CHAPTER 3
THE DRAGON
I run my clawed fingers through her long blonde hair, and she doesn't flinch. She never does.
Seventy-three years, two months, and sixteen days since I laid her down on this bed.
Since I glamoured her into pricking her finger on that spindle, and watched her eyes flutter closed.
Since I carried her away from that gilded prison they called a palace, where her father had already arranged her marriage to some brutish prince from the northern kingdoms.
I saved her.
She doesn't know that yet. Or maybe she does. Maybe in the darkness behind her eyelids, in the prison of her own beautiful body, she understands what I've done for her.
"Good morning, my love," I whisper, though it's well past noon.
I've already drawn her bath. The water steams in the copper tub, scented with lavender and rose. I slide my arms beneath her, one under her shoulders, one under her knees, and lift. She weighs nothing. Or perhaps I've simply grown stronger over the decades. Immortality does that.
Her head lolls against my shoulder as I carry her to the bathroom. Her nightgown, lace today, clings to her curves. I've dressed her in a thousand different gowns over the years. This one is my favorite. Pale blue, nearly translucent.
"There were two last night," I tell her as I lower her into the water. Her body accepts it without reaction, though I know she feels it. I know she feels everything. "Younger than the others. They made it past the thorns, past the wolves, all the way to the castle gates."
"One was calling for you. 'Princess Adelaide,' he shouted. 'We've come to save you.'" I laugh, the sound echoing off the stone walls, and even to my own ears it sounds wrong. Too sharp. Too manic. "As if you need saving. As if I haven't already saved you."
I decide last minute to join her in the tub.
I remove my belt and my pants and step in.
I adjust her so I'm seated with my back against the tub.
I drape her body over me so it looks like she's straddling my body and wrap her legs around my hips.
My wings are pinned uncomfortably beneath me against the back of the tub, the strong iridescent blue appendages folded awkwardly, the edges pressing into the copper.
I can feel the strain in the joints where they connect to my back, but I don't care.
I'll gladly sacrifice my comfort to be this close to her, to hold her like this, her body draped over mine in the warm water.
I position my cock at her entrance, the head pressing against her folds.
Even in the water, I can feel how warm she is, but also how impossibly tight.
"Let me inside, treasure," I murmur, guiding her hips down. I push forward, and immediately I feel the resistance. Even after all these years, after fucking her thousands of times, her body still struggles to take me. "Fuck, you're tight. Always so fucking tight for me."
I have to work for it, pushing harder, feeling her entrance stretch around just the head of my cock. The water sloshes around us as I grip her hips and pull her down, forcing another inch inside. Her walls resist, clenching, trying to keep me out even as they have no choice but to yield.
"That's it, my little whore," I growl, and there's something in my voice that sounds feral, unhinged. When did I start sounding like this? "Take it. Take every fucking inch like the desperate little thing you are."
Another inch. Then another. The ridges on my cock catch on her inner walls, and I have to pull back slightly and thrust forward again to work past the resistance. She's so tight I can barely move, her body gripping me like a vice.
"Good girl," I praise, even as I wrap one hand around her throat.
My clawed fingers press against her delicate skin, and I flex, applying pressure.
Not enough to truly hurt. Never enough to hurt.
But enough to feel her pulse flutter beneath my palm, enough to make her breathing change.
Erratic, shallow, her chest rising and falling faster against mine.
"Even asleep, you're such a good little slut for me. Your body knows exactly what it wants."
I squeeze harder, harder than I meant to, and thrust deeper. The aggression surprises even me. I've been getting rougher lately. More violent. I don't understand why. The need is becoming something darker, something I can't quite control.
Finally—finally, I'm fully seated inside her, buried to the hilt in her tight heat.
"Perfect," I groan. "So fucking perfect. You were desperate for this cock, weren't you, little princess, even while sleeping. My perfect little fucktoy."
The word tastes wrong on my tongue. Too crude. But I can't stop myself from saying it.
I start to move, shallow thrusts at first because she's so tight I can barely pull back. One hand stays around her hip, the other around her throat, squeezing and releasing in rhythm with my movements. Her breathing becomes more erratic with each thrust, each squeeze.
"You like that, don't you?" I whisper against her ear, tightening my grip.
My claws dig in slightly, and I see tiny red marks appear on her skin.
I should stop. I should be more careful.
But I can't. "Like being choked while I fuck you.
Like being my desperate little whore. My treasure. My perfect little slut."
The contradictions pile up, love and degradation tangled together until I can't tell them apart anymore.
I feel her walls start to flutter around me, pulsing in a rhythm I know so well. Her breathing stutters, quick and shallow, her chest heaving against mine.
"That's it," I growl, fucking her harder now, my hand flexing around her throat. "Come for me. Come on my cock like the good little slut you are."
Her walls clench hard, pulsing and fluttering in waves, and I feel her whole body tense. Her breathing stutters rapidly. Short, quick gasps, and I know she's coming.
And then—
Her lips part. Just barely. Just the smallest movement. And a sound escapes. Not a moan, not a word, just a breath with the barest hint of voice behind it.
I freeze.
No. No, that's not possible. The spell doesn't allow for that. She can't move. She can't make sounds.
I must have imagined it.
The knowledge pushes me over the edge anyway.
"Fuck," I groan, slamming into her one last time. My cock pulses, swelling inside her as I empty myself. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes through me as I fill her, my seed pumping deep into her tight heat. I can feel every pulse, every throb, as I come harder than I have in decades.
But I can't stop thinking about her lips. About that sound.
When the last wave subsides, when I've emptied every drop inside her, I lean forward and sink my teeth into her neck, right over the old scar. She tastes like honey and copper, and I bite down hard enough to draw blood. Harder than usual. Hard enough that she'll have a new scar.
"Have to keep the curse in place," I murmur against her skin, licking the wound. My voice sounds desperate even to my own ears. "Can't have you waking up yet, treasure. Not when you feel this good. Not when your body responds to me like this."
I release her throat, my clawed fingers trailing down to cup her breast instead. There are marks on her neck. Red impressions of my fingers. I stare at them, feeling something twist in my chest.
What's happening to me?
"But I'm the only one who loves you," I murmur. "I'm the only one who knows what you need."
I get the soap back out. My soapy hands glide over her breasts, cupping their heavy weight, my thumbs circling her nipples until they harden under my touch.
I've done this thousands of times, tens of thousands, and I never tire of it.
Never tire of the way her skin feels like silk beneath my palms, warm and impossibly soft.
I map every curve, every dip, committing her body to memory even though I already know it better than my own.
My cock is still buried fully inside her.
I trail my hand down her stomach, the delicate indent of her navel, the outline of my cock on her belly.
My fingers splay possessively across her hips, gripping, claiming.
Then lower, between her thighs, where we're still connected.
Where she's always so soft, so warm, so perfectly mine.
I take my time here, my soapy fingers stroking through her folds, circling, pressing. She can feel this. I know she can.
I wonder if she's screaming inside, or if after all these years she's learned to crave it.
My cock throbs at the thought. I clean every inch of her with reverent, obsessive care, my fingers lingering where they shouldn't, touching her the way a lover would, the way a worshipper touches something sacred and profane all at once.
I wash her hair next, tilting her head back, supporting her neck. Her lips part slightly, and I stare at them, remembering. Imagining.
Did they really move? Or am I losing my mind?
I want to see her lips move. Hear her voice again. But I can't wake her. Not yet. Not when the world is still so dangerous, still so full of men who would use her, breed her, break her. Not when she might hate me for what I've done. Hate me for what I continue to do.
Not when she might try to leave.
After her bath, I dry her carefully, do her hair, then carry her back to bed. I've laid out a new gown. Deep green lace this time, like evergreen trees. I dress her slowly, savoring the feel of her skin against my fingers.
I arrange her on the bed, positioning her arms at her sides, her braided long blonde hair spread across the pillow. Then I climb onto the bed beside her, my hand trailing up her thigh, pushing the green lace higher.
"You're so beautiful," I tell her. "More beautiful than the day I took you. I know you can hear me," I whisper against her ear, my scaled lips careful against her delicate skin. "I know you're in there, Adelaide. Listening. Feeling."