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When she crawled under the covers, her delicious scent smacked him in the face. It had haunted him all evening. He could not escape it. Invasive and alluring. Tempting. And with each whiff of that delectable fragrance, he would stiffen anew.
And now he was meant to sleep next to her, with that scent in his head, knowing how soft her skin felt under his coarse hands, how sweetly she moaned when he was driving into her, and do nothing about it?
Without a word, she rolled over, facing away from him.
Tonight would be one of unending torture.
So be it.
Instead of imagining sinking in to her warm, inviting sex, he should be analyzing all she had told him.
As he’d questioned her, more and more details of her encounter had emerged. The level of attention the witch had paid her was disconcerting. Hewouldcome for her eventually. Of that Orik was sure. It was only a question of when.
It had been wise of Jessie to lead the fiend to believe she was a witch. The ruse very well could have saved her life…for now. But what would happen when he discovered she had no magical abilities?
Even speculating spiked his blood pressure.
The instant Jessie described his features, icy dread had scratched down his back. The mention of a scar down the left side of his face brought back memories of Orik’s childhood captors, one in particular…
The shackles on his scrawny arms and legs bound him with magic and kept him weak. A crack in the moldy stone alcove allowed a sliver of light into his cell. His cough was worsening by the day, his lungs coated with dust from the dirty floor. Numerous roots snaked in and out of the soil, making it impossible to find a comfortable position.
He was kept in a cellar. His captors lived above him, in a cottage he’d only seen a handful of times on those rare occasions when they took him out into the day; not because they were afflicted with compassion for the constant stiffness in his muscles, but to see if they could coax his first change.
One day Rathmort, the most vicious of his captors, took him outside. Even though there had been heavy cloud cover, the brightness of the day had stung his eyes, momentarily blinding him.
He recalled the scent of intoxicating rain on the horizon, the fresh, bitter cold air filling his soot-ridden lungs, and he remembered what joy was. But it would not last. They were growing more and more impatient for his change, their tactics becoming more brutal.
Most who had reached his age had gone through the transformation by now.
Was he suppressing it somehow? Was that even possible? Or was it the enchanted cuffs he’d worn since the day of his capture that kept him too calm and docile for a beast of pure energy to be born? He thought that was what they’d suspected, too, because they’d begun removing the cuffs for these outings.
In his old life, the day of his change would have been a celebrated affair. Now it would be the day they would harvest him for their spells.
As they had done to his parents.
Rathmort enjoyed repeating that nasty bit of information to a terrified child, telling him how they would carve up his body as he slowly died. Orik fantasized about ripping his throat out and showing him his own larynx.
But only his dragon would have the strength to fight these fiends. His father had once explained the transformation as an explosion of power so great as to be unfathomable. His first shift would be his one and only chance at escape.
For weeks, the witches had argued in front of him about whether they should cut their losses and simply kill him, casually arguing over his “worthless” life. It was becoming a nuisance to keep him fed, though they barely remembered to toss him scraps. Some days he wished theywouldjust end his life. End his suffering. Get it over with.
But today, something in him had changed, like a mold breaking, reshaping, and recast. Somehow, a spark had lit within him. And he knew this was the day.
Facing Rathmort, Orik lifted his manacled hands for Rathmort to remove the chains. Sneering down at him, Rathmort waved his hand over the chains, and the sickly-sweet stench of magic permeated the air, making Orik’s stomach turn. The shackles fell to the ground with a clank.
An unfamiliar determination filled him. Dead or alive, he’d never don those chains again, but he kept his expression subdued, his eyes lowered, not giving anything away.
He felt the strength of the dragon unfurrowing within him, as though it were stretching and yawning, ready and eager to take control; Orik was ready to let it, instantly trusting its instincts. The reflex was so natural. So innate. Already he considered he and his dragon one. Twin beings with a unified goal.
Lined on a table were the customary devices dedicated to his torture. Rathmort and his compatriots theorized torture would bring about the change faster than nature intended. Orik did not agree. For a year they had exercised their theory to no avail. Only now did he feel the spark of the dragon—because he was of age, not due to duress.
Rathmort idly tapped his chin, surveying the malignant offerings, though they both knew which ones he’d reach for: the whip with the spiked bulb at the end and the customary collar. The collar was like the manacles, only they were bespelled for the dragon, not the boy. To leash the beast once it emerged.
Orik’s previous obedience during these macabre outings had made Rathmort complacent, and when he turned his back for the briefest of moments, Orik freed his dragon.
Everything happened in the breath of a second. Fire consumed him. His bones cracked and twisted. Muscles bulged. His skin split as his body grew beyond the confines of its tight shell. Claws formed in his paws and hindquarters. Fangs dripped from his jowls. Sturdy wings stretched out on either side of him.
Never in his life had he been filled with such strength and power…or felt more ruthless. A carnal rage seethed though him. He bared his fangs for the first time and unfurrowed his wings, his muscles moving strangely, yet somehow familiar.
