Page 69 of Bride of the Black Dragon
My knees are trembling as I walk, the heels of my too-high shoes clicking on the marble floors of the Citadel’s inner halls. It’s a long walk—too long. The gown leaves me cold and exposed—my breasts pushed up, my inner thighs bare, my neck and shoulders dusted with the shimmer powder that usually marks a woman as a whore.
I feel like a lamb being led to the slaughter. And yet, I refuse to shrink or duck my head in shame. None of how I look is my fault—I refuse to act the part the Queen so obviously wants me to play.
Nobles peek out from alcoves. Courtiers murmur behind gloved hands. Someone lets out a low, mocking laugh as I pass.
But I keep my chin high and I don’t try to cover myself. I don’t let their whispers or their leers stop me.
Let them look. Let them laugh. I don’t care—I’m doing this for him.
For Xaren.
I haven’t seen him in weeks, not since the Queen locked him up. And I keep having those dreams—terrible, twisted dreams—of his Drake dying inside him, its eyes going dark, its wings curled like shriveled leaves. I’ve woken in tears more nights than I can count.
Please let him be all right. Please let me be able to heal him—to bring him back somehow.
I didn’t get the key, but at least I know where it is now. I’ll try again.
Because I love him. And because I think…he might love me too. And for right now, my main goal is just to see him.
The dungeon door yawns ahead like a mouth lined with gray teeth, dark and hungry. The air grows colder, damper…tinged with the faint coppery tang of old blood and wet stone. Despite its ominous appearance, I approach it eagerly.
Somewhere in that darkness I know my Dark Prince is waiting for me. I just pray to the Goddess of Mercy I can help him.
36
ELAINA
The dungeon hallway stretches before me like the throat of a beast—long and dark and utterly silent.
The air changes the moment the guards drag me past the reinforced iron door that separates the Citadel proper from its hidden underbelly. The scent hits my nose first—sour dampness and mold, overlaid by something sharper…the unmistakable tang of blood and rusting chains. The kind of smell that seeps into your clothes…into your bones.
I gag slightly but force myself not to flinch.
You’re doing this for him—for Xaren, I lecture myself. He and his Drake need you. Just keep going, Elaina. You’ll get used to the smell.
The walls are slick stone, carved from some dark volcanic rock that drinks the meager torchlight until every corner feels shadowed. I can hear the wet drip-drip of water somewhere ahead, echoing off the walls. It’s cold down here—colder than I expected. I feel the chill like an icy breath on the back of my neck.
My ridiculous gown—thin silk with its deep neckline and high slit—offers no protection against the temperature. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to preserve what little heat I have.
Why did she have to dress me like this? Why make me look like a prize whore, just to send me into the dark?
But I know why—it’s about control. It’s always about control with Queen Virelda.
The guards don’t speak, except for one gruff warning when I stumble.
“Keep up, Princess. We’re almost there.”
We round a final bend, the hallway narrowing until it feels more like a tunnel. The walls are stained black in patches and the air grows still and stale. At the very end of the corridor is a single heavy door, reinforced with iron bands. There’s a tiny window high up in the door, but I’m not tall enough to reach it—even in the ridiculous heels, I’m a few inches shy.
The lead guard produces a large key ring and unlocks the door with a loud, grating clunk. The hinges groan as he yanks it open.
“You’re to go in and fuck him,” he growls, eyes flicking over my nearly bare body. “We’ll be back in an hour, so get to it.”
He shoves me hard and I stumble inside. The door slams behind me with a thunderous clang that echoes in my ears, making them throb. I’m alone. Alone…except for him.
Except for Xaren.
The darkness is overwhelming at first—thick and almost oily, as though the cell itself resents the intrusion of light. But slowly, my eyes adjust. There’s a single window high on the far wall—no bigger than a hand, really. It sheds a faint, grayish light into the gloom, and I can just barely make out the vague shape of a cot shoved against the stone wall. The window is open, but only enough to let in a teasing sliver of fresh air—just enough to remind you what freedom smells like.
