Page 4 of Caress of Fire
“Dragonshit.”
Fedryc turned to face his best friend. Eyes of the darkest orange shade looked up at him in a way no other man dared to. Henron knew that if there was one thing Fedryc didn’t talk about, it was Aymond Haal, High Lord of the kingdom of Aalstad on Dagmar’s most recent satellite world, Earth. His father held an important position, one of great honor and power. A position Fedryc would have to fulfill once his father stepped down.
“You heard the rumors, same as I did. Maybe he needs your help with that.”
The words fell between them and silence invaded the dragon’s cave. Yes, Fedryc had heard the rumors, same as everyone. Only they were not rumors. The Knat-Kanassis had returned, and with it, its share of horrors and senseless deaths.
“It’s no rumor,” Fedryc told his friend. “I knew Lord Emeril Fyr when we were children. His son’s dragonet was killed withVenemum Ardereunder his own roof before it was sent to Lord Aldric Darragon as a warning.”
“How old was the boy?” Henron asked, his eyes grave with the knowledge that once the dragonet died, the Draekon child would surely follow. The link ran deep—so deep that as one Draekon child was born, so was a dragonet. If one left this life, the other one followed. Such was the price for the extraordinary strength and long life of the Draekon, but such was also their weakness.
“He was only five.” The air went out of his lungs and Fedryc had to inhale deeply. Just thinking about his old friend’s distress made him want to rage and reduce the fanatics to ashes for the sacrilege they committed. “His only son. The human woman who became his mate died giving birth to him. Now, he has nothing.”
“If it is the Knat-Kanassis, and your father needs you, it will be dangerous.” Henron shook his head, then looked straight at him. “You won’t be going alone. I’m coming with you.”
Fedryc stared at his oldest friend. Henron was Delradon through a cruel trick of fate, as the son of a Draekon mother and father. His older brother was Draekon, as was his younger sister, but when he was born, Henron was born alone, without a dragon. His parents sent him to the Emperor as a ward when he was five years old, and never looked back. When Fedryc was sent to the Emperor as well, Henron was the first—and only—friend he made. They bonded over the pain of their rejection and forged a friendship that ran as deep as any family bonds. They were brothers in everything but blood.
That was why he couldn’t do this to him.
“You can’t come to Earth.” Fedryc frowned, then put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You’re captain of the royal family’s guard. You’re not throwing away your life’s work for me.”
Henron locked gazes with him, his face settling in familiar stubborn lines. “There’s no one else I’d rather have by my side, remember?” He chuckled, bringing back the memory of the words they’d used when the rigorous training in the Emperor’s court threatened to push them over the edge. “I’m not letting you face this alone. Plus, I’m quite tired of the princesses and their demands.”
Fedryc stared at his friend, that Delradon man who had been abandoned by his family for the crime of not being born the way they wanted him to be. Henron was right.
“There’s no one else I’d rather have by my side.”
Chapter 2
Marielle had been waiting for hours. Her patience was wearing thin, as were her nails, which she chewed until the skin around her fingertips was raw and bloody.
And still, she waited.
She kicked an oversized pillow all the way to the corner of the room. Boredom was beginning to eat her from the inside, melting her brain into a useless puddle of stale thoughts and worries.
What’s taking them so long?
She had been brought to Aalstad castle straight after speaking to a flustered Delradon attendant at the Delradon-Human liaison office, only minutes after handing over her genetic compatibility letter. Another few minutes later, Marielle had been bundled into a black hover vehicle and flown over the desert, all the way to the castle carved into the rock of the mountain where the High Lord and his court lived.
And she had been waiting ever since. Hours had come and gone as she waited for an audience with Lord Aymond Haal.
Marielle closed her eyes and summoned the vision of her two-room house, where she had lived with Devan since the year following their parents’ deaths. The tiny kitchen with the old wood stove, the round table where they ate their meals. The bedroom where she and Devan slept on two twin beds. Devan, bustling with ambition as he finished first in his class in the human school funded by rich Delradon charity.
That was where her heart was. That was what she was risking everything for. She was going to save him.
The only price was her soul, and she had already sold it.
Marielle hugged herself as she turned around for the hundredth time and walked back to the other side of the room. She hated everything in it. From the gold of the stone walls that kept the heat of the desert afternoon away, to the plush cushions of the sofas laid out in every corner for her to rest on, all the way to the glorious display of fresh fruits and cold drinks on the intricately carved wood table in the middle of the space. So far, she’d touched nothing of the Draekon possessions in a futile attempt at preserving her independence, but she knew it was just that. Futile. Her own body didn’t belong to her anymore. She was nothing more than a vessel for a little Draekon Lord.
Suddenly, her stomach flipped and contracted and she stopped, clutching her middle in pain. She had eaten nothing for the past day and a half, since Ignio Marula had invaded her house just before dinner. She was starving.
I’m going to be here for over a year, there’s no point in going hungry.
She eyed the gold and pink fruits lying on a sparkling crystal plate, and grabbed one. It was soft, like velvet in her hand, and when she smelled it, it reminded her of a soft spring breeze and sunshine. Without pausing, she bit into it, and groaned in pleasure as the juice trickled down her chin. It was sweet and flavorful, so good it made her eyes water. Whatever this was, it didn’t grow in the dry plains where she grew up.
A door creaked open and Marielle turned around to see a young servant girl step inside. After the door closed behind her, the servant girl lifted golden eyes to Marielle, her long blonde hair pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck exposing her pointy ears. A Delradon girl, then. She was very young, not more than twenty years of age, and very pretty in a kitten-like, fragile way.
“Good afternoon, Lady Marielle,” the girl said, casting her eyes down to the polished stone floor. “I see you enjoyed our peaches.”
