Page 23 of Dragons' Future

“Shall I pretend a dragon dame does not exist then?” he asked, waving at Kit’s limp form. “Because I could have saved myself a great deal of trouble if that were true.”

Cyril snarled. He rarely raised his voice to his father, but now… Fury flared and spilled into his veins, hot and vicious. "You do not go near her. You do not look at her. You certainly as all bloody hell do not voice an opinion on her life.” Cyril’s upper lip pulled up. He was ready to drive a dagger through the male's heart should Ettienne make a single wrong move against Kit. “Are we clear on that?”

“Stars spare me males in a rut,” Ettienne said with that patented dismissive tone that made Cyril's teeth scrape together. "Do get control of yourself, Cyril. My words are certainly not what lies at the root of this damage. As for the girl, she’ll survive—you’d know if it were otherwise. The mating bond does more than help you get your cock up.”

"Enough, Ettienne."

"All the wench had to do was stay put," Ettienne snapped back, his patience tearing with uncharacteristic force. He strode the perimeter of their impromptu cell, the closest Cyril had ever seen his father come to pacing in agitation. "Everything, everything that I ordered in that arena was to get her and you lot out in one piece. To chance that she is the one the prophecy promised. Yet, instead of keeping her infantile self where she was told to stay, she decided?—"

Cyril punched him. He didn’t remember lowering Kit to the floor or rising to his feet. All he knew was that one moment Ettienne’s words were setting his blood boiling, and the next he’d cracked his fist against the male’s chin so hard that his own knuckles howled. Blood spilled from an open gash along the king’s jaw.

They both froze. Cyril staring down at Ettienne, and Ettienne regarding his son.

Never, never in his life had Cyril hit his father. The king of Massa'eve. The king of the dragons. Not even when Tavias had brought Cyril back from the prison in which Ettienne had left him to rot.

Maybe because he’d been afraid. Or dutiful. Or respectful. But more likely, because no matter what Etteinne had ever done, there was one thing that Cyril knew always guided Ettienne’s actions: Massa’eve. The king had always put the dragons first. Above his children. Above himself.

And for that, Cyril had always, ultimately, submitted.

Until today.

Distantly, Cyril became aware of what Ettienne had said. Everything that I ordered in that arena. Had the sudden mayhem that saved the pack been Ettienne’s doing, then? How? Why? Cyril didn’t know. But he did believe Ettienne on that. It was the only explanation for what happened that made sense. However the king had done it, or had even known to do it.

Cyril supposed that he should be falling to his knees before the king, thanking him. But he didn’t.

Ettienne broke the silence first, wiping the blood off his chin with a dirty sleeve on an expensive coat. "You had Geoffrey at the tip of your blade, pup. You should have killed him in the arena."

Yes, he should have. But he hadn’t. Cyril raised his chin. If they were going to throw truths around, he had some of his own. "You should have stayed at the palace. Salazar is using each minute of your absence to take the throne.”

"Your gratitude is overwhelming.”

“Since when do you care about my gratitude? Or about me for that matter?”

Ettienne’s nostrils flared. “I care because you belong to Massa’eve. Even if you’ve abandoned your duty like a cowardly pup.”

“I passed my birthright to the male best suited for the throne.”

"You are the male best suited for the throne,'' Ettienne bellowed , closing the distance between them until barely a foot remained. "You always have been. And the worst part is that Tavias, who is carrying your burden, knows it too."

No. Cyril shook his head, his teethgrinding together so hard it hurt. No, Ettienne was wrong. Tavias deserved the crown. Was suited for it. Cyril was… he wasn’t what a king should be. "I am such a good king, so vital to Massa’eve, that you left me to die in Nagaia’s dungeon.”

"I let you make your own choices. Isn’t that what you’d demanded of me then? To stop forcing you to live under my rules?”

"Six years—the lives of all my crew. The warriors Tavias lost getting me out. What was it all for?”

"To teach you what being king of Massa’eve entails—the cost of choice, the nature of our enemies, and the loyalty of your brother.” Ettienne rocked back on his heels, crossing powerful arms over his chest unapologetically. “And, yes, I’d do it all again.”

“You—” A soft melodic murmur spun Cyril to Kit. Nothing Ettienne said, or could say, was more important than Cyril’s mate. Even Ettienne seemed to understand that, because he shut up and let Cyril focus.

Kit lay on the floor where he’d left her, eyes still closed, but she seemed to be saying something now. No, not saying, singing. Cyril brushed her cheek. “Kit?”

No response. She was still out. But now that he was closer, he could make out the words of what sounded like a lullaby.

In the heart of the ancient skies,

Where stars shimmer and fire flies,

Lay a dragon, wings spread wide,

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