Chapter 20 Esme #2
My finger still throbs where my ring has fused with my skin. What other ancient dragon magic have I just unwittingly bound myself to? What if these rings are more than decorative mutilation? What if they're, like, tracking devices, or worse?
“By all gods, ancient and new,” King Bemmar proclaims, words slicing through my racing thoughts, “I pronounce you husband and wife. May light fill your days and hatchlings your home. May sunlight dance in your eyes and clear skies guide your path.”
The irony of that last part escapes no one in the ceremony hall. But at least the vow part is over. Now we just need to survive the feast and its parade of insincere well-wishers.
“You may kiss your bride,” Bemmar adds.
My stomach drops. This part had somehow slipped my mind.
“I'd rather not,” I blurt out.
Dayn's arms encircle my waist before I can step back. The world freezes around us. My muscles go slack. Some traitorous part of me doesn't want to resist. Just another performance in this charade, I tell myself. Meaningless. Necessary.
His eyes capture mine: molten gold ringed with fire.
My skin prickles with heat that radiates from where his fingertips press into my lower back.
Then his mouth finds mine, fierce and claiming, and a wildfire ignites between us.
My heart hammers like it’s trying to break free.
The taste of his tongue is sunlight and sin, too alive, too much.
Something molten pools low in my belly. His teeth graze my bottom lip, and I have to stifle the embarrassing sound threatening to escape my throat.
It feels right when it shouldn’t—and I can’t fight it.
I can’t step back. My body won’t let me.
My fingers find their way to his chest, then slide up to his neck of their own accord, my nails digging into his skin.
I need this to last forever. This snippet. This fleeting moment when the entire world has disappeared. There are no darkbloods and clearbloods, no dragons, no wars and no bloodlust. There is only me and him, stripped of our titles and our histories. Pure. Burning.
“Long live Daynthazar and Esme of House Draxion!” Anees declares.
Dayn pulls back, and the savage roar of reality slams into me as all the dragons in the ceremony hall rise with applause and moderate cheers.
But his eyes give him away. The hesitation.
The hunger. The pulse of something he’s fighting to bury.
A faint sheen of sweat glistens at his temple, and he drags in a sharp breath that feels too human for him.
“Find an escape route, Dayn,” I manage to breathe. “This will not end in hatchlings.”
“Already on it,” he replies.
He said that before I found myself in a wedding gown. His words might as well be smoke.
Colonel Rogon approaches us, his grimace barely pretending to be a smile. “Never imagined I'd witness such a spectacle.”
“We appreciate your attendance, Colonel,” Dayn mutters.
Rogon's laugh scrapes like talons on granite.
“Oh, I'm not offering felicitations, my lord.” He claps Dayn's shoulder hard enough to slosh the drink he’s holding over the rim.
His eyes, when they land on me, narrow to reptilian slits.
“Just marveling that I've lived to see you chain yourself to this... dark magical. And all because you stayed my blade when we had her cornered.”
I roll my eyes at him, but at least he didn’t use “darkblood” like a cuss word. Small progress.
“I just hope it was worth it,” Rogon adds. “At least you've made history tonight… Let's see how you fare in the next round.”
My stomach clenches. “What do you mean ‘next—?”
My question dies on my lips as two royal guards appear at Dayn’s and my side, bowing stiffly before gesturing toward the exit.
The hall erupts in applause and raucous cheers as the guards escort us out, leading us through a winding corridor and up a marble staircase.
Gold flecks embedded in the floor catch the light from candles held by silent maidens lining our path.
At the end of the hallway stands our destination: massive white double doors adorned with silk ribbons that flutter in the draft.
The guards flanking the entrance bow in unison.
“The fire that never dies,” one intones solemnly.
“The fire that never dies,” Dayn murmurs, then nods to the guards as they close the doors.
When we're finally alone, I whirl around, quickly surveying the chamber. It’s not Dayn’s room, it’s even bigger than that, with floor-to-ceiling open windows. First floor. Soft ground below. I could make that jump easily.
A circular curtain hangs in the center of the room, concealing something.
Dayn nods toward the stone walls. “See those runes?”
I scan the walls. Ancient symbols are etched into every inch of stone, their edges catching the candlelight.
Dayn strides toward the central curtain, pulling it apart and revealing…
a massive circular bed, elevated on a platform with three shallow steps.
White and gold silks drape across it like liquid metal, pillows piled high in invitation.
“We need those wall runes to illuminate,” Dayn mutters, firelight dancing across the sharp angles of his face. “They'll shoot sparks through the windows for all of Draethys to witness.”
I blink at him, mouth falling open. “Sparks? Through the windows? For the entire city to see?” My voice rises with each question, fingers balling into fists. “You're telling me we need to put on some kind of magical light show?”
He sighs so deeply it’s almost condescending, which makes me want to punch him harder.
His professor tone returns. “It’s a draconic custom,” he explains, gesturing to the bed as if it's a piece of evidence in a trial. “A prelude to the consummation. The runes will connect to our life forces. They respond to a promise of the flesh, a bond embedded in the heart.”
My jaw goes slack. “You're telling me we have to… broadcast our wedding night to the entire city via magical fireworks?”
“It’s symbolic,” he grits out, his own discomfort showing in the tight line of his mouth. “Once the runes flare, the kingdom is satisfied. Their attention will return to the wine, and we'll be left alone. If you want to survive, we need to get this over with.”
I narrow my eyes. “What happens if we refuse?”
“The marriage becomes void, and you become a head shorter than you currently are.”
“Brilliant,” I hiss, pacing across the stone floor. “You promised me an escape, Dayn, not a wedding night.”
He runs a hand through his hair, jaw tightening. “I exhausted every avenue. Consulted the royal archives, ancient texts, even bribed three different legal scholars. There's no way to nullify the ceremony without your immediate execution.”
My mouth goes dry. “And what does it actually entail, this ‘promise of the flesh’?” The words stick in my throat.
He doesn't answer. Instead, he walks to the bed and ascends the three shallow steps, his back ramrod straight. He turns, his hand outstretched, a silent invitation.
My feet feel like lead, but I force them to move, the heavy silk of my gown whispering against the stone. I approach cautiously.
When my hand meets his, the now-too-familiar jolt of his inner fire races up my arm. He draws me onto the platform. We stand in the center of the massive bed, facing each other, the air thick with a tension so heavy I can barely breathe.
“The spell is a promise of one body to another,” he continues to explain academically, though his pupils are slightly dilated, his voice rougher. “Ancient dragons designed it for political marriages where the participants might find each other... physically incompatible.”
“So basically magical Viagra?”
His composure cracks for just a heartbeat, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Dragon nobility rarely married for love. The ritual just ensures the union produces heirs by manufacturing desire where nature failed to provide it.”
“And what if...” My voice betrays me, coming out softer than intended. “What if there's already something there?”
“It happens occasionally.”
“And the ritual?”
His eyes lock with mine. “It becomes... overwhelming.”
My throat tightens as I shift my weight, silk whispering against my skin. “So it’s literally just a spell?”
“Yes and no… You’ll need to take off your dress.”
Before I can utter a response, he's removing his jacket, his shirt following in one smooth motion that reveals inch after inch of taut, golden skin.
Heat floods my face as my eyes trace the defined ridges of his abdomen, the sharp cut of his hipbones disappearing beneath his waistband.
A flush spreads across his chest as he catches me staring, but he doesn't stop.
His movements are deliberate, almost predatory, and I can't look away from the play of muscles beneath his skin.
The room suddenly feels ten degrees warmer, the air between us charged like the moment before lightning strikes.
His trousers come off until he's wearing just silken black briefs that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination.
This guy and his freaking silk.
I force my eyes upward. “Um, excuse me?”
“I presume Nyssa fitted you with lingerie for tonight,” he says.
“Yes. But you're not supposed to see it!” The words rush out breathlessly.
His eyes darken as they sweep over me. “The ring on your finger says otherwise.” The gold band feels suddenly hot against my skin.
“I can’t sugarcoat this, Esme. I’m sorry.
Not if you want to stay alive. The sooner we're done with this, the faster the guests' attention will go back to the drinks and the music. We just need to… do enough to set off the runes.”