Page 17 of Dragons' Mate
Tavias turns away, ignoring me in favor of surveying the ballroom.
“Oh, it’s very much a swollen lip.” Hauck answers for him, sliding up toward me. He is already shirtless of course and delighted mischief lights up every line of his face as brightly as anger still tightens Tavias’s. “Wait until our shadow takes off his mask, too. His nose is a delight.” Behind Hauck, one of the vases with flowers is surreptitiously starting to sprout extra leaves that unfurl provocatively. With only a pace of space remaining between us, Hauck scrapes his canines along his bottom lip. “Hello there, turnip.”
It’s hard to keep the grin from my own face, and I don’t try. Before we can come together however, Cyril shoots out his arm, blocking our paths. Of the four princes, his face is the only one I cannot read at all. Right now, he is the embodiment of control, though only a fool would mistake his fluid motions and intelligent eyes for anything but deadly. His bare muscled torso has as many scars as Quinton’s.
“This isn’t the time,” Cyril's voice is barely audible, his face schooled and taking in everything at once. “Close ties are a vulnerability that can and will be exploited. If you want her to stay alive, do not show undue affection." He surveys the dais as he speaks and, despite his mask, I know he is calculating the time we have until the priest calls our pack. Seeing if there is anything to be done to get me out of here.
There isn't. Quinton’s timing ensured that.
Hauck huffs, but sticks his hands into his pockets. Despite standing still, he isn’tbeingstill though. His honed muscles shift beneath smooth skin, as do the scales that run along the midline of his body to disappear into the waistband of his trousers.
He follows my gaze and smirks.
Yeah. The ass bristled his scales on purpose. Like a peacock. A very powerful, immortal, killer dragon peacock.
"You are going to want to take the rest of that shirt off," Quinton tells Tavias, who still has one arm in a sleeve. "It's not a good look if you can't manage to get yourself undressed."
“Agreed.” Ettienne’s voice makes me jump.
Shit. My heart is slower to recover than the rest of me. I’d not seen the king approach and curse myself for not having been on the lookout for him. Between taking in the ceremony and anticipating Tavias’s fury, I’d temporarily forgotten about the most powerful male in the entire dragon court.
His hands clasped behind his back, Ettienne weighs me with his gaze, his face the epitome of mild curiosity. My heart continues to hammer, remembering the death he’d promised if I were to ever speak to his sons again. A corner of my mind wonders if he might try to make good on that now, rather than be content with letting the trials take care of it.
“Interesting,” Ettienne remarks with that causal grace that sends a chill down my back. “Do not take another step.”
It takes me a moment to realize that the latter is addressed toward Quinton, who is indeed trying to blade his body between me and his father. Quinton’s bare back is riddled with scars, which speak to more pain than I can imagine, given how quickly dragons heal. I’ve no doubt Ettienne’s training is responsible for a fair share of those. Just as Ettienne is responsible for the ones on Cyril, having left him to an enemy court’s inquisitors for disobeying orders.
“This is not the time to start wearing your weakness on your sleeve, Shadow,” Ettienne advises quietly. “The other competitors will use it against you.”
Following Ettienne’s pointed gaze, my attention cuts to the dais, where the members of Geoffrey’s pack are rising to their full height and pulling masks off their faces. None of them, including their woman, had made a sound as they were marked. Now they sweep their attention over the crowd, the predatory intent evident in their faces.
Geoffrey’s attention stops on Tavias. There is an echoing similarity between the two males, with their wide angled jaws, impressive height, and shoulders broad enough to hold up the world. But where Tavias’s scales are purple and his eyes fierce, Geoffrey emanates nothing but cold and blackness. Shifting his feet, Geoffrey seeks out Cyril next. He holds his attention there, a smile full of cruel satisfaction crossing his face as he subtly runs his hand over the scales decorating his costume. A reminder of the serpent court whose dungeons Cyril was held in.
“Prince Cyril,” Geoffrey says with perfect politeness. “Allow me to introduce my bride apparent, Bianca.”
Bianca stretches her neck and the newly tattooed collar there, as if showing off her plumage. Unlike the small bands around the others’ necks, Bianca’s tattoo covers all the skin from her collarbone to jaw, the beautiful twirls of black ink contrasting against her snow white hair.
“It is a mark of Orion’s favor,” Ettienne advises quietly.
“Oh, my apologies,” Geoffrey snaps his fingers and cringes in a show of contrition. “It’s not you in charge any more is it? I meant no disrespect, cousin Tavias. With all of you running away from the throne, it’s hard to keep track of who has the burden at the moment.”
Predictably, lightning crackles over Tavias’s scales and he takes a step toward the dais.
Less predictably, Ettienne calls him off.
Reclaiming control of the proceedings, the priests motion for Geoffrey to clear the dais. The crowd parts to let the pack off, and it's only because I'm watching Bianca instead of the dragons that I notice her slip her hand into the slit of her dress. Steel flashes.
"What—" My words are cut short as Bianca’s knife flies into the crowd. In the next moment, it's buried deep in the chest of the weeping girl from the pack who’d pledged earlier. Blood spurts onto the girl’s pretty dress, her quiet sobs turning to gurgles. Then she is on the floor, her life draining out onto the marble.
The pack who’d brought her snarls, but Geoffrey's laughter is the more contagious sound.
“It is never too early to cull the weak,” Geoffrey calls, eliciting applause. He turns to the dais, and bows low. “My pack is pleased to make the equinox’s first offering to Orion,” he tells the priest.
The priest bows.Bows.As if the scared girl whose life Bianca just extinguished was never worth any more than a blood offering.
You are dead.Tavias’s voice booms in my head so loudly that it hurts. He is glaring at Quinton and I am not sure whether he remembers that I can hear him too. Or cares. The mark on my breast tingles, reminding me that Tavias doesn’t know half of what’s happened in the last two days.Did you think bringing her here—
"I imagine he knows exactly what he did," Cyril interrupts in that quiet controlled voice of his. "And I support your decision to rip him limb from limb for it—but in private. Geoffrey is watching our every breath. And there is no time now regardless.”
