Chapter 23
DAYN
The air in the next chamber hits me and is achingly nostalgic: cool, dry, and smelling of deep-earth minerals.
We’ve stepped out of the astronomical trap and into the throat of Draethnar.
This chamber is a grand vestibule, a transition point where the mountain stops being stone and starts being a kingdom.
Our former kingdom.
Massive columns, carved to resemble giant, folded wings, soar upward into a gloom that the ambient magical light struggles to pierce.
Beyond the initial circle of the chamber, a wide, ceremonial archway yawns open, revealing a glimpse of the descent—a spiraling ramp that leads down into the subterranean heart of the ancient dragon capital.
It is silent, abandoned, and breathtakingly vast.
I barely see any of it.
My world has narrowed to the woman pressed against my side.
I don’t release her. I can’t. My arm is locked around her waist, my thumb tracing the still-frantic pulse at her hip through the rugged fabric of her clothes. The adrenaline from the sky-walk hasn’t burned off.
For me, it’s turned heavier. Hotter.
Having her this close—feeling the curve of her ribs against my palm, the scent of her hair, that intoxicating mix of woodsmoke and sharp Salem shadow—is a refined form of torture.
I am a dragon in a kingdom of my own kind, and every predatory instinct I possess is screaming a singular command: Claim.
I want to turn her in my arms right here, beneath the shadow of the wing-columns. I want to feel her back hit the cold stone and replace that chill with the heat of my body. The urge to see her the way she was in the inn—flushed, open, eyes hazy with need—is a distraction that claws at me.
Gods, I want her. I want the slow, delicious drag of her skin against mine with absolutely nothing between us.
My mind slides, traitorous, down into the city below—the Crown Hall, the throne.
I see myself carrying her there, laying her across the ancient black seat where the carved dragon scales would press cool patterns into her bare skin.
I see her spread across the obsidian carved by my ancestors, thighs parted, her hair a dark, beautiful halo against the stone.
I see my hands sliding up her calves, lifting, opening her to me while she grips the carved arms and breathes my name in that sharp, analytical voice gone soft with anticipation.
The throne would be cold, but she wouldn’t—not for long. I’d warm every inch of her with my mouth, my hands, the burn coiling low in me when she says my name like it’s the only sound she knows.
She’d be ready, her magic sparking along my skin like static electricity as I enter her, slow and sure, watching her composure crack wide open.
I want to see her clever mouth losing words, her thoughts unraveling under my hands.
I want to watch her come apart beneath me, slow and endless, until all she feels is me—my mouth, my weight, my hands holding her exactly where I want her.
Until she’s whispering please against my throat and scoring crescents into my back with those neat nails that never stay tidy when I’m inside her.
Fuck.
I want to hear her say she’s mine when she’s too far gone to lie about it.
The vision tightens—my hand in her hair, her legs locked around me, the throne almost groaning under the force of us. I’d take her until the hall itself learned the shape of her voice.
Until she forgot the war. The trials. Esther’s lock hollowing her out.
Until she forgot everything but me.
I realize I’m staring at the side of her neck, at that soft, irresistible place just behind her ear. My thumb moves without permission, brushing there, claiming.
She turns her head slightly, a faint line forming between her eyebrows. “What?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. I’m wound tight and she senses it—warmth floods her cheeks even as something answering flares in her eyes.
Her lips part.
And that’s it. That’s the edge.
“Come with me,” I say, the words rough, low.
Her pulse jumps under my hand and I feel her heat through our bond. She doesn’t pull away.
I take her hand and start toward the descent, the dark throat of Draethnar opening below us. Every step drives the hunger tighter through me. I stand by my decision earlier—I want to wait until we’ve fixed her before I take her fully. But we can at least do something.
I hated leaving her unsatisfied.
“Dayn…” she starts.
I turn her into the shadow of a column before she can finish, caging her there, my mouth finding hers. The kiss is hot and immediate, all the restraint I’ve been choking down breaking loose for a heartbeat. Her hands fist in my tunic, her body rising into mine.
She tastes like want.
When I drag my mouth to her throat she gasps, head tipping back, fingers digging into my shoulders. The sound nearly undoes me.
“Gods, Esme,” I breathe against her skin. “You’re impossible.”
Her hands slide up into my hair. “You’re worse. What are you even doing?”
We’re both shaking a little by the time I lift my head. “I didn’t finish with you earlier.”
I push off her, then grip her hand again. The descent waits below. The throne. The city. Everything that matters right now.
I pull her down the steps, the city swallowing us whole—black stone arteries, empty halls, everything echoing with centuries of absence.
When we finally hit the threshold, the doors hang loosened in their hinges, weakened by time, but the old Draxion crest above the royal seat remains. Good. I want it watching.
I snap my fingers and amber flames ignite along the wrought-iron sconces, throwing honeyed light across the vast chamber.
Then I turn to her. She’s still breathing fast from the walk, cheeks flushed, pulse twitching under her jaw. The need rears up again—sharp, stupid, impossible to ride. I close the gap between us.
“Come here, queen.”
She lifts a brow, but the mockery doesn’t reach her voice. “That throne looks cold.”
“It will be,” I say, catching her waist and walking her backward until her legs bump the carved dais. “Until you’re on it.”
Her scent rises as her jacket slips off her shoulders.
I guide it down, slow as unwrapping ritual silk, letting the garment pool at her boots.
Underneath: a thin shirt, sleeves rucked to her elbows.
I tug the hem free, skim my palms up her back to drag the fabric over her head.
Her hair spills like ink across her collarbones.
“You’re overdressed for this coronation,” I murmur, hooking two fingers under her belt, pulling her hips flush against me. “Let’s fix that.”
I love the way the leather sighs when I pop the buckle, the hush that follows each button, like we’re unsealing some forbidden archive line by line.
There’s a small sound, a catch of breath, when I peel her trousers down the length of her thighs, leave them tangled at her ankles so she can step free.
I unhook the clasp of her bra with one deliberate snap.
The fabric falls away and I hear her inhale—sharp, startled—and at the sight of her—bare, finally bare, pale, and perfect in the low light—my knees want to go to marble.
I forget to breathe. Her wide, storm-gray eyes lock on mine, and the shy flicker there threatens to fully undo me.
Slowly, I follow the curve of her body down, my hands gliding over her warm skin. I love the way her thighs tighten beneath my touch, the way she tries not to tremble. My eyes memorize the soft slope of her belly to the hollow just beneath her ribs, the line from anklebone to hip.
I hook my fingertips under the band of her panties, black satin edged in pale thread. My knuckles brush her hips as I slide it down, inch by inch, the way dawn peels back night—slow enough for the air to taste everything exposed.
She wears nothing but torchlight now, skin luminous, trembling when I palm the backs of her knees and lift. Stone is cold against her bare thighs; she gasps, arches, and I set her on the throne.
As the obsidian swallows her reflection, I let my lips find the shell of her ear. “Stay.”
Her pupils bloom wide as I kneel between her spread knees. I press my palms to the carved arms and look up at her—my queen, my witch, my impossible contradiction—and let every possessive thought I’ve swallowed show. “Throne suits you,” I murmur. “But something’s missing.”
Esme’s breath hitches as I lean in, lips grazing the inside of her knee. “Missing?”
“Mm.” I trail slow kisses up the slope of her thigh. “My crown.”
I hear the hitch of her breath as I ease her thighs wider, the throne still cool beneath her, my mouth a hot brand climbing toward the place she’s already begging for me.
“It’s draconic tradition for a king to crown his queen,” I murmur against the soft inner slope of her thigh. “But long ago, a king didn’t always place a circlet on his queen’s head.” My tongue traces a vein that jumps under the caress.
Her fingers tighten on the obsidian arms. “Are you… serious right now?” she asks, breath ragged.
“He placed it where it truly mattered,” I continue, nipping the soft hollow where hip becomes belly. “Where her power pooled.”
Her fingers grip my hair. “Dayn—”
Enough teasing. I lick a slow, circular line up the seam of her, savoring the way her thighs tense around my shoulders as if they’d forgotten how to cooperate.
She does try to regain composure—mouth ready with another snark—until I suck the small, silk-wrapped bundle of nerves I’ve been dreaming about since the first time I claimed her in the dream construct.
The snark collapses into a broken, startled moan that reverberates off my ancestral throne and down my spine.
“Crowns aren’t just worn up here, queen,” I breathe. “They’re forged where only your king is allowed to worship.”
Her hips roll under my palms, helpless and seeking, and the sound she makes is caught between laughter and surrender, low and dazed. “Dayn, I swear, if you give me more poetry—”