Chapter 3 #2
The moment we enter, the men of House Draxion rise as one.
They are all cut from the same cloth as Dayn—tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp, aristocratic features that carry the subtle threat of their true forms. The air crackles with their collective power, a low thrum of ancient magic that makes the hair on my arms stand on end.
“Good morning, my lords,” Nyssa greets them, her voice barely a whisper before she executes a deep, perfect bow.
She gives me a quick, pleading glance from beneath her silver lashes.
I grit my teeth. Every instinct screams at me to stand tall, to meet their arrogance with my own defiance.
But I am one darkblood against a room of dragons.
My newfound powers feel like a flickering candle against their inferno.
I follow her lead only subtly, inclining my head in a shallow bow.
“So that’s the darkblood that soiled the sanctity of my palace,” a voice declares, sharp and cold as chipped flint.
I straighten, my eyes snapping to the man at the head of the table.
He is the eldest of them, his dark hair streaked with gold at the temples, his thick-bearded face a mask of regal contempt.
His eyes, burning with the same inner fire as the others, rake over me as if I’m something he just scraped off the bottom of his shoe. Lord Bemmar. It has to be.
“Father,” Dayn’s voice cuts in, a low warning that slices through the tension. He steps forward slightly, placing himself between me and the patriarch’s scathing gaze. “Esme is my guest. She deserves certain appropriate respect.”
Lord Bemmar’s lip curls. “The only respect she’s getting is the fact I haven’t had her head removed from her shoulders. Yet.”
“Lovely to join you all for breakfast on this fine, presumably sunny morning,” I reply with a cold grin, already plotting the various ways one could rid the world of Lord Bemmar and his entire house.
It’s a wild dream, but not an impossible one.
Not with the right knowledge, the right tools, and a deep-seated desire for vengeance.
Nyssa steps back, melting into the shadows near the doorway, and I walk toward the table with my head held high.
I’d be lying if I said I’m not intimidated.
The Draxion dragons are all towering and massively built, strong men with sculpted jaws and black linen tunics that cover some, but not every inch, of their chiseled bodies.
The human form manifests the same with Dayn’s father and brothers, the same black hair and golden eyes…
although the intensity seems to differ from one Draxion lord to another.
Dayn still stands out to me—or maybe our blood bond is what’s got my undivided attention.
“Welcome, Esme,” Dayn says. There is tension in his voice that I’m unused to, and I assume it has everything to do with being in Lord Bemmar’s presence. “Thank you for joining us.”
“Not like I had a choice,” I say.
“Have a seat.” He nods once.
As I settle into the empty chair, I catch a glimpse of Dayn measuring me from head to toe, a glimmer of something unreadable in his eyes as he observes my color choice. Hope you enjoy it. I take my seat, and the Draxion men take theirs.
For the longest minute, a tomb-like silence reigns supreme over the table as servants bring in a variety of platters, drinks, and baked breads.
“Where do you get the fruits from?” I ask as one of the servants places a bowl of red berries next to me.
The question hangs in the oppressive quiet, a small stone thrown into a still, dark lake.
All eyes turn to me. Lord Bemmar’s are narrowed slits of molten gold, but I hold his gaze, refusing to be the first to look away.
This is my first test, and I will not fail it.
“That is none of your concern,” Lord Bemmar bluntly replies, then glowers at Dayn. “This is what you’ve been up to in the centuries that you’ve been away? Cavorting with darkbloods and clearbloods and whatever the hell else is up there, defiling our world?”
I feel it deep in my core. The ancient rage. The desire to burn and destroy everyone like me. They’re like no adversary I’ve had to deal with before, and a different approach is required. But keeping my mouth shut while the so-called king of dragons insults me is becoming increasingly difficult.
“Father, perhaps we could show our guest some courtesy,” says one of Dayn's brothers, his voice measured where Bemmar's had been sharp. This one has slightly gentler eyes, crow's feet at the corners suggesting he actually smiles sometimes.
“She’s different,” Dayn says, voice low. “I’ve said that much.”
Another brother leans forward, nostrils flaring slightly. “No, she's not.” His grin widens, showing teeth that seem too white and perfect. “She carries your scent, Daynthazar. Have you marked her?”
“Excuse me?” I start, but Dayn’s hand drops over mine on the table.
The touch is light—deliberately so—and it shuts my mouth.
A sharp thing flicks up my arm: a mixture of heat and something else, a reminder of what we shared in the ritual chamber.
I hate that I don’t immediately pull away.
I hate that, inexplicably, part of me wants the contact to last. Especially when the steak knife beside my plate could so easily find its way between his ribs.
Dayn clears his throat. “Allow me to make introductions. Lord Bemmar, King of Draethys and head of House Draxion.” He gestures around the table with practiced formality. “Lord Anees, his second son and royal advisor.” The milder one nods. “Lord Byzu, third son and military commander.”
“The infamous Longtail,” Byzu adds.
He lounges in his chair like he owns the room, all easy charm and predatory grace. The bulge of muscle beneath his tunic suggests he's earned his military rank.
“Longtail?” I echo, forcing my lips into something resembling politeness.
Byzu’s smile widens, a flash of white against his tanned skin. He leans forward, resting his forearms on the polished marble, his golden eyes lowering to take me in before rising slowly to meet my gaze. “I’d have to let you into my chambers at night for that to make sense,” he replies.
A snort comes from the last, unintroduced brother. Lord Bemmar’s lips press into a line so thin they nearly disappear into his beard. Dayn's fingers tighten around mine until I feel bone against bone.
“Unless you want to lose that moniker, brother, I suggest you keep such thoughts to yourself,” Dayn says, his voice dangerously soft.
The possessiveness in his tone is unmistakable, a clear echo of his earlier claim.
Part of my hoard. The thought sends a fresh wave of irritation through me, but it’s tangled with a disquieting thread of security.
“Ignore his manners, Esme. He’s all bark, no bite where family is concerned,” Anees cuts in with a wry smile, attempting to defuse the crackling tension.
He gestures to the young man who had snorted, a dragon who looks years younger than the others, his features still holding a trace of youthful petulance.
“And this is Arrynth, our baby brother.”
“I haven’t been a baby in a very long time,” the youngest dragon says, his voice holding a defiant edge.
Unlike Byzu’s calculated charm, Arrynth strikes me as less restrained.
His eyes glow with a raw, eager interest as he looks at me, almost unafraid of what Dayn’s reaction might be.
I can’t tell if it’s genuine interest or merely the desire to piss his older brother off, but either way I make a note: avoid.
Ironically, being closest to the devil I know feels like the safest option at this table, at the moment.
“Now that the introductions have been made,” Lord Bemmar cuts in, his voice like grinding stone. His contemptuous gaze settles on Dayn. “I’d love to hear how you ended up consorting with a darkblood, my son. And a Salem, at that.”
Right. Because the Salems don’t have the prettiest history where dragons are concerned. The Blood Wars. The Great Purge. The near-extinction of their kind, with my ancestors leading the charge. We weren’t saints, but we had reasons.
Every pair of golden eyes at this table is now fixed on me, heavy with the memory of centuries-old hatred. And Dayn’s hand is still on mine, a brand marking me as his problem.
“Esme is the reason I was able to return,” Dayn says, his voice low. “I already told you that.”
Lord Bemmar slams his fist on the table, making the silver platters jump. “No! I need the details. I need to understand why her blood is in your veins. You reek. The future king of Draethys reeks of darkblood.”
My breath catches. Her blood is in your veins. The ritual. The exchange. I gave him mine, he gave me his. It was a two-way street I’d almost forgotten in the chaos.
Arrynth subtly inhales, head tilted slightly. “Father is right. There is something… peculiar about her.”
“It was part of the ritual for my release,” Dayn reminds them sharply. “We’ve been over this. There is no cause for concern. It will wear off, eventually.”
Why don’t I believe him? Because nothing Dayn ever says is the full, naked truth. There’s always a “but” or an “unless” that twists the context away from any scenario that might be beneficial to me.
I steal another glance at Nyssa, if only for a smidge of comfort. She’s still by the door, watching quietly but with renewed interest.
Arrynth rises suddenly, drifting toward me with predatory grace. His nostrils flare as he inhales deeply near my neck. “Wait. There's something else beneath the surface...” His golden eyes widen. “Gods above.”
“What?” Byzu abandons his seat and circles me like a shark scenting blood. He leans in, his breath hot against my scalp. “Impossible.”
Anees stretches across the table, pupils dilating as he draws in my scent. His face transforms from curiosity to horror in an instant. “Daynthazar,” he whispers, voice cracking. “Tell me you didn't—”