Page 43 of The Forbidden Dragon King
I swallow my dread. “I’m kinky as the next fae, but why don’t we keep the chains for the next date?”
War backhands me, knocking me to my knees.
I taste the coppery tang of blood from my split lip. Rain hammers harder against my head.
My hands clutch the sodden leaves, which mix now with the ash of my loved ones. I duck my head. My curls fall over my face.
My own tears can finally be hidden in the streaming rain, as they fall down my cheeks.
“I won’t be chained in iron,” I hiss. “Kill me.”
War gives me a long, level look. “I wish that I fucking could.” Then she leans closer and whispers, “What if I told you that some of your soldiers have survived and have been captured too? If you play nice, little fae, then perhaps you can make a deal, before you’re executed? Isn’t that what you feathered fucks are meant to be good at?”
My head snaps up.
I study her stony expression, trying to read her. She doesn’t appear the type to trade in trickery, unlike me.
But who the hell knows? My entire world has been unmade today.
Swallowing, I hold out my hands, winking. “I’m all yours, Alpha.”
War grabs my hands deliberately hard and snaps the manacles around them.
I can’t hold back the wince.
The iron burns my skin. Worse,so much bloody worse, is the way that instantly, a veil slams down, blocking me from both my magic and flying ability.
My shadows scream in protest, wrapping themselves around my wings, as if they can somehow protect them.
Wrong, wrong, wrong.
Where are my shadows?
Am I weeping? Or is that the shadows bleeding from me?
My wings settle back on my shoulders like they know that I can’t fly now.
It’s devastating.
I keel over, dropping my forehead onto the forest floor with a keen. Around me, the dragon shifters laugh and jeer.
Their mocking makes me flush.
“Silence!” War orders, and the soldiers fall quiet. “And you, up.” She grabs me around the upper arm, hauling me back onto my knees. “You’re notmine, fae. I’m a one Omega Alpha, and he’d bite your tongue off if he heard you flirting.”
“Promises, promises.”
War backhands me again.
“Always the face,” I slur, sucking on my broken lip. “I’m too pretty to bruise. At least go for the stomach.”
War arches her brow and then kicks me in the stomach.
I should have learned by now.
My mouth can get me in or out of trouble, and right now, bound in iron, I’ve lost everything else.
I am about to be led to my execution. I have only the slight hope of a deal for soldiers who may already be shades.
