Authors: Tessa Dawn
Saber stared at the discarded rose and sneered. “What do you want?” he whispered softly.
His voice was so cool, so measured, that Vanya could not tell if it was a question
or a threat.
“What do
I
want?” she repeated, surprised. “You are the one who asked for this meeting.”
“In order to try and please you,” he said.
Vanya drew her arms to her chest and gripped her shoulders with her hands, feeling
suddenly chilled and exposed. “Do you always say whatever comes to your mind?”
“No,” he answered plainly.
She ran her fingers through her hair nervously. “Very well…” As she searched for a
way to answer his question, her mind raced ahead in a dozen directions. Finally, she
settled on the truth: “If you must know what I want, Dragon, I would like you to discard
all of your deceits, empty gestures, and false niceties, if only for a moment.” She
gestured emphatically with her hands. “If you would like to waste this very brief
opportunity with gamesmanship, then feel free; but if you would like to use it to
your advantage, then you might consider telling the truth while you still can.” Saber
opened his mouth to speak, but she quickly cut him off. “I am not finished, Dragon.
Let us speak candidly to save time: The way I see it, you could have killed me that
night in your cell, but you didn’t. I imagine that has you perplexed.” She shrugged
and shook her head. “It shouldn’t. You were simply caught off guard, and you had not
yet taken the time to weigh the pros and cons of our
situation
, to decide whether or not I might be of any use to you alive, before deciding to
dispatch me.” Despite herself, she shivered. “Luckily for me, you will not get another
chance.” She sighed then. “Alas, now you have come to the conclusion that you do need
me, after all, to live. That you played your hand entirely wrong, and now, you must
make up for it.” She rolled her eyes in unconcealed disgust. “I am not a twenty-nine-year-old
redhead who is lonely, confused, and easily preyed upon—you will not find a willing
pawn in your game this time, Mr. Alexiares.” They both knew what she was referring
to, the plot Saber had hatched, along with Salvatore Nistor, to go after Kristina
Silivasi while Nachari was still stuck in the Abyss. The Dark One had cloaked his
appearance to look like Ramsey Olaru, and he had practically seduced—and killed—the
unsuspecting female before her brothers caught onto the scheme and stopped him. It
was how he had been caught by the sons of Jadon in the first place.
Saber let out a slow, deep breath, but he didn’t defend his actions.
Looking him calmly up and down, she continued: “So, as long as that’s clear—and we
both know what you’re doing—the next move is yours. By all means, proceed, Dark One.”
Saber’s eyes narrowed with astuteness. He looked her up and down in turn, measuring
her from the soles of her boots to the roots of her hair, and then he licked his lips.
“So, you’re not an idiot?”
She gulped. “Pardon me?”
“Knowing exactly what I am, and having disarmed your protection, you came into my
cell in the middle of the night, completely vulnerable and exposed, and you goaded
a wild animal—an instinctive predator—into a heightened state of arousal. And then
you took great offense when I pounced.” He watched her like a circling hawk, as if
he could measure the slightest changes in her body rhythms with his eyes. She wondered
whether or not he could sense that her breath was shallow; hear that her heart was
sputtering; or tell that her palms were sweating as well.
“Even now,” he continued, “the thought of it is as deeply stirring to your blood as
it is terrifying.” He pursed his lips. “I’m just saying that it’s good to know you’re
not an idiot.”
Vanya rolled her eyes then, perturbed. “Well, isn’t that lovely: You look at me and
see…
not an idiot.
I’d hardly call that progress.”
The corner of Saber’s mouth turned up in a wolfish grin, wild, unrestrained, and hungry.
“That’s not all I see,” he said.
“Oh really?” she asked, measuring him for signs of deceit.
He shrugged. “You are a princess, but not an idiot. I am a monster, but not a blind
one. You are a beautiful female, Princess Vanya, and your presence incites my primal
nature. That’s just a fact.”
Vanya flinched. “Does such crude flattery work for you often?”
“No,” Saber said bluntly. “I’ve never needed flattery before: Dark Ones take what
they want.”
Vanya shrank back this time. “And you’ve decided that you
want
me? To get you through the Blood Moon?”
“Yes,” Saber said, catching her off guard with his candor. “As long as we’re telling
truths.” He held up his shackled hands then. “But that wasn’t meant as a threat.”
He leaned closer to her and spoke in a hushed, conspiratorial tone. “I attacked you
in my cell because that’s what dragons do when innocent maidens enter their lairs,
but now”—he gestured toward the dark blue sky and the hundreds of stars that sparkled
above them—“now, we walk side by side as equals in this deadly dance. I want your
submission, but I also want your
permission
.” He eyed her appreciatively, and she almost slapped him.
Almost.
She was too afraid of what Napolean, the sentinels, and Nachari might do; and she
was equally aware of the thundering curiosity pounding a frantic rhythm in her chest—what
would it be like for a princess, a woman who had been raised to know only rigid control,
irreproachable honor, and unfailing good manners to give in, just once, to the shadows
in her own soul, to be swept away on a wave of unrestrained carnal power, to let herself
live, feel, and forget her place, if only for one night?
She checked her reaction.
And then she quickly snapped out of it.
The monster would surely burn her, and then he would kill her, consuming what little
light was left in her soul. He would emerge victorious, and she would emerge deeply
damaged.
Vanya felt completely disarmed. She had to get the upper hand back. As long as they
were telling truths, perhaps she should dig a little deeper into a matter that unsettled
Saber. “Tell me of your father.”
She had quickly changed the subject, and his face registered his disappointment, but
only for a moment. His carefully controlled mask of indifference returned. “Rafael?”
he asked, sounding uncertain.
“No, Dragon: We are only speaking truths here tonight. Tell me of Damien.”
Saber exhaled so sharply that a high-pitched whistle escaped his lips. “Vanya…” He
seemed to be searching for the right words. “There is nothing I could tell you that
you would care to hear.”
So they were on a first-name basis now? Vanya frowned. “Ah, I see—well, Rafael then.”
She paused to consider her next words. “Have you seen the Ancient Master Warrior’s
chest?”
Saber frowned. “Have I seen—”
“Rafael’s chest,” she repeated.
“No, of course not. How could I? Why?”
Vanya angled her body to face him, at least partially, as they walked. The ATV trail
took a sharp right turn and sloped downward, heading into a heavily treed area that
was bordered by a high ridge, with several exposed tree roots protruding out of a
nearby hedge on one side, and a steep, ominous ravine on the other. The section of
trail was both riveting and haunting, much like the male who walked beside her. “Rafael’s
chest—his flesh—is very difficult to look at.”
Saber eyed her curiously.
“It is so covered in scars and leathered skin that it looks like something one might
find on an alligator.”
Saber frowned in confusion. “Vampires don’t scar. Not as long as we take the time
to heal our wounds with venom.”
Vanya swallowed hard and nodded. “’Tis true, Dragon, and perhaps that is the point.”
She looked off into the distance before casting her eyes back on the path before them.
“The way Lorna explains it, Rafael blames himself for the night you were taken. He
believes he should have sent a sentinel to watch over his wife and son when he left
to make the sacrifice. Things were so different then, the way the villages and homes
were spread out. They never could have conceived of such a thing occurring.” She smoothed
her blouse without thinking. “At any rate, every year, on the anniversary of your
abduction, the warrior draws a freshly sharpened dagger across his heart in remembrance.
Perhaps he seeks to renew the pain—or to atone for his sin—who knows, but he has never
healed the wounds. After eight hundred years, his flesh is a veritable wasteland,
and his pain is ever present.”
Despite his typical poised demeanor, Saber’s face registered his shock. His alluring,
olive-toned skin turned pale, and his dark piercing eyes grew hazy with shadows. Swallowing
his revulsion, he whispered, “What do you hope to accomplish by telling me this?”
Vanya shrugged. “It is simply a fact.”
He shook his head. “I don’t have those…kinds of emotions, Vanya.”
Vanya smiled faintly. “You do, Saber.” Before he could argue, she added, “You may
not know what to call them, perhaps you can’t even connect with them, but you do have
them just the same.”
Choosing calloused indifference over hurt or empathy, Saber chose a flippant reply:
“Well, perhaps my true father and my brothers, Dane and Diablo, will do the same for
me when I’m gone.”
“Your father cannot,” Vanya responded without thinking. “But perhaps your brothers
will…if they live.”
Saber’s head listed to the side then, and his dark eyes flashed with indignation.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Vanya studied him carefully. He didn’t appear to be playing games. “Have you not yet
been told about the missive—the request sent to the king from the house of Jaegar?”
Saber frowned, all vestiges of game-playing gone. “No…tell me.”
“Your father, he’s been sentenced to death, the day after tomorrow; and your brothers
have yet to stand trial…for treason.”
Saber spun around so quickly Vanya never saw him move. Despite his restricting manacles,
he reached out and grabbed her by the wrist, clutching the slender bone entirely too
hard. Before she could try to wrench her hand free, a muffled groan escaped his lips,
and he shot into the air, his legs dangling beneath him, his feet twitching erratically:
Napolean Mondragon was standing directly beneath him, his right arm extended upward,
his powerful hand clenched around the male’s throat, and the king was tightening his
fist into a lethal noose.
“Milord!” Vanya exclaimed. She reached up to swipe at Napolean’s arm. “Please, stop.
I…I startled him. I told him about the missive.”
Napolean seemed lost in a red haze as Vanya tried to pry his hand loose from Saber’s
throat, one finger at a time, to no avail. She prayed the king would not act too hastily,
too soon. There was always time for retribution later, and it would be better if the
Blood claimed its pound of flesh at the end of the moon than if Napolean had to do
it, right here and now.
Not for this reason.
Not because the male was about to lose the only father he had ever known.
“Please, milord,” she pleaded. “He wasn’t trying to hurt me.” She glared at Saber,
demanding his cooperation with her eyes. “Were you?”
Despite the fact that the male’s airway was cut off and his eyes were beginning to
bulge out of his head, he gritted his teeth and grunted, “No…I’m…sorry.”
Napolean slowly relaxed his hand, but he continued to hold the prisoner in the air
above him. Nachari bounded down from the highest branch of a tree and perched just
beyond the male’s reach, snarling with deadly intent. One nod from Napolean, and Saber
was dead.
“For heaven’s sake,” Vanya cried. “Both of you, stop this at once!
Let him go
.”
Napolean slowly lowered Saber to the ground. And then, in one swift motion, he released
Saber’s neck, extended his claws, and swiped a wicked gash from Saber’s left temple
to the corner of his right mouth, leaving a hole so deep that Vanya could see through
the fissure to the bone underneath.
“Milord!” she exclaimed, horrified.
Saber winced in pain, but he never cried out. He simply released his own incisors,
leaked venom onto his hand, and tried to heal the wound. His venom was too weak. They
had been keeping him starved since he got there.
Frantic, Vanya turned to the sentinels for help. “Santos? Saxson? One of you?”
The males stood their ground. They would only take orders from their king.
Napolean shrugged his muscular shoulders and regarded the bloody, shaken prisoner
with disdain, his silver-and-onyx eyes flashing a clear, unmistakable warning. “He’ll
live,” he snarled. “And if he doesn’t give us further cause to kill him, we’ll treat
the wound when he returns to his cell.” He turned to Saber and spoke in a whisper.
“Touch her again.
I dare you
.”
Saber cupped the palms of his shackled hands over his face and slowly stood to his
full height. “It was an accident…unintentional.” Vanya absently reached up to pull
his hands away from the wound, and he jerked away from her touch. He leveled a cautionary
glare in her direction. “Stop. It’s nothing.”
Vanya drew back, admonished. Of course he would think it was nothing. It was a matter
of self-respect, of pride. The language of warriors. Saber could not fight back—he
could not even heal himself—so this was his defense, remaining unfazed.
In a subsequent act of defiance, Saber turned his full attention on Vanya, and in
a remarkably genuine voice, he asked, “Did I hurt you, Princess?”
Vanya took an unwitting step back and swallowed. She looked down at her wrists and
rubbed her hands over the bruises. “No, I’m…I’m fine.”
“I didn’t mean to,” Saber said, following the bluish lines on her pale flesh with
his eyes. When Vanya shrugged her shoulders, dismissing the statement, he repeated.
“
I didn’t mean to
.”
For whatever reason, Vanya knew he meant it. The dragon had breathed fire, again,
only this time it had burned him back. She nodded. “’Tis not fatal, Dragon.”