Chapter 2 #2
“I am not yours,” I snap, the words ripping out of me like shrapnel. “Not your prize, not your possession, not your godsdamned anything.” My shadow blade flares back to life.
Dayn glances at it and raises a dark eyebrow. “Do you… want another sparring match?”
My breath comes sharp, uneven. The look he’s giving me drags back the memory of our duel in the depths of Heathborne’s halls—his taunts, his unrelenting advance, the taste of his blood burning in my veins. His tongue on my skin in the ritual chamber.
I force it down. Lock it deep. Or try to.
Gods, I ache to cage him, to keep him bound forever. Heathborne had the right idea.
“I’m curious,” I say, forcing steadiness into my voice.
“Purely for research. What in all the realms made you think I’m yours?
Keep in mind, I’m human—magical, yes—but not walking around with a skull stuffed full of dragon arrogance.
So go on. Explain it to me. Like the counterfeit professor you once played at being. ”
His lips curve into a slow, deliberate smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Very well. Lesson one: Draconic Metaphysics. The principles are quite simple, really. When a dragon’s blood is willingly consumed, it forges a claim.
It rewrites certain… proprietary codes in the recipient’s essence.
You drank from me, Esme. You are, by laws far older than your coven, now part of my hoard. ”
I stare at him, my shadow blade flickering. “Your hoard? Are you actually comparing me to a pile of gold coins?”
“Don't be reductive. A hoard is more than treasure. It is an extension of our being, a collection of all that we deem valuable, powerful, or rare. You, Ms. Salem, are all three. Congratulations on the promotion.”
The sheer, unadulterated arrogance of it all leaves me momentarily speechless. He says it so calmly, as if explaining the weather. “So in your tiny, reptilian brain, sharing a few drops of blood is the same as signing a deed of ownership?”
“Not a few drops.” Another step. The air between us hums, his heat crawling up my skin. “Enough to change you. Enough that every dragon in Draethys can scent my claim the moment you enter a room. You’re marked, Esme. Not with ink or runes, but in the marrow of your bones.”
He stops just beyond my blade’s reach, eyes tracing the curve of my throat, lingering on the spot where his teeth had been. My skin prickles in spite of myself, remembering.
“Your new tricks,” he murmurs, voice like rough silk. “The way the shadows cling to you. That is my blood working in concert with yours. A gift, you might say. And I always keep track of my gifts.”
“A gift?” I laugh, a sharp, humorless sound. “You call this a gift? You’ve turned me into a freak, a hybrid that my own people barely recognize. That wasn’t a gift from you, Dayn. It was a violation.”
“A necessary one,” he counters smoothly.
“And one your grandmother instigated. But let’s not get bogged down in the ethics of it.
The point is, you are here because you are mine to protect.
And until the political climate of Draethys stabilizes and I can ensure your safety—both from my people and your own—you will remain here. ”
“So I’m your prisoner.”
“You’re my responsibility,” he says, the distinction clearly meaning nothing to him. “And as your… steward, I’ll expect you to behave. Try not to threaten the staff again. Nyssa is far more resilient than she appears, but it’s poor form.”
He turns as if the matter’s closed, striding deeper into the chamber.
“We are not finished here,” I call sharply after him.
He pauses, glances back. A flicker—almost amusement—ghosts through his eyes. “Oh, I assure you, Esme,” he says, voice low and edged with something dangerous, something that makes my blood run both hot and cold, “we are not even close to being finished.”
The sound of his voice lingers, a dark thread winding under my skin. I hate the way it pulls at me, the way it feels like a promise I don’t want to understand. My throat tightens, but I make my tone a blade.
“And what about your promise not to hurt my people?”
“Your vampire friend will survive,” he says easily. “A long and painful recovery, I’m sure, but your darkblood elders will tend to him. Regrettable, but necessary.”
“My grandmother Esther. The spirits. You destroyed them,” I press, unwilling to let him slip free—maybe also to drown out the guilt that crawls beneath my craving.
“They’ll recover.” He waves it off, careless. “I’m sure Esther and her throng of wraiths have endured worse blows, and delivered plenty, over the decades.”
“She’s still my grandmother,” I say, my voice low. “My connection to her… I can’t feel it anymore.”
“It’s temporary.” Dayn shakes his head slowly. “Draethys has runes installed to block outside magic. I’m not certain what else might be in place—I haven’t had time to study the city’s latest defenses. The Houses keep me busy with preparations for tomorrow.”
The change of subject makes me blink. “Tomorrow? What’s tomorrow?”
“A feast in honor of my return. You’ll be my guest.”
“I’d rather chew obsidian.”
He steps closer, and the world tilts—his scent, his heat, the thrum of his pulse fogging my thoughts until schemes slip through my fingers.
The godsdamned dragon blood.
And from the flicker in his eyes, he knows exactly what it’s doing to me.
“You don’t really have a choice, Esme Salem. As much as you hate it—and frankly, as much as I do—we still have to rely on each other to get what we need. I need truth and clarity. And you…”
“Freedom,” I cut in.
Yet the taste of his blood lingers on the back of my tongue, a ghost that begs repeating against every warning in my head. That’s what this is—the magnetic pull between us. His ancient dragon blood calling to me. The blood I thought would taste like old battery acid.
The universe has a sense of humor darker than my grandmother’s grave.
“The dragons of Draethys, especially those within this palace, know of your presence and your… uniqueness,” Dayn says.
“Okay. And? I’m not letting anyone poke or prod me.”
“I’m telling you so you don’t do anything foolish.”
“Like… try to escape?”
“Precisely.” His smile stretches, slow and lazy, across his mouth.
I’m cut off from my ancestors. Trapped in a foreign realm full of creatures who would burn me to ash if I so much as snap at Dayn in public—Nyssa made that clear. Whatever chaos we left behind aboveground, I can’t just fight my way out of this dragon pit.
“Fine. I’ll cooperate. But there are limits. If I even get a whiff of you double-crossing me again, Dayn, I won’t hesitate to—”
“Split me open and hang me from my entrails. Yes, I know the drill.” He pauses, tilts his head, amusement flickering at the edges of his lips.
“You’ll need Draethys attire. It’ll be easier for you to blend in.
Nyssa will attend to you day and night. Though I’d appreciate it if you didn’t make her life hell. ”
“It’s not her fault I’m stuck here. Only yours.”
He studies me for a long beat, and a slow smile cuts across his mouth, soft but dangerous. “If I wanted you caged, Esme, you’d already be chained to the wall. You’re here because you intrigue me.” He takes a step closer, voice dropping. “Try not to make me regret that.”
It’s clear that’s the closest thing to a concession I’ll get from him—and the closest he’ll get from me. Lord Daynthazar of House Draxion. Heir apparent to the throne of Draethys: dragon prince, jailer, violator of oaths.
By the ancestors, I need a way out of this pit before his chains wrap any tighter. My people need to know what he’s done.
First, I need to survive.