Page 60 of Dragons' Bride
"I see,” Quinton says, watching my gaze. Probably waiting for me to realize the utter idiocy of what I'm proposing and back out on my own. When I stare right back, he curses and shoves away from the wall. “You are serious.”
“Yes.”
He curses under his breath, and I catch something with the words mate and suicidal mixed into the string. Then he sighs. “Ettienne would never allow it."
Despite his hard voice, I can tell he's offering the information by way of disclosing an obstacle, not declaring an objection.
I nod. I'd expected as much. Ettienne wouldn’t have bothered sending me away otherwise. "What if we take the choice away from him?” I ask. "Is there a point of no return in the rituals? Some marker after which he is powerless to interfere?” There has to be since Ettienne doesn’t have the power to ensure an outcome.
Quinton thinks for a moment then nods in acknowledgement. “The pledge ball. It’s a masquerade with the packs and their brides apparent revealed in a symbolic ceremony at the end to be marked by the priests administering the trial rights. Once the marks are inked onto the skin, there can be no changes or substitutions.”
“Then that is what we’ll need to do.”
Quinton’s jaw tightens, a muscle ticking along it. “You want me to allow my mate into a trial that most humans never survive?”
“Not my fault you bit the wrong human, now is it?”
He snorts, shaking his head. And though I know he won’t stop me, I can also see the pain now etching his eyes. I soften my voice. "Most humans don't have the advantage of a dragon prince mate intent on keeping them alive," I say. “I want to do this.”
Quinton bows. The prince of Massa’eve bows. "You have the protection of my body and soul, Kitterny. But whether that will be enough, I cannot begin to wager."
“I –” My words die in my throat as, without warning, Quinton lunges for me and throws me to the floor, his hard heavy body covering mine. My knees hit the ground, whining at the impact. Breath leaves my lungs. Quinton jerks, holding me down for another moment before rolling off and shoving me into the corner of the room. I scramble to my feet, staying low as Quinton draws his weapon, his powerful muscles already crouched into a fighting stance.
And then he falls to his knees, red soaking his hand where he grips something at the front of his tunic. The arrowhead, the one that was meant for me, protrudes from his chest.
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