warmth. No life. Just the rhythmic grind of death taking what it wanted.
Behind him, the others waited.
The skeleton finished and withdrew. The next king took his place—this one still wearing patches of skin like ill-fitted gloves, empty eyes weeping grave soil down his cheekbones. He entered me without preamble, his movements jerky and wrong.
After him, I lost count. Five kings. Seven. Ten. Each one crawling from his tomb to claim me, their fingers leaving trails of rot and dust across my skin. Some still possessed enough flesh to feel almost human. Others were pure bone, grinding against me with each thrust.
As each king finished, he returned to his tomb, laying down for his forever rest. Meanwhile, Arthur watched from between his pillars, expression unchanged—pleased, fulfilled.
The final king finished with a rattling sigh and staggered back to his crypt. I lay there trembling, taken in ways I hadn't known were possible, my body aching and defiled.
Then Arthur moved to the sepulcher adjacent to where I lay sprawled, and when I shifted to watch him, I glimpsed Excalibur, the blade of monarchs, embedded within the crypt's stone surface.
The sword gleamed in the moonlight, its blade catching and holding the pale light. His hand closed around the hilt.
The blade came free with a sound like singing metal. The sword's edge gleamed as if the weapon itself recognized the magnitude of what was about to unfold.
Arthur returned to me, his footsteps echoing against the marble. He lifted Excalibur overhead with ceremonial gravity, both hands gripping the leather-wrapped hilt until his knuckles went white with the strain.
His expression was intentional, duty-filled—the look of a king prepared to sacrifice everything for his crown.
There was no hesitation in those piercing blue eyes, no flicker of the man who had once pulled this very sword from stone with noble intentions.
This was Arthur the Tyrant King, Arthur who would feed the dead with living blood to secure his reign for eternity.
"For the kingdom," he said.
Then he plunged the sword into my chest.
Pain exploded through me—white-hot. As I struggled to breathe, my blood welled around the blade, spilling across the marble, which I now realized was carved with narrow channels.
My blood ran in crimson rivers along the grooves, spreading outward, dripping down into the waiting mouths of the dead kings below.
Each crimson drop that touched ancient bone brought forth an unholy resurrection.
Where my blood made contact with the yellowed skulls and brittle ribs of long-dead monarchs, pale flesh began to bloom across the skeletal remains.
Muscles wove themselves around bone with wet, sucking sounds that echoed through the chamber.
Skin stretched taut over newly formed sinew, taking on the pallor of moonlight.
Empty eye sockets filled with orbs that gleamed with light—not quite alive, not quite dead.
One by one, the long-dead Pendragon kings rose from their stone tombs, whole and alive.
Their movements were fluid yet unnatural, as if they remembered life but had forgotten its limitations.
Ancient crowns materialized on their heads, tarnished gold catching the spectral light.
Royal robes draped their resurrected forms, rich fabrics that should have crumbled to dust centuries ago.
They turned their gazes on Arthur, who stood over my bleeding body with Excalibur still buried in my chest, and their smiles widened with recognition and approval.
I awoke instantly, a scream tearing from my throat as I bolted upright in my narrow bed, cold sweat streaming down my face and soaking through my thin shift.
My heart hammered, and I pressed trembling hands against my chest, expecting to feel the terrible wound where Excalibur had pierced through flesh and bone.
But there was nothing—no blood, no pain, only the rapid rise and fall of my breathing as I struggled to orient myself in the darkness of the chamber.
The phantom sensation of the blade sliding between my ribs lingered like a ghost's touch, so vivid I could still feel the cold steel parting my flesh, Arthur's hand gripping the hilt as he drove it deeper.
The door was suddenly thrown open, and Corvin burst through. He crossed the small chamber in three strides, reaching for me as he sat on my bed. Before I could say a word, strong arms caught me, and then I found myself pulled against the solid warmth of his chest.
"Easy," he murmured, one hand pressed against the small of my back while the other cradled my head against his shoulder. "I've got you."
I clung to him, fingers fisting in the fabric of his tunic as I tried to slow my breathing. The scent of him—leather and pine smoke—grounded me, pulled me back from the horror of marble tombs and skeletal kings.
"Was it the dream again?"
I'd had the same nightmare at least ten times in the last month. I nodded against his chest, not trusting my voice yet.
His hand moved in slow circles against my spine. "Same ending?"
"Same ending." The words came out hoarse. "The sword. My blood feeding the dead."
Silence settled between us, broken only by the sound of our breathing. His heartbeat drummed steadily beneath my ear.
"Do you think it's a warning?" I finally managed, pulling back just enough to look at his face. "Some kind of prophecy?"
Corvin's jaw tightened. "I don't know what to make of it. It could just be your own fear manifesting—you’re walking into the heart of Arthur's power wearing a disguise that could get you killed if discovered."
His thumb brushed against my cheekbone, wiping away a tear I hadn't realized had fallen. The gesture was tender, intimate, and suddenly I became aware of how close we were—his face inches from mine, his breath warm against my lips.
Time seemed to suspend itself. His gaze dropped to my mouth, and every nerve in my body sparked with anticipation. I leaned closer, dropping my head back, needing to feel his lips on mine. Needing to understand that whatever this tension was between us, he felt it as acutely as I did.
He stiffened.
"You should rest," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "Tomorrow brings the start of a long trip, Guin."
I opened my eyes and pulled back, feeling the full sting of his denial.
He stood quickly, running a hand through his hair, his back to me as he moved toward the door.
Then he turned to look at me, and we just stared at one another for a few heartbeats before he nodded and, opening the door, pulled it closed behind him, leaving me alone once more.