Chapter 16 Esme
ESME
Istare at the burned edges of my dress, tracing the scorched fabric with my fingertip.
The smell of singed hair hangs around me like a cloud of failure.
An hour I've been sitting here, perched on the edge of my bed, replaying every misstep that led to this moment: Dayn declaring me his future wife before his entire court, saving my life while simultaneously ending it.
“Esme.” Dayn's voice startles me.
I jerk my head up. “When did you come—”
“Just like you didn't notice Rogon following you in the institute.” He shuts the door with a soft click, shaking his head. His disappointment somehow stings worse than the burns on my skin.
Heat rises to my face.
“I was just trying to—”
“What the hell were you thinking?!” The words explode from him, his voice filling every corner of the room. I freeze, having never seen this side of him before.
His chest swells with each breath, nostrils flaring. Gold flickers in his irises like embers catching fire. A lock of midnight hair falls across his forehead.
“I had to at least try,” I say, voice steadier than my pulse.
“Colossal risk for what payoff?” The tendons in his neck strain against bronze skin. “You're skilled, Esme, but we're dragons. Our senses were honed against darkbloods centuries before you were born.”
“I won't apologize for wanting my freedom.” I lift my chin. “Why should my survival matter to you anyway? You're the one who dragged me underground in the first place.”
Dayn rakes his fingers through his hair, mussing it further. “Gods, Esme.”
“Answer me. Why care?”
“Our partnership matters. My word matters.”
“How convenient.” I push myself up and stalk toward the window. “From the man whose promises have been nothing but smoke since Heathborne.”
He inhales slowly, his gaze trailing from my scorched hem to my face. “You backed me into a corner back there.”
“If you want me to say sorry—”
“I'm not delusional. You'd rather die than apologize.”
“We agree on something, then. I'd rather gouge my eyes out with a rusty spoon than become your bride.”
His mouth twitches: a fleeting, genuine smile before it vanishes beneath a sharp exhale and a raised eyebrow. “I'll have the kitchens prepare one. Extra rust.”
“This wedding cannot happen, Dayn.”
“This isn't what I wanted either.” His voice lowers fractionally. “Dragon ceremonies are binding.”
I blink rapidly against the burn in my eyes. My throat tightens as I swallow. The walls of this underground chamber seem to press closer with each passing second. The worst part is how my veins still sing for his blood, a craving that pulses beneath my skin like a second heartbeat.
“Then let me go,” I manage, my voice betraying me with a slight tremor. “You could give me that Salem buckle.”
Dayn exhales sharply. “I can’t do that. Not yet anyway. And I don’t even have the buckle, for your information. The king confiscated it.”
“We cannot get married,” I press. “Why are you even here?”
“Something's wrong in Draethys.” His golden eyes darken. “A rot that spread while I was exiled. If I can't contain it soon, this forced engagement will be the least deadly of our problems.”
“And you're only mentioning this now because...?”
“This isn't your battle, Esme. The throne's burdens are mine alone.” He steps closer. “Though perhaps our paths crossing wasn't mere coincidence.”
I turn away with a harsh laugh. “Spare me the destiny talk.”
But even with my back to him, my skin prickles with awareness. Every inch between us seems charged with electricity, my body a compass needle pulled toward his magnetic north. The contradiction makes me want to scream.
“I never asked for any of this either,” he murmurs. “For now, we play our parts. You as my reluctant bride, me as the dutiful prince, while I search for our escape.”
“You sound like a politician. Saying a lot without saying anything at all.”
“The mark of a skilled leader, isn’t it?”
“Or a waffler.”
The door crashes open. Bemmar fills the frame, his massive shoulders heaving with each breath. His eyes lock onto mine with such venom I instinctively shift back.
“YOU!” The word reverberates off the stone walls.
I straighten my spine and meet his glare.
“Your grace.” My voice emerges steadier than expected, and I even manage a touch of snark.
“Quite the spectacle you've created, darkblood.” The title drips from his lips like poison.
Beside me, Dayn's face remains impassive, but a muscle pulses along his jawline—the only crack in his perfect composure.
“Not intentionally,” I reply, lifting my chin despite the small tremor threatening my knees.
The king's nostrils flare. “You will report to the Bellatorium at dawn tomorrow.”
Dayn's head snaps up. “Father, after tonight's events—”
“Your... fiancée...” Bemmar spits the word like a bone caught in his throat, “has demonstrated abilities that require proper assessment. Colonel Rogon has personally requested to oversee her training.”
My stomach drops. “The same Colonel Rogon who tried to execute me?”
“Consider yourself fortunate,” Bemmar snarls. “If not for my son's interference, I'd still separate your head from your shoulders.”
“I should train her,” Dayn interjects. “I witnessed her powers emerge. I understand them better than—”
“You have royal obligations,” Bemmar cuts him off with a dismissive wave. “The institute will handle your bride-to-be.”
I clench my jaw, picturing Rogon's twisted smile as he invents new torments that stop just short of execution. The dragons may not be allowed to kill me, but pain? Humiliation? Those are still very much on the table.
I glance at Dayn, searching for some kind of reassurance but finding only more questions.
Every promise he's made has shape-shifted like his own body, leaving me scrambling to keep up.
While I'm dodging Rogon's wrath tomorrow, these scaled schemers will be three steps ahead, playing their long game.
I need an escape plan that doesn't involve dragon politics or royal weddings.