Page 22 of Brutal Dragon King

“Wh-what…?!” I exclaim, being pulled to my feet as the two shirtless men land on the ground on either side of me. Frowning in confusion, my head snaps in both directions, and I try wrestling my way out.

My attempts are futile against their strength, but still, I persist, tugging against their brutality as I'm dragged across the field.

“King Haidën's orders…” one mutters uninterestedly.

“He wants his slave in his private changing room,” the other says more matter-of-factly. “Royal affairs.”

“Yeah… royal affairs…” The first one clicks his tongue dismissively, and I catch the way he rolls his eyes.

Settling down, I guess that this isn't a usual occurrence. Despite the king's changed methods when it comes to his human breeding slave—me—the rest of the kingdom hasn't welcomed the idea that a slave is waltzing around on their grounds freely.

Good.

They shouldn't be comfortable.

Basking in the discomfort I bring to the kingdom, it's the king's discomfort I look forward to the most. Saving my energy for when I meet him, I allow the guards to drag me to his private changing room in the building behind the hockey arena.

What I hadn't been anticipating was getting thrown into a locker room, and the door being shut behind me with a low thud. A startled gasp escapes my lips, and the deafening silence allaround the locker room is broken by the thumping of footsteps against the tiles.

Each step is calculated to deliberately follow the ticking of the wall clock behind the row of lockers. I can't see it, and neither can I see the source of the sinister footsteps until it emerges from behind a cloud of mist on the left.

My breath catches when I set eyes on a shirtless, moist chest as it appears. The menacing footsteps I heard against the marble tiles were barefooted, and my throat reprises its dryness when I noticed the towel hanging low on the man's hips. I quickly lift my eyes to find his face—the more appropriate place to look—but the improper journey from the v-line that cuts his abs, to his immaculately sculpted chest with prominent pectorals gleaming like dripping honey, is my undoing.

I only have a mere second to gather my composure when I meet his eyes, hot and dark and full of an intensity I cannot name.

His lips take on a faint trace of a cocksure smirk, and I decide that I will not give him the satisfaction of knowing that his show of power today had any effect on me. Keeping my expression grim, I fold my arms across my chest, pointedly staring him in the eyes.

Internally, I'm losing my mind, losing my last straws of sanity as the king, with his marvelous, chiseled features, comes stepping closer. His deep-set eyes are dark, and the slight upward tilt hardens and loses any softness his eyes might have betrayed him with before.

I clutch my chest tighter when my heart races, my body reacting again and betraying my better judgment. When his lips part, there's an air of authority that fans my face from the few feet of distance between us.

But still, I remain unmoved.

“Bow,” King Haidën orders, but I'm so determined to defy him, that I make no move.

“Was that what today was all about?” I challenge him with a quipped brow. “To prove that you're a powerful being?”

A flicker of a frown passes his angular brows, but he reclaims his sternness with a low, guttural growl.

“I am your king…” he roars with threat. “Bow,slave…”he commands again, but I will not give in now.

“No,” I refuse with a huff, and it only spurs the king into taking another step forward.

He slams a palm against the metal locker behind me, glaring into my eyes with deadly darkness glinting in his.

“You still choose to defy me?!” he bellows, his roaring voice echoing in the white space of the changing room.

“You want me to bow, but I cannot respect you!” I retort, and the king's eyes grow wide with rage.

“You are nothing but a measly human. Apeasant!” He spits the last word violently, and instead of fear, it's anger I feel.

“And who decided that, huh?!” I grind back, prodding a finger in the center of two perfect pectoral muscles. Feeling his hot flesh on my fingertip sends a sensation of electric awareness coursing through me, but I give away nothing when I glare ferociously into his eyes.

His are dark, eerie orbs of fury, his chest heaving at a rapid pace against my accusing finger. He takes another step forward, forcing that finger to curl against his chest when I refuse to remove it.

We are both determined to show that neither of us is willing to back down, and something is arousing about the air charged with what can only be described as sexual tension.

“You are a slave…” the king grates through gritted teeth.

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