Page 109 of Cursed Evermore
“That’s incredible discipline.”
“Indeed, my lady. The Bloodsworn are the Fae’s elite of the elite. Sworn not just to protect the kingdom, but to be an emblem of legacy. Aside from that, the king and his men must always be able to protect his people from the threats of dark forces, whether he is the king or not. Lord Nightblade must also be equal in strength to his dragon.”
“Dragon?” I whispered the word like a breath. Wolfe had mentioned dragons a few times, but it was difficult to get my head around the fact that they actually existed. And that he flew them. In the mortal lands, people didn’t fly animals. They rode horses and sometimes elephants. To my knowledge, the biggest flying creature around was an albatross.
Sirril grinned. “Lord Nightblade’s dragon is unique for its magic. Such as one has not been seen since the days of his grandfather. Our people believe the spirit of not only the dragon but Lord Nightblade’s grandfather was reborn in his dragon. Some believe Lord Nightblade is the incarnate of all dragons.”
The information was so fascinating that I couldn’t help but be immersed. “What makes them believe that?”
“He’s not that much different from them, my Lady. Just look at his wings.”
Sirril looked back at Wolfe with the same admiration as before, and I did, too.
He was right. Wolfe looked like a dragon in the sky.
Bastian flickered out of existence mid-flight and Wolfe stilled, his sword raised and ready. But then he turned his head. And he saw me.
He lowered his sword as though momentarily thrown off guard and glared down at me. We were about thirty feet apart, but the look he gave me was a collision of breath and thought and desire. Like he’d pulled me right into his sphere of gravity and refused to let go.
He turned to face me, his wings coiled around him like smoke-fed claws, the edges flickering between shadow and sunlight.
He stayed there, suspended in the sky like a fallen god, watching me.
I couldn't look away. His torso gleamed with sweat, muscles defined beneath intricate tattoos of runes that coiled around him in inky shadows. My treacherous mind wondered what all those muscles would feel like beneath my fingertips.
The moment the thought hit, Bastian appeared behind Wolfe—literally appeared. He brought his sword down to cleave him in half and I gasped, instinctively pointing up at the danger.
A strangled cry choked out of me, but it was lost to the air as Wolfe raised his sword above his head and countered Bastian without even looking at him.
The two swords clashed like thunder, sending a boom rippling through the air. Bastian was knocked back a few paces but rearing to go again.
Wolfe still had his eyes fixed on me as if nothing had happened. Had he been human, or…anyone else, I was sure he’d be dead from that blow.
I caught the arrogant grin he gave me from all the way down here, and then I caught myself.
I was an idiot. An absolute idiot. Look at me here, calling out to my captor to stop him from getting hurt. If I’d been in my right mind, and that sword struck him, I would have cheered at the defeat of my enemy. Instead, I was worried he might die.
That was probably the reason the bastard grinned at me.
Wolfe glanced over his shoulder and said something to Bastian, then, to my dismay, he flew down to me, his boots echoing across the wooden planks with a hard thud as he landed.
He came closer, moving with lethal charm, seeming taller, and those wings…
Gods, they were massive in the air, but down here, they were colossal, unfurling until they took up the entire space and blocked out the pale morning sun.
With his long, broad sword in his hand, Wolfe was the formidable warrior. Like death incarnate. But beautiful.
Sirril bowed deep, but I was paralyzed by the sheer impact of the Fae prince's presence. Those glorious wings unfurled around him, his masterpiece body on full display. I couldn’t stop staring.
The menacing grin etched on his lips dripped with sin. So did the look in his eyes.
Wolfe turned to address Sirril, who bowed again and beamed at him as if he were a god. “My Lord Nightblade, your skills grow every day. A thousand blessings on you, your Grace.”
Wolfe placed a hand to his heart and bowed with a deep respect I didn’t think possible from someone who was supposed to be the next king of half the magical realm. “A thousand blessings to you, too, Sirril. And please, I am not your Grace yet.”
“You will always be my king, your Grace. With or without a crown atop your head.”
“La níyneria, a mun dair,” Wolfe spoke a language I didn’t recognize. It sounded old, fervent, and humble. Whatever he said had Sirril staring back at him with the deepest appreciation.
