Page 61 of Bride of the Black Dragon
“Sheathe your swords,” he growls. “You know what I have inside me—you know how useless your weapons are if I decide to Shift. No sword can stop my Drake.”
“But the Queen’s orders—” the Captain begins.
“Sheathe them,” Xaren insists. “I won’t be marched down the halls of my own home with a cadre of armed guards as though I’m a threat to the Kingdom!”
Reluctantly, the Captain nods and slips his sword into his scabbard. The other men at arms do as well.
“Very well,” Xaren says. “Now we’ll come with you. But let me remind you—none of you had better touch my wife. Not if you don’t want to be burned to a fucking cinder.”
As he speaks, black smoke curls from his nostrils—a silent threat.
My legs feel shaky, but I follow him, keeping close as we step into the hallway. The stone corridor seems darker than before…colder. It’s like the very walls are holding their breath.
The guards form up around us, a square of steel and silence. No one says a word. But I can feel their eyes flicking toward me…judging…measuring. Maybe they’re wondering what it is about me that inspires such fierce protectiveness from the Dark Prince. I have to confess, I wonder that myself.
The guards march us down the corridor, the sharp clack of boots on stone echoing off the walls…echoing in my chest. My heart hammers in time with the rhythm. My mouth is dry.
What is the Queen going to do to us? What kind of punishment do we face this time? Another whipping? Or will it be worse?
I have no answers of course. I shouldn’t be surprised that she sent the guards to get us. I knew there would be consequences, both for what happened in the Royal Gardens yesterday and for Xaren showing his Drake. I just…didn’t expect them to come so fast.
Or to feel so final.
My thoughts spiral as we descend the main stairwell, the gilded columns of the upper hall sweeping past us. I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror and barely recognize the pale woman with wide eyes and wind-tangled hair. My cheeks are still pink from the flight, and there’s a kind of wildness in my expression I’ve never seen before.
Is this what it means to truly live? To feel so deeply—so completely—and then have it all ripped away in a heartbeat?
But maybe I shouldn’t be so pessimistic—maybe it will all be all right. It’s a small hope but it’s all I have.
I glance at Xaren.
He walks with his head high, jaw clenched, every muscle taut. His expression is unreadable, but I can feel his anger simmering just beneath the surface.
He’s not afraid—he’s furious.
And somehow, that makes me feel braver. If he can face this with calm and strength… then so can I.
I walk a little faster and reach out for his hand. He gives me a sharp sideways glance and then entwines our fingers. He gives my hand a squeeze and I squeeze back, feeling better. His hand is so big and warm and touching him gives me courage.
We’ll face it together, I tell myself.
I just hope the Queen doesn’t separate us.
The guards lead us through the upper rotunda and down the crimson carpet that stretches to the Queen’s audience chamber. I’ve never seen this part of the Citadel before. It’s all dark stone and red velvet—high arched ceilings and flickering torches. I find it intimidating, as I am no doubt meant to. This space is designed to make you feel small.
The tall double doors at the end swing open as we approach.
The Queen’s throne room is colder than the hallway—colder and darker, despite the braziers burning along the walls. The flames don’t seem to reach the center of the room, where Queen Virelda sits on her obsidian throne, draped in black and crimson silk like a spider in her web.
Her eyes meet mine the moment we step inside. Her gaze is sharp and icy and her pale eyes glitter like daggers. Her rage is nearly palpable, shimmering in the air between us.
I feel the air go out of my lungs.
Xaren steps forward, placing himself firmly in front of me again—shielding me with his body. I’m grateful for that, but I don’t want to hide. We’re in this together. I step forward, putting myself by his side.
Queen Virelda’s lips curve in something that’s not quite a smile.
“Well,” she says softly. “What a surprise.”
