Page 50 of Dragons' Future

“Oh.” Autumn’s brows pull together, then rise as she looks up. “How did she get the ceiling?”

I follow the direction of her finger and sure enough, find more blood spatter and meat bits. “Honestly, I stopped asking the how and why days ago. It’s mostly been what and when.”

Agatha huffs and surveys our cleaning progress critically before excusing herself back to the goat barn where she’d been canning vegetables. Autumn nimbly skirts the damage before plopping down on the couch with easy grace. “So what are you all going to do when the rest of them hatch?”

I shudder. The eggs are quietly nestled in their nest of blankets before the fire and I’m not ready for them to be any more mobile than that. “I was hoping we had a few dozen years before that happens.”

Autumn gives a noncommittal shrug, and I have a feeling she knows more than I do about egg gestation.

“Your Highness, thank you for coming.” Cyril now bows deeply to Autumn, his face grave. “Quinton has placed the utmost trust in you. I do so now as well.”

Autumn inclines her head then glances at the sigil on Cyril’s finger. Too keen understanding fills her intelligent eyes at once. “My condolences,” she says. “And my congratulations. Massa’eve will be fortunate to have you on the throne.”

Cyril smiles diplomatically. “Thank you for your trust.”

“Oh, not mine. Your brother’s. I know too little of you to make a judgment. But like you said, Quinton places the utmost trust in you. That is enough for me. And for the Slate Court.”

Before the pair can exchange any more strained pleasantries, Darren enters with Rand, Lee, and Sethis, who looks a great deal better than the last time I saw him. Lee holds a sleeping Lilith in one arm and grips Sethis’s hand with the other. From the slight swelling of her lips, I gather she enjoyed the reunion.

“Perimeter is clear and Broker took over with the priest,” Rand tells Cyril.

“A priest that your host knows nothing about?” Autumn clarifies. “Or is there more than one?”

“No, there is just the one.” I sigh. “And yes, we don’t talk to Agatha and Jonas about the armless priest. Or about, you know, Cyril’s lineage. Don’t bother trying to work out the reasoning for the latter. This one won’t budge. Or explain.”

Coming up behind me, Cyril runs a knuckle along the length of my spine in a way that makes my whole body wake. “And here I thought you liked me in charge,” he murmurs into my ear.

Darren snorts, because of course he and his dragon hearing had heard that—and he’s too much of a… male to pretend otherwise. I pull together my dignity and raise my chin.

Emboldened by the early success of his theory that arousal helps me access my primal self—and thus my magic—Cyril has unveiled a wickedly creative side of himself. Each night, he’s been devising new and devious ways to trigger my need—and then keeping me on that edge, nursing my erotic agony while he orders me to engage my magic in different ways. I swear it’s its own form of torment. Especially once he started injecting water into his carved toys, giving him the power to make whatever he inserted into me shift and vibrate beneath his command.

After two days of that, just the sight of Cyril striding toward me with a small satchel and a predatory gleam in his eyes is enough to make me cream—whether I want to or not. But I can shift at will now and use basic fire magic. So there is that.

"How long do you think you can keep the truth quiet?” Darren asks as we all settle into the small living room. "They are going to find out you are the king of Massa’eve sooner or later."

"They will," Cyril agrees. "But there is no reason it has to be sooner. And I'm not lying. I'm just not mentioning it."

I’m pretty certain that the gag order has something to do with the daily walks Cyril and Agatha take together, but I keep that to myself. We exchange a few more pleasantries, then Autumn launches directly into the heart of the matter.

"The capital is unstable,” Autumn tells the group. “All indications suggest that Salazar had intended to take the throne by force while the trials had everyone occupied, but when the trials blew up he pivoted his plans.”

“He didn’t take the throne?” I ask.

“Of course he took it,” says Autumn. “But instead of needing to launch an offensive, he simply walked through the front door and sat down. Officially, Salazar is keeping the throne warm for Ettienne and his heirs to return, who were last seen valiantly rushing into the collapsing citadel to aid rescue efforts. The king and heirs are presumed to be alive under all the rubble of course, and rescue operations are ongoing.”

“Meanwhile, Salazar is replacing everyone in the capital with his people,” Sethis adds, his hand stroking Lee’s back.

My stomach feels like a stone, but I force myself to ask the vital question. “Why bring Tavias, Hauck, and Quinton to Nyx then? Why didn’t Salazar execute them on the spot?”

"Leverage,” says Autumn. “Hostages in case Ettienne turns up alive somehow. Or, frankly, in case you do.”

I flinch.

“And the Orion priests?” Cyril asks.

“Being… interviewed.” Autumn lets the word hang in the air. “Quietly. Salazar announced that the trials were interrupted by an earthquake. Nothing about the truth of the order. Anyone who dares suggest otherwise quickly finds themselves dead.” She leans back against the couch, studying Cyril with open curiosity.

His ice blue gaze studies her back.

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