Page 11 of Ashborne: Defiance

He was home.

I almost laughed into his mouth, and pulled him closer, heart racing even faster when his grip tightened as surely as mine.

I was dragged under the surface, drowning in him. And gladly.

In my world, married love, and especially physical intimacy, were singularly regarded as disappointing. Firmly placed in the realms of duty, while those same engagements outside the marriage bed were painted in shame.

There was no love in noble marriage, only obligation. Faithfulness was a chore. A state to be endured for the good of the family name, and the purity of blood.

I’d always wished for more than simple reproduction. I yearned for connection. To be seen. Heard. Valued for something within me, something other than my name, or bloodline.

Yet, when I grew old enough that the whispers of the women were no longer silenced when I entered a room, my oddness had already become apparent, and most of the men showed a particular wariness.

They did not see me as a prize.

Then, I learned that most men and women believed the only real passion came in the forbidden, the thrill of a hidden tryst. The risk of shame and scandal.

As much as I’d wished I could gladly give myself up to those fancies that the women described—though, they always kept their words to innuendo, because I wasn’t married—in truth, I had no appetite for more secrets, or shame.

My parents loved each other. But they’d never shown heat. And the noble women I’d met who were enthralled, who sought heat, did so with those outside the marriage bed.

I couldn’t help but observe that, in the event one of these affaires was uncovered, it was the women whose lives tumbled to nothing, while the men who’d tumbled them might sweat for a few months, even years. Yet never truly lose much beyond the respect of those who maintained some semblance of honor.

So, with no hunger for scandal, no resilience for shame, and no willing husband on the horizon, I had made it to twenty-three years old—almost twenty-four—without being touched by a man.

And in recent months, as my parents spoke of debt and honor and the need to replenish the estate’s wealth, as I faced a cage of their reluctant making, I’d told myself I was missing nothing. That the romantic fancy of a man whose eyes followed you in a room, and whose hands twitched only for your skin, was nothing but a myth to entice naïve girls into marriages with men they wouldn’t otherwise choose.

The married women said so, I reminded myself. Their giggles and sly looks were never for their husbands.

Slowly, my hope of passion, love, and tenderness, faded away.

Still, I had attended the Festival of Lights to enjoy my final freedom, and with the last shred of a chance that somewhere in the noble clans was a young man who might at least hold my heart.

I’d scanned the ballrooms for any forgotten young heir that might be my estate’s saving grace, while still teasing a smile from my lips, so I might not be forced to marry a peer of my father’s. But I’d carried no real hope of even an interesting prospect. Let alone passion.

Then I met Bren, and her general, Donavyn Arsen. And I watched a man of power and status be nothing short of consumed.

That little voice I’d been stifling, that tiny flame of hope, leaped to life. A candle nearly snuffed out, but swelling to ignite a fire.

But on reflection, my future seemed even more hopeless.

The thoughts swam through my foggy head in snatches, between heaving breaths and desperate kisses. Bringing with them sudden, inexplicable joy.

I’d been wrong.

They’d been wrong.

The proof was right here, in the circle of my arms. His breath heaving even more than mine. His body responding to mine. Hands trembling with want as he stroked me and sent flames roaring through my veins fit to start a forest fire.

Vane offered such delight, such relief, I let my head fall back, out of the kiss, inhaling deeply and gripping his hair as he dropped his chin to kiss down my neck and send an entirely new wave of pleasure coursing through me.

I would never have offered myself this way to any man. But to him?

Nothing had ever felt so right.

“You are… mine,” I gasped, an echo of that breathless thought the female dragon had shared with me.

Vane went still, his face buried under my jaw, his delicious fingers still delving my body.