Page 39 of The Surrender

Merikh solidifies his hold on me. His pupils do not diminish. Predatory energy radiates off of him in waves to silence my protests. He does not hold me honeymoon-style like Kyan. No, he binds me like a leech to his chest, forcing my arms around his neck, and pressing my cheek to his skin. I breathe in his familiar scent of deep and dark water congregating with his masculine and deadly musk. Sin and suffering tint the edges of that scent.

“With me, dragon,” proclaims Kyan behind me, his words fading as Merikh makes it to the door.

He moves.

I feel nothing but cold and piercing rushes of wind tearing my hair from the braids, feathers from the silk, and even my shoes from my feet. All that remains is Merikh’s shadow devouring me until we arrive at the castle where he deviates to a shadowy alcove tucked behind tangles of thorns and weeping roses.

I hardly get a chance to breathe before he slams against the stone wall, lashes the blood trails on my hands and arms with his tongue, and grinds against me with the hardest and thickest erection of all four kings. And nothing but those blood orbs gazing back at me.

28

Sometimes, you must surrender to sacrifice.

KYAN

“With me, dragon!” I growl with wind writhing in my hands, ready to release. “Let us show this demon bird what the gods of fire and air can do.”

Scales rupturing and muzzle forming, Drago follows me into the nearest clearing where we shoot through the gap in the trees. Branches claw at our wings but not enough to delay us. The moment we soar beyond the canopy of the forest, Drago explodes into his full dragon form. Fire stokes his belly. Spikes form along his great tail. I grin to one side. Not just Thayne, then. Thiago has risen to join me in battle.

I retrieve my longsword, formed of the very stars, which I always keep in the scabbard at my back. Wind thrashes around my wings and flesh at the sight of the roc. The creature beats its wings in a hover, sizing up the threats before it.

I narrow my eyes, staring down the predator who dares to invade and threaten my people. Gargantuan with layers of white fur and feathers to camouflage itself within the ice region. 300-foot wingspan. Edging out Drago’s 250. Beak as large and deadly as a sword ready to pierce. Talons like great black thorns as large as a grown man and ready to tear. The monstrosity opens its beak, vowing silently to grapple with our flesh. Its most formidable defense is the crystal spikes at the edges of its wings.

Its hackles rise. Its wings pulse quicker, disturbing the forest, felling whole trees from its force. The bird studies us with bestial eyes, but I know they don’t lack intelligence.

So, I cover the sound of mine and Thiago’s conversation with a sharp, biting wind surrounding us. “We must drive it from the village,” I tell him, not wanting any destroyed treehouses or casualties, saints forbid. Not that the saints have ever been on our side.

“I’ll let you be the point man with your pretty toothpick of a blade, provided you don’t end with a quick drop and a sudden stop,” he quips.

I roll my eyes. “Yes, no need to play fast and loose as you always do, dragon. Make fun of my sword again and I’ll shove it so far up your ass, you’ll be shitting stardust for the next century.”

I don’t give him the chance to respond. Summoning a forceful gust of wind, I pump my wings in one hard, quick thrust to give me more momentum. The roc lets out an angry screech as I skirt between its legs, narrowly avoid its talons, and swing my sword along its underbelly. Much to my chagrin, all my sword does is slice off a layer of hard-packed fur.

Out of my peripheral vision, Thiago unleashes a stream of fire. Not a roaring offense. This is just to spread a little heat and get the bird to move where we wish. Away from the village.

The roc is faster than I expected. It beats its wings, spinning to evade the flames. I curve one wing in a downward thrust to hurl out of the way of its enormous body. One hit from all that packed muscle and hard bone would be enough to crush my body.

Gathering a fresh gale of wind to trigger the bird, I direct it at its tail feathers, grinning as it opens its beak, screeches, and pursues me across the mountains. I launch a burst of downdraft to slow it while Drago pursues, saving his fire for when he knows he can deal a deadly blow.

I catch an updraft. And propel a greater force to surge it into another gale. I crest the first peak beyond the village and plunge into the roc’s territory of ice-capped mountains and valleys laden with jagged crystals. I pass over a gap in the valley where the ground caved in. The area where Quintessa fell into the caverns.

Luring the bird closer to the nearest canyon, I narrow my vision, enhancing my pupils to confirm the labyrinth of countless crystals as keen as any blade. Adrenaline spikes within me at the challenge of navigating through that labyrinth. Of course, the roc will plow through all the crystals, but it will give me the chance to contain it in a narrower space. And get the upper current, so I may attack from the top. Drago won’t be able to pass through.

So, when I dive between the cliff walls, I’m not surprised to hear my brother’s maddening roar of protest. The roc’s screech drowns out any more. I feel its hot breath far too close to my body. But I harden my jaw and focus on the tangle of ice.

In a split second, I contort my wings in an uplift, sweeping and rolling into an upside-down flight. Thinner and fewer ice spears closer to the clifftops vs. the broader ones below where the air is darker and colder.

Rocs may be humongous and fast when soaring, but they can’t soar between cliffs. And as I suspected, the demon bird crashes through a multitude of spear-like crystals. They fall to the ground, clattering and breaking like cold musical notes. Smaller ones prod its wings, but they may as well be frost for how thick those pinions are.

One long crystal snags on my tunic sleeve, ripping it and slashing my skin. A superficial wound. But the single minor diversion is enough for my body to clench and for another ice blade to slice the tips of two feathers. I growl at the damned bird below me, grip my sword, and weave through the wintry maze. I need one opening for my body to deep dive, so I can drive that sword right through the back of the roc’s neck. One stab through its nervous system.

All my nerve-endings burning, blood racing, and my heartbeat roaring in my ears, I find the gap fifty feet ahead. And just as I curve my wings, preparing to tuck them and my body into a dive, the roc shifts course.

“Damn!” I snarl from its great form nearly battering me.

A volley of flames singes the side of its body, devastating some feathers. At the encroaching end of the canyon, Thiago hovers, pounding the air with his wings. But the damned roc has so much packed muscle with its body climatized to the cold. Unlike my brother who works harder to warm his scales from the frosted wind nipping at them. Wind currents created by me.

“Damn it all to hell!” I beat my wings harder, stronger, collecting and creating all the wind I can.

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