Page 46 of The Wrath of Ashes
“I didn’t think it’d be me, that’s for certain.” Asha cleared his throat and snickered.
“Never saw myself as a mother. Not really. Maybe I’ll be a better auntie?”
“Deal.” Asha invited Lyss to sit, extending an invitation to Nadi that, surprisingly, she took.
“So, laundry maid it is.” Lyss dusted her hands off and flopped into a chair. A crooked grin slashed across her face. “So, does I get a bed, or am I sleepin’ with the horses?”
Nadi’s face wrinkled. “In this part of the keep, we have wyverns. Nobody sleeps with the wyverns. It’s barbaric. We’ll have you a room—and if there’s one not made up, I’m sure I could make accommodations in my apartment.”
Asha’s heart squeezed, his cheeks warming.
Jeron glanced toward the window and stood, walking over to shutter the windows.
The dimming sky outside didn’t give Asha a hint of moon, the celestial body that would eventually spell his undoing. He missed being able to look at it, but perhaps it was best.
He longed to see the moon, if only for what it would mean. He’d want Rath and be brave enough to have him.
Chapter Nineteen
Rath
Dragons were given bedservants for a reason. Urges, if not properly vented, became strange and more ferally aligned with a dragon’s nature. And, as Rath’s name implied—he wanted vengeance. Wrath. Blood spilled in his mate’s name.
Absent one fair-skinned and reddish-haired male to satisfy his baser needs—blood it was. Blood, though, had to be spilled with contracts and words cleverly laid before he could make use of his sword and teeth. Before men need witness his greater form. Unfortunately for Rath, the King of Monsmount had little sense when it came to matters of a dragon’s temper. He’d been waiting in a receiving room for over an hour, and neither he nor his companions that had flown with him had been offered as much as a thimble of water—let alone repast or drink.
With a suspicion that he was being eavesdropped upon, Rath sighed heavily. “They best hurry with a meal and a beverage soon before I select a servant or five to snack upon.”
The guards he kept with him remained silent, well aware of their master’s sense of humor.
As if by some miracle, within a few minutes, a tray of sandwiches and tea arrived, presented to him by a shaking servant woman with a slight hobble to her step. Her uneven gait matched with a slight sag to part of her face. A sign she’d been stricken by ictus. A shame. In his land, they had magic that could have healed the damage done before it became permanent.
“My lady. Come.” Rath gestured toward her and tilted his head. A slight tremor in her gait came from both the ictus and fear, an unhealthy combination. Rath extended a hand and sighed heavily. “Give me your hand. Please.”
She paled, but obeyed, extending her good hand for him.
“The other hand.” He raised a brow and she, with considerable effort, lifted her clumsy hand and yelped, pale eyes glistening as Rath flipped her hand palm up, staring into the lines of her flesh. Some said the lines could tell a person’s future—though they didn’t. They told a person’s past. A lifetime eating the poorest, fattiest meats, the salt-preserved waste and soups. He could tell by the swelling in her knuckles, the drawn pinch of her skin, and the way the hairs on her wrist lay.
Her trembling increased, but Rath paid it no mind as he drew his fingers over the palm of her hand, studying the lines. She swallowed hard. “My lord?”
Rath pressed a nail into the meat of her thumb and channeled a flicker of magic, the gold bracelets he wore tarnishing ever so perceptibly—something that non-dragon eyes would never notice. In a pinch, he could use his own scales, but gold was easier to conduct his magic—more aesthetic, at any rate.
A soft gasp preceded her withdrawing her hand with a twitch.
“It should help. It may take some time, but it may ease some of your ictus.” Rath nodded his head ever so gently. “As thanks for being brave enough to bring our tea.”
She clenched her hand and rubbed at her shoulder, likely aware that something had changed. It’d take time for the muscle to build up, but the blood pressing on her sinews had eased once the clot had dissolved. She’d never be fully healed, but she’d know the difference as a kindness.
She bowed deeply and whispered a passing thanks before leaving the room.
“Bleeding heart, you have. Our king of wrath,” one of his guards muttered, Igmar, a lesser dragon from a lower family that sought to frequent his court.
“The kindness is the caress before the strike. It makes my cruelty sting more.” Rath stared at his nails and sipped his cooling tea.
On his second cup, the king and his entourage clattered down the hall, his guard assuming post at the doors as his attendant shored up his side.
“Good evening, King Reigh.” Rath made a point of not standing, the irritation evident upon the male’s wisened face.
“I apologize for making you wait. I was very busy wi—”
