Page 139 of Dhampira

King.

Fireborn.

Dragon rider.

The scaled beast swooped through my mind, painting a lightning-forked sky across the back of my eyelids. Visions formed, dissolved, and reformed, showing me Lorcan’s life in flashes.

Black castles made of ash and glass, the spires twisting above dormant volcanoes. Orange lava flowing down active volcanoes. The trails traced over the land like veins webbing a giant’s skin.

Men in crimson robes. Women in dark gowns with dragonstone daggers on their hips. Ash in the air. Embers in the sky.

And everywhere, dragons.

The king never laughed, but he smiled when he soared on his dragon’s back.

Nymruk. The name formed and fled in a flash, the dragon’s red body undulating across my mind. Lorcan had bonded with him as a boy, the dragon’s voice filling his head.

Your blood flows in my veins. Your heart beats in my chest. Your breath fills my lungs. My life for yours. My life is yours.

The vows were sacred. In my mind, Lorcan leaned over Nymruk’s neck, his fangs bared in a broad smile and his fingers curled around Nymruk’s leather reins.

Lightning flashed, and the vision changed. An older Lorcan battled from the sky, his warriors dying around him. Dragons tumbled to the ground in a blur of broken wings. Villages burned. Bands of black-eyed vampires put Drachvi children and their mothers to the sword.

The vision flickered, and Lorcan knelt in a wide, empty hall, his face streaked with soot and a dragonstone crown on his head. Thunder boomed, and the black walls around him shuddered. He snapped his eyes open, red flames pulsing in the center of his black irises.

Lightning flashed again, and now Lorcan slid from Nymruk’s saddle. The red robes of the Drachvi dragon riders snapped around his thighs as he drew his sword and strode to the battlefield.

Nymruk rose behind him. In one swipe, the dragon ripped the robes from Lorcan’s back. Lorcan spun, and emotions paraded across his face.

Horror. Disbelief. Betrayal.

With another swipe of his claws, Nymruk forced Lorcan’s body around.

Then the dragon opened his jaws and sprayed fire over the king’s back.

Lorcan broke off our kiss. Pain showed in his eyes. The ballroom erupted in cheers. But Lorcan stared. He showed too much. He was going to give us away.

Throwing my arms around his neck, I smashed my mouth to his. Ash and blood coated my tongue as I kissed him. After a second, he kissed me back, one hand sliding around my waist.

Laughter rose above the applause. Lorcan and I parted, and Rasimir stepped into view.

“It appears this union will be a happy one.”

The laughter swelled, but I barely heard it as I squeezed Lorcan’s hand. We have to pretend. I could only hope he received the message. As my nerves started to fray, Lorcan tightened his fingers around mine.

Thank you, he said in my head. Wife.

The title was a drumbeat between my ears as he tugged me down, guiding me to my knees so we both knelt at Rasimir’s feet. After a moment of obeisance, we made our way to the dining room with the court trailing us. Rasimir presided over the head table, which seated his favorites. As a result, the air filled with flattery and brittle cheer. The laughter was a little too loud, the toasts too frequent. Blood-wine flowed, and the servants brought course after course of steaming food. Whatever magic infused my dress had faded, the silk over my thighs regular fabric once more. But the wife—delivered in Lorcan’s deep, telepathic rasp—remained.

He was a stoic presence at my side. He sipped his wine, and he replied politely when courtiers spoke to him, but he was otherwise still and quiet. My mind returned again and again to the ceremony and the visions I’d seen in Lorcan’s kiss. Dragons and fire. Blood and ash. Lorcan’s smile. Lorcan’s look of anguish when his dragon stripped the crimson robe from his back.

Questions circled my mind, but I couldn’t ask them. I could only sit next to my new husband and pretend. Pretending kept us both alive.

As the night wore on, the conversation buzzed louder. Collars were unbuttoned, and belts were loosened to accommodate more dishes, more desserts, more wine tapped straight from the vein. Shirts and jackets littered the floor and draped across the backs of chairs. Light shimmered on bare, sweaty skin. A woman straddled her partner’s lap, exposed her breasts, and then threw her head back as he sank his fangs into the puckered skin around her nipple.

“That’s Lord Mirador for you,” a male courtier shouted, leaning in his chair like he aimed for a better look. “Three glasses of blood-wine, and he goes straight for the source like he’s a babe on his mother’s tit.”

“What do you mean, babe?” another man asked. “I saw Mirador sucking on his bitch of a mother at a party two nights ago!”