“It wasn’t mortal. Just a warning.”
“You tore his wing open!”
“He tried to take what was mine.”
Dayn doesn’t raise his voice, but the words land heavier for it—low, deliberate, vibrating through the chamber until they settle in my bones. My stomach knots… then twists. Not with hesitation, but with anger.
“I am not yours,” I snap, the words ripping out of me like shrapnel. “Not your prize, not your possession, not your godsdamned anything.” My shadow blade flares back to life.
Dayn glances at it and raises a dark eyebrow. “Do you… want another sparring match?”
My breath comes sharp, uneven. The look he’s giving me drags back the memory of our duel in the depths of Heathborne’s halls—his taunts, his unrelenting advance, the taste of his blood burning in my veins. His tongue on my skin in the ritual chamber.
I force it down. Lock it deep. Or try to.
Gods, I ache to cage him, to keep him bound forever. Heathborne had the right idea.
“I’m curious,” I say, forcing steadiness into my voice. “Purely for research. What in all the realms made you think I’m yours? Keep in mind, I’m human—magical, yes—but not walking around with a skull stuffed full of dragon arrogance. So go on. Explain it to me. Like the counterfeit professor you once played at being.”
His lips curve into a slow, deliberate smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Very well. Lesson one: Draconic Metaphysics. The principles are quite simple, really. When a dragon’s blood is willingly consumed, it forges a claim. It rewrites certain… proprietary codes in the recipient’s essence. You drank from me, Esme. You are, by laws far older than your coven, now part of my hoard.”
I stare at him, my shadow blade flickering. “Your hoard? Are you actually comparing me to a pile of gold coins?”
“Don't be reductive. A hoard is more than treasure. It is an extension of our being, a collection of all that we deem valuable, powerful, or rare. You, Ms. Salem, are all three. Congratulations on the promotion.”
The sheer, unadulterated arrogance of it all leaves me momentarily speechless. He says it so calmly, as if explaining the weather. “So in your tiny, reptilian brain, sharing a few drops of blood is the same as signing a deed of ownership?”
“Not a few drops.” Another step. The air between us hums, his heat crawling up my skin. “Enough to change you. Enough that every dragon in Draethys can scent my claim the moment you enter a room. You’re marked, Esme. Not with ink or runes, but in the marrow of your bones.”
He stops just beyond my blade’s reach, eyes tracing the curve of my throat, lingering on the spot where his teeth had been. My skin prickles in spite of myself, remembering.
“Your new tricks,” he murmurs, voice like rough silk. “The way the shadows cling to you. That is my blood working in concert with yours. A gift, you might say. And I always keep track of my gifts.”
“A gift?” I laugh, a sharp, humorless sound. “You call this agift? You’ve turned me into a freak, a hybrid that my own people barely recognize. That wasn’t a gift from you, Dayn. It was a violation.”
“A necessary one,” he counters smoothly. “And one your grandmother instigated. But let’s not get bogged down in the ethics of it. The point is, you are here because you are mine to protect. And until the political climate of Draethys stabilizes and I can ensure your safety—both from my people and your own—you will remain here.”
“So I’m your prisoner.”
“You’re my responsibility,” he says, the distinction clearly meaning nothing to him. “And as your… steward, I’ll expect you to behave. Try not to threaten the staff again. Nyssa is far more resilient than she appears, but it’s poor form.”
He turns as if the matter’s closed, striding deeper into the chamber.
“We are not finished here,” I call sharply after him.
He pauses, glances back. A flicker—almost amusement—ghosts through his eyes. “Oh, I assure you, Esme,” he says, voice low and edged with something dangerous, something that makes my blood run both hot and cold, “we are not even close to being finished.”
The sound of his voice lingers, a dark thread winding under my skin. I hate the way it pulls at me, the way it feels like a promise I don’t want to understand. My throat tightens, but I make my tone a blade.
“And what about your promise not to hurt my people?”
“Your vampire friend will survive,” he says easily. “A long and painful recovery, I’m sure, but your darkblood elders will tend to him. Regrettable, but necessary.”
“My grandmother Esther. The spirits. You destroyed them,” I press, unwilling to let him slip free—maybe also to drown out the guilt that crawls beneath my craving.
“They’ll recover.” He waves it off, careless. “I’m sure Esther and her throng of wraiths have endured worse blows, and delivered plenty, over the decades.”
“She’s still my grandmother,” I say, my voice low. “My connection to her… I can’t feel it anymore.”
