Chapter 28 Esme
ESME
Dayn is no longer pinning me. Instead, he’s standing, submerged to his waist, in the steaming water.
Not the construct. Him. Somehow I know it’s him.
The heat radiating from him feels real, the predatory intensity in his eyes his own.
He is shirtless, water sluicing over the lean, powerful muscles of his chest and shoulders, his dark hair plastered to his skin.
He looks like some ancient, pagan god in his sanctum.
“You,” I whisper, the accusation aimed not at the construct, but at the man I know is watching, somehow, from the real world. “You’ve… taken control?”
“Not exactly,” he says, his voice a low vibration that seems to travel through the water and up through the stone into the soles of my boots.
He settles against the natural basin of rock, water lapping at his chest and arms, the formation cradling him like a throne carved for his exact dimensions.
“I’ve simply pressed pause.” He gestures to the water around him.
“This is still a construct. A pocket dimension created by your coven’s magic.
I’ve just… redecorated. Consider it a reprieve.
A rest. Even warriors need to breathe, Esme. ”
The heat of the pool soaks through my torn fatigues and into my skin, chasing away the phantom chill of that ruined city.
I want to fume at him—at this intrusion, at the way he’s used his advanced draconic magic to twist my trial into something completely different—but the steam steals the bite from my lungs.
Dayn tilts his head, water beading on his collarbones before sliding into the pool. “Strip,” he says, half asking, half telling. “Your body is a map of the day’s wounds. Cracked ribs, gashed side, bruised pride. Let me read it.”
I stare at him, my heart pounding. Reality seems to blur at the edges, like watercolor bleeding into parchment. The man before me is Dayn, yet simultaneously… a projection, a dream-version conjured from magic and memory. Both real and unreal. The contradiction makes my head swim.
“I’m not actually part of your hoard, dragon,” I say, refusing to give ground even as the cave walls curve around us like conspirators. “In case you didn’t get the memo. You can’t catalog me.”
A slow smile, hot enough to scorch. “I already have, witch. Page one: the scar you try to hide beneath your left shoulder blade. Page two: the slight tremor in your right hand when you lie. Page three…”
His eyes track a bead of sweat as it rolls from my temple down my jaw. “Page three is the way you hold your breath when you’re cornered. The way your magic tastes of ozone and defiance right before you strike. Shall I continue?”
His eyes tell me, I know you better than you think, Salem.
Or Draxion, as he’d now call me.
I exhale, try to breathe steady.
And remind me, how did I get myself into this mess?
Oh, that’s right. The path to this moment stretches behind me like a trail of bad decisions.
First came my grandmother's spirit with her cryptic half-truths, presenting dragon's blood as my only salvation.
I drank it, believing her—why wouldn't I?
She was family. She neglected to mention the “forming an unbreakable bond with an ancient predator” part of the bargain.
And then Helena's ghost wanted me to trust her too.
Another dead woman with even less connection to me, offering even vaguer promises with possibly even more potential problems lurking between her words.
And Dayn… who’s been nothing but shadows and manipulation since I met him. Every truth wrapped in three lies. Every promise hiding a trap—until I’m left with his golden wedding band burned into my literal finger.
Yet here I am… again. Trapped by him. This time sharing his magical hot tub in a pocket dimension.
I swallow hard, my throat desert-dry.
“You’d better have a good reason for this, Dayn,” I say, trying to steady my voice. “I’m running out of patience.”
He doesn’t answer immediately, just stares at me across the pool with that smoldering gaze.
He barely even blinks, so much so that he almost looks carved from stone. I see his nostrils flare slightly as he inhales. Then he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing subtly.
“I'm here to give you time to think,” he says finally. “Because it’s clear to me that’s something you rarely have.
You've lived your life bound to your coven, to its sensibilities.” His eyes flick briefly to the ring.
“I can’t undo what’s been done. What circumstances transpired to make happen.
But… we do still have a level of control—over the future. ”
He leans back a little, calm, steady, though his amber eyes never break contact.
“You know the pieces of this board, Esme. But out there, you're not thinking for yourself. You’re moving the way your coven trained you to… the way they expect you to. Is that not a fact?”
For some reason my breath catches, my heart kicking up. Maybe it’s because I see the truth in it. Maybe it’s because I don’t want to admit it.
“In here, everything’s paused,” he continues, his voice lowering slightly.
“The trial. The noise. Nothing changes if you take a minute to breathe. That’s all I’m asking for.
One hour. To stop. To think. To be sure.
And when you go back… whatever you do, it’ll definitely be because you decided to do it. ”
The words sit there between us in the steam.
An hour. To pause… To choose?
It’s a laughably foreign concept—the notion of true agency.
I almost choke on it. The idea is especially ridiculous coming from the mouth of this dragon, the last creature on Earth I would ever associate with freedom or consent.
But in this moment, it somehow doesn’t ring false.
It rings hollow. Echoes around in the empty space where my own choices might have lived.
Because he’s right, in a sense. Every option I’ve ever been given has been a loaded gun, pointed somewhere between survival and obedience.
But it’s the same for all darkbloods. We do what we have to in a world that would rather see us gone. What passes for “choice” is really just the shade of the uniform we bleed in, and even that’s mostly decided for us.
Still, the adrenaline that’s been screaming through me for hours feels like it’s finally burning out. What’s left is a heaviness… an emptiness. The gash in my side throbs in time with my pulse. My muscles shake, worn right down to the bone.
I look at him. Really look at him. The dim light catches the gold in his eyes.
His dark hair clings to his temples, damp with steam.
And in that moment, I don't quite see a king or a captor.
Just... something solid in the middle of the chaos.
Something I could probably hate later. But right now, it feels… grounding.
“Why?” My voice comes out low. Rough. It feels like the steam has stripped away defenses, leaving my words rawer. “Why do you care what I choose? You’ve done nothing but try to push me where you want me since the day we met.”
He doesn't pretend otherwise. His jaw tightens fractionally, a muscle flexing beneath bronze skin.
“Because pushing you hasn’t worked,” he says. “It only makes you dig in harder.”
There's a beat, and the air feels thicker between us. The water ripples with his slight movement, lapping against the stone in gentle percussion.
“I've lived longer than you, Esme,” he says quietly. “I’ve seen empires rise from dust and turn back to it. I’ve seen destinies forged in fire and shattered by a single, stubborn heart.
..” His voice drops lower, almost resonating in the hollow of the cave.
“I've seen what happens when you take something by force. It never lasts. Not really.” His eyes hold mine, steady. The gold in them dulls, suddenly seeming almost tired. Honest in a way that unsettles me more than anger would. “I’m done trying to break your walls. I’d rather you decide to lower them yourself, if you ever wanted to. ”
“And what if I don't?” I ask. My voice is meant to be sharp, but it emerges threadbare instead. “What if I tell you to go to hell and let this trial finish me? What if I'd rather be a ghost than whatever it is you're trying to turn me into?”
He doesn't flinch. Not even a ripple disturbs the molten amber of his irises.
“I'm not trying to turn you into anything. You heard Helena's words. It's up to you whether you pay them any mind or not.”
The silence stretches between us, filled only by the whisper of the waterfall cascading down moss-slick stone.
Steam rises in lazy tendrils, wreathing his broad shoulders.
He has laid what is apparently his truth at my feet.
And he waits, immovable as a mountain. He doesn't push, doesn't command.
He just waits. Giving me the one thing no one else has… a space to decide?
I eye the water, its surface glimmering with an opalescent sheen that promises relief.
My muscles ache with a bone-deep weariness that makes the hot pool look more and more irresistible.
Slowly, my trembling fingers move to the buckle of my sword belt.
The click of the metal releasing echoes unnaturally loud in the grotto, bouncing off the crystal-studded walls.
I let the belt slide from my hips, the weight of my blade thudding softly onto the damp stone with a metallic finality.
Then come the leather straps of my armor, each buckle surrendering with a reluctant click.
The bracers on my forearms—etched with the Salem family crest—leave pale impressions on my skin when I peel them away.
It feels like each piece represents a layer of my identity being set aside, leaving me increasingly vulnerable.
I realize my hands are shaking slightly as I pull the torn, blood-stiffened shirt over my head, the fabric crackling as it separates from half-dried wounds.