Page 48 of Fated to the Dragon Warlord

Darax takes my silence for agreement, and his lips meet mine in yet another blazing kiss which lifts me onto my tiptoes and sets my body on fire.

So, when he releases me suddenly, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth, I’m left hanging.

Because I’m clearly an idiot.

A beautiful, beautiful idiot because I let him do this to me. He might have shed his skin, but he got under mine so very easily.

Darax leads me through the ship to the dining hall. It’s filled with Sarkarnii, like it usually is, the occasional fight breaking out as these dragon men seek to dominate, to eat, to challenge. Not unsurprisingly, we spend the least amount of time here, mostly opting to use the food dispenser in our quarters.

A low rumbling growl from Darax sends them scattering to the far end, the noise a large group of males usually makes abating.

He signals to one of the warriors charged with what can only ever be crowd control and gestures for me to take a seat next to the large throne he always uses.

Several platters are brought over to us and placed in front of Darax reverentially.

“Ah,” he says, “my favorite…when I’m not eating you.”

KERRA

Igape at Darax. Just when I think he’s not going to come out with something unhinged, he manages to prove me wrong.

He dips a finger into a pot containing a red paste and puts it in his mouth, sucking on the digit until it is clean.

“You are sweeter,” he says.

My treacherous core clenches. A growl ripples through Darax.

“This was a bad idea,” he murmurs.

“You’re telling me!”

“Your scent will send my warriors wild,” he rasps. “That means I will have to remove their heads from their bodies.”

He glances over his shoulder where the dining hall is swiftly emptying.

“And I spent so long training them.”

“You can’t do this,” I say. “It’s not fair.”

“My warriors, my ship, my rules,” Darax rumbles. “They know when to fight and when to find somewhere else to be.”

“But they still need to eat.”

“Ah, little mate, always thinking of others and not herself.” Darax trails a finger over my cheek. “No wonder your kind are not warlords.”

“I think you’ll find humans have plenty of monsters,” I retort.

Darax’s mouth reveals an impressive set of fangs as he grins. “But not warlords,” he suggests.

“Not like the Sarkarnii, although plenty of humans do what you do.”

“And what is it I do”—Darax settles himself into his chair like a hen on eggs, cocking his head to one side to contemplate me—“that you dislike so much? I provide for my warriors. I provide for most of Vorostor Central. We have meat, we have ale-wine, we have a good life, as far as we can.”

“But you’re exploiting others.”

Darax leans forward. “Believe me, little snack, there is no exploitation. They are glad of our protection, and if for any reason they cannot provide the supplies we need, there are no consequences.”

“What?”

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