Page 15 of Davoren
"Your feet," he murmured, and then—impossibly, incomprehensibly—he knelt.
My breath caught. This ancient, powerful being, this creature who'd waited millennia, knelt on the wet stone before me. His hands circled my ankle, lifting my foot with the same care he might use for spun glass. The position put his face level with my thighs, and I had to grip the pool's edge to keep from swaying toward him.
He examined the damage with focused intensity. The glass had done its work thoroughly—dozens of cuts, some deep enough to need stitches.
"Once the Pact is sealed properly," he said, producing a jar of salve from somewhere, "you'll heal within heartbeats. Dragonconstitution. Dragon resilience." His thumb stroked my ankle absently as he spoke, and I bit back a whimper. "For now, we work with what you are."
The salve smelled of mint and something darker, earthy. He applied it with careful fingers, working it into each cut with a thoroughness that bordered on worship. The pain faded to numbness, then to a tingling warmth that spread up my leg. His touch was purely medical, completely professional, and absolutely devastating to my composure.
"Other foot," he commanded when the first was done.
I shifted, which required spreading my thighs slightly for balance. His position between my knees suddenly felt unbearably intimate, even though his attention remained fixed on my injuries. Every breath brought his scent—smoke and spice and something wild that made me want to bury my fingers in his white hair.
"You're trembling." He glanced up, those ember eyes catching mine. "Are you cold?"
Cold? I was burning from the inside out. Every point where his fingers touched my skin felt like a brand, marking me in ways the bond hadn't yet reached. "No," I managed.
"Ah." Just that, just acknowledgment, but his knowing smile made heat flood my cheeks. He returned to his work, but now I felt the deliberate nature of each touch. Still healing, still careful, but with an awareness of what he was doing to me.
"There's so much damage," he murmured, thumb tracing a particularly deep cut. "You ran barefoot through the Wastes rather than submit to a fate you didn't choose." Something like admiration colored his voice. "My fierce little bride."
The possessive made me shiver. His bride. Not Solmar's purchased property, but Davoren's chosen match. The distinction shouldn't matter—I was still bound, still claimed. But it did matter, in ways I couldn't articulate.
"All done," he said finally, but didn't release my ankle. We stayed frozen like that—him kneeling between my thighs, me gripping stone to keep from pulling him closer. The mark pulsed between us, carrying his arousal and mine in an endless feedback loop that threatened to consume what little composure I had left.
"Thank you," I whispered.
He rose in one fluid movement, suddenly too close. The heat of him made me sway forward before I caught myself, but not before my nipples brushed his chest. The contact sent shockwaves through me, and his eyes flared brighter.
"Tomorrow night," he said, voice rougher than before. "When the moons are dark and the old magic runs strongest, we'll complete the binding." His hand came up to hover near my shoulder, over the mark. "But first, there is the matter of your discipline."
The word 'discipline' hung in the steamy air between us, carrying promises that made my stomach flip in ways that had nothing to do with fear. I should have been terrified—probably was, somewhere beneath the layers of exhaustion and arousal and sheer overwhelm. But my body had already chosen its response, nipples tightening, breath catching, thighs pressing together in a futile attempt to ease the ache building there.
"Discipline?" I echoed, hating how breathless I sounded.
He moved then, not quite touching but close enough that I felt the heat radiating from his skin. Somehow I found myself backing up until warm volcanic glass pressed against my spine, trapping me between stone and dragon. The towel I'd clutched for modesty fell forgotten to the floor.
"You defied me in the cave." His voice had dropped to that register that bypassed my ears and resonated in my bones. Each word deliberate, measured, carrying the weight of centuries. "Refused my hand. Denied the bond."
"I didn't know—" I started, but he continued as if I hadn't spoken.
"I told you, little bride—defiance has consequences."
My merchant training screamed at me to negotiate, to establish terms and conditions before agreeing to anything. But what came out was, "What kind of consequences?"
His smile transformed his austere features into something darkly beautiful. "The kind that will teach you to trust what your body already knows."
He raised his hand slowly, giving me time to see it coming, to anticipate. My mark flared hotter with each inch he closed, until I was panting before he even made contact. When his thumb finally brushed the bond mark, the lightest possible touch, I cried out at the sensation.
Pleasure and recognition and need all twisted together into something that threatened to buckle my knees. But beneath it ran something else—a sense of coming home, of puzzle pieces clicking into place, of rightness that terrified me more than any threat of punishment could.
"Your body knows me," he murmured, thumb tracing the mark's edge with devastating precision. Each touch sent cascades of sensation through me, building on the arousal that had been simmering since our flight. "Knows it belongs to me. Knows that submission to the bond brings pleasure beyond imagining."
"That's—" I gasped as he pressed slightly harder, sending sparks through every nerve. "That's not fair. Using magic to—"
"Fair?" He laughed, the sound rumbling through the chamber. "Little one, nothing about this is fair. You were born to be mine, marked by magic older than civilization. I waited millenia, not knowing if you'd ever exist. Is that fair?" His free hand came up to cage me against the wall, not touching but makingescape impossible. "You're fighting your own nature, your own pleasure, out of stubborn pride. Is that fair to either of us?"
The words hit harder than any physical blow. I wanted to argue, to rail against the cosmic injustice of it all. But he was right—my body had already chosen. Every cell sang with recognition when he touched me. Fighting it was like trying to command my heart to stop beating.
