Chapter 19 Esme
ESME
My pulse hammers against my ribs as I take the palace steps three at a time.
The guards' eyes follow me with thinly veiled contempt, but I push past them, driven by something I can't name. The first level corridor stretches before me like a challenge. I’ve never entered Dayn’s room before, but Nyssa told me where to find it.
“Nyssa came and told me what happened...” The words die in my throat as I shoulder open Dayn's door.
His room unfolds before me: massive and ornate.
Vaulted ceilings disappear into darkness above carved stone walls inlaid with veins of what looks like molten gold.
Ancient tapestries depicting dragons in flight hang between tall windows cut into the mountain itself, offering dizzying views of the cavern city below.
The air smells of incense and something else—something primal, like lightning before a storm.
And of course, a massive bed dominates one wall, draped in silken, crimson sheets…
My mind flashes to our struggle at Heathborne: my blade, his bare strength, our bodies wrestling across similar sheets. The memory burns hot against my skin. How impossible this moment would have seemed then, standing in my enemy's chamber not as his assassin, but as his... what, exactly?
The man of the hour hunches at the window table, grinding something that smells of sulfur and copper into a brass bowl. Ancient runes catch the candlelight along its rim, pulsing with faint life.
“You shouldn't be here,” Dayn mutters, then turns. The right side of his face bears a large patch of angry red welts and blisters. My stomach twists—not with satisfaction as it should, but with something dangerously close to concern.
“Well, tough,” I say, crossing my arms. “I am here.”
“I'm fine.”
“Sure. If 'fine' means 'mauled by a hatchling.'”
His pestle never stops its circular motion, but the corner of his mouth twitches upward before his expression hardens again.
“You should see the other guy.”
“I heard.” The door clicks shut behind me. “What do you need?”
“Solitude would be nice.”
“Not happening.”
“Why are you here, Esme? Enjoying the show?”
A dry laugh escapes me, covering the tightness in my throat. “Always. But those burns need attention.”
“Just a mineral compress.” He nods at his work. “Old dragon remedy.”
With a snap of his fingers, the mixture ignites in emerald flame, then settles into a black paste shot through with green.
“Let me help,” I insist, sliding onto the chair beside him.
Our knees brush as I lean in. My pulse quickens, and I hate that I'm relieved he's alive.
“I don't need your help,” he says, jaw clenched.
“Too bad.” I reach for the bowl. “You're getting it anyway.”
His eyes narrow. “Careful, Salem. Someone might think you care.”
“Don't flatter yourself.” I meet his gaze. “I've invested too much time planning your death to let someone else steal the privilege.”
Something shifts in his expression—a surrender I've never seen before. He tilts his head, exposing the angry welts along his neck. The gesture feels strangely intimate.
“Thin layer,” he murmurs, voice dropping an octave. “Cover everything.”
I dip three fingers into the mixture. “Got it.”
The substance clings to my skin as I trace the contours of his jawline. Heat radiates from the burns, and my fingertips tingle where they connect with his flesh. My breathing shallows.
“This stuff is burning me,” I whisper.
“It's supposed to.”
“Shouldn't burns get cold treatment?”
One corner of his mouth lifts, and my stomach does something inconvenient.
“Dragon fire requires dragon medicine,” he says. “By tomorrow, you won't even know it happened.”
The paste hardens almost instantly, forming a protective shell.
“So,” I break the loaded silence. “The Braynors want you dead.”
“Join the club,” he mutters, looking away.
“But you're supposed to be their golden boy. Literally and metaphorically. The triumphant prince returns and all that. What changed?”
He shakes his head once. “Not your problem.”
“Like hell it isn't.” I lean closer. “Your enemies become my enemies when we're magically bound. What made you vulnerable enough for Jeron to mark you like this?”
I smooth the last of the paste over his jawline, my fingertips lingering at the edge of his neck. My eyes drop to his mouth for just a heartbeat too long. When I look up, the gold in his irises has brightened to molten amber, and something electric passes between us.
The room suddenly feels too small, too hot. I can't name what's happening—this collision of loathing and fascination that makes my skin prickle whenever he's near. I'm exhausted, he's hurt, and for once, I don't fight the current.
“Jeron misjudged me,” Dayn says, his voice lower than before. “He forgot what a crown means here.”
“And now he's dead. Problem solved, right? Nothing commands loyalty like a public execution.”
“I meant to paralyze him, not incinerate him.” His jaw tightens. “Your blood changed something in me. When I cast, your darkness came through.”
The air leaves my lungs. “What?”
“It was supposed to be a simple binding spell.” His eyes won't meet mine now. “But this... shadow energy emerged. When I pulled my fire outward, I turned him to ash before I could stop it.”
“Holy hell.”
“The witnesses will clear me. Anees. The other lords.” He straightens, wincing. “There. You have your story. You can go now.”
I narrow my eyes. “You've been ghosting me for days.”
“I've had matters to attend to.”
“Bullshit. What about this marriage charade? My ticket home? I need straight answers, Dayn.”
He shifts away, then hisses as the movement pulls at his burn. The paste has hardened to a shell, but I can tell movement costs him. His face settles into that imperious mask I've come to hate.
“I'll find you an exit, Esme. But right now, I'm dealing with something far more dangerous. Something that threatens your world as much as mine.”
“You know, I could help.”
“You can’t. Actually, you’d only make things worse.”
“Glad to see you’re still a monumental dick.
” I shake my head and stand, but the moment I put distance between us, a cold ripple runs through me.
Sitting next to him had felt unnervingly warm: his heart hammering in my ears, his fire surging through my veins again, imagining the rich, dark taste of his blood in my mouth…
I bite down hard on my lower lip, trying to disperse the memory—and the craving.
“So what, then? I just keep training?” I ask.
“Colonel Rogon says you’ve come far. So yes. Train, play your part, Esme. I’ll play mine. It’s all we can do until I craft an exit strategy.”
That worries me. Just like being kept in the dark about something that, in Dayn’s words, could upend my world beyond Draethys’s stone walls.
I miss Darkbirch: my ancestors, my family.
I miss the night sky and the cold hush of our cemetery.
I miss the life I left behind. It wasn’t much, but it was everything.
“Let me be perfectly clear, Dayn,” I roar. “I’ve followed you into insane situations before. This is your final chance to prove me wrong. You’ve ripped me from everything I know, and now you expect me to trust you blindly—and marry you?”
“If you hadn’t tried to escape, we wouldn’t be here,” he snaps. “I never intended to wed a darkblood.”
“So you’d have married that Rogon woman instead?”
His eyes flick up, amused. “Honestly, you’re a bit jealous.”
“Please. I stand by my words. I’d rather gouge my eyes out than marry you, you deceitful, scheming, heartless SOB.”
“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”
“Screw you.”
I slam the door behind me and pause in the hallway. Silence wraps around me, and a slow smile spreads across my lips. He’s smiling too—I just know it. Why, though? I’m not sure.
Nor am I convinced Dayn will find a way to cancel this wedding before the ceremony. Then again, a bloody divorce could still be on the table.