Page 36 of Tempest Blazing
Dominick held up a hand, never breaking eye contact. "Fascinating. Someone with your particular... capabilities... could prove incredibly useful. In ways you've probably never imagined."
"What do you want?" I ground the words out.
"Direct. I appreciate that." He gestured toward the plush armchair behind me, tone deceptively cordial. "Please, sit. We have much to discuss, and I do so prefer civilized conversation."
Polite words with a knife underneath. I glanced between him and Garanth, calculating odds I didn't like. No idea where I was, no bond with Thalon, facing two beings whose power I couldn't even begin to measure. Running would be suicide. Fighting would be worse.
Reluctantly, I perched on the edge of the chair, ready to bolt. The leather was buttery soft against my legs, a mockery of comfort in this elegant trap.
"Much better." Dominick resumed his circling, hands clasped behind his back like a professor. "What I want is to understand what you represent. A human bonded to one of the most powerful dragons in existence—it shouldn't be possible. Dragons don't choose humans, Miss Whittaker. You're too fragile, too short-lived, too... limited."
"Guess Thalon didn't get the memo."
Garanth pushed off the wall, expression darkening. "Show some respect when speaking of your betters, human."
"Enough, Garanth." Dominick's voice cut like a blade. "Her spirit is precisely what makes her interesting. Most humans would have broken by now—from the separation, from the circumstances, from the sheer impossibility of their situation. But you're still fighting."
He stopped in front of me, studying my face like I was a puzzle to solve. "You know, there are others who've found themselves in similar circumstances. Powerful beings who thought they could resist, who believed their bonds made them untouchable."
He paused, obsidian gaze boring into mine. "Tell me about your mother, Tempest."
The casual shift made me stumble. "What?"
"Kendall Whittaker. Quite the piece of work, from what I understand. Always so concerned with appearances, with control. Never quite satisfied with you, was she?" His smile was gentle, understanding—and absolutely terrifying. "I imagine growing up with that kind of... conditional love... taught you some valuable coping mechanisms."
My hands clenched before I could stop them. How the hell did he know about my mother? "That's none of your business."
"Oh, but it is. You see, trauma shapes us in such interesting ways. Take your sister, for instance—following all the right paths, earning all the right approval. While you..." He gestured vaguely. "The disappointment. The one who could never quite measure up."
Each word was a knife between my ribs. I could feel my breathing getting shallow, that old familiar spiral of shame trying to drag me under. Kidnapped and trapped, and now this bastard was dissecting my psyche like a research project. But I'd learned to recognize the warning signs, to ground myself before the panic could take hold.
Five things I can see,I told myself, falling back on techniques that had gotten me through countless anxiety attacks.Marble floor. Garanth's red eyes. Dominick's glowing cracks. Gold picture frame. Crystal chandelier.
Dominick noticed the shift immediately. "Remarkable. You're using cognitive behavioral techniques to manage emotional dysregulation. Self-taught, I'd wager, given your family's... approach to mental health."
I hated that he was right. Hated that he could read me so easily.
The door opened again, and my heart nearly stopped. A demon entered, dragging a figure behind him—someone barely conscious, feet scraping against the marble.
The figure was clearly supernatural, though I couldn't place the species. Tall, lean, with skin that shifted between scales and flesh. They were covered in bruises, fresh cuts marking their arms and face, but their eyes... their eyes had given up.
Dominick's expression darkened with irritation. "Balthazar. I thought I made it clear we weren't to be disturbed." Thetemperature dropped several degrees, and I got the distinct impression he'd been savoring our little chat.
"Apologies, sir, but he's about to die in the ring. Thought you'd want to know before we lost the investment entirely."
The ring.Ice flooded my veins. So Dominick and Garanth weren't just connected to the underground fighting ring—Dominick was running it. Where Mason had been forced to fight, to bleed for the entertainment of monsters. This elegant monster was behind it all.
Dominick sighed, the sound carrying genuine annoyance. "Well, it can't be helped." He waved dismissively toward the battered fighter. "Dispose of him. No point feeding and housing someone that weak. We're looking for strength in our ranks, not charity cases."
The casual cruelty made my stomach turn. The fighter's gaze found mine, and I saw something that made my blood run cold. Recognition. Not of me personally, but of what I represented. Another person who'd been where I was now.
"The fighting ring serves many purposes," Dominick continued conversationally, as if he hadn't just ordered someone's death. "Entertainment, certainly. Profit, absolutely. But its true value lies in identification—finding individuals with exceptional abilities, testing their limits, assessing their... potential for cooperation."
Balthazar hauled the broken fighter toward the door, feet dragging uselessly across the marble. I watched in horror as they disappeared into the hallway, knowing I'd just witnessed someone being taken to their execution. The fighter hadn't even struggled—too far gone, too defeated to fight back. The door closed behind them with a soft click that sounded like a death knell.
"You see, the arena isn't just about punishment. It's about transformation. We take beings who think they understand power, who believe in the righteousness of their cause, and we show them a different path. Sometimes through force, yes, but often through... persuasion."
Garanth chuckled from his corner. "Amazing what people will do when properly motivated."
