Page 19 of Burned Alive to Be His
She rips her foot from the mud with a furious squelch and glares at me, her violet eyes promising a slow, painful death. But the laughter of the males, particularly the warriors, has taken the teeth from her threat. She cannot retaliate now without looking like a petulant child.
With a final, venomous look, she turns and stalks away, her companions scurrying after her, trying to stifle their own horrified giggles.
I stand my ground until they are gone, my heart hammering in my chest. I have won. It is a small victory, a temporary one, but it is mine. I look around. The dragons who witnessed the event are looking at me differently. Not with friendship, not with acceptance, but with a new, grudging respect. I am not just a victim. I am a survivor who bites back.
My eyes find Xvitar. He is standing near the entrance to his own cavern, having witnessed the entire exchange. His face is a hard mask of stone, his expression unreadable. But I see the flicker in his eyes, the barest hint of something that looks shockingly like approval. Or perhaps, amusement. He holds my gaze for a long, intense moment, then turns and disappears into the darkness of his cave.
The confrontation has left me shaking, but a strange sense of power, a feeling I have never known before, hums in my veins.
I turn back to my ruined shelter. The pelt is gone, my windbreak is scattered. It is a mess. But as I begin to patiently, methodically, rebuild my small wall of stones, I feel a shift in the air. I am still a prisoner. I am still a pawn.
But the game has changed. And I am learning how to play.
10
XVITAR
From the heat-hazed entrance of my cavern, I watch the aftermath of the human’s small, vicious victory. A grim, unwelcome satisfaction curls in my gut, a feeling I immediately crush. It is not pleasure I feel. It is approval. Approval of a tool that has proven itself unexpectedly sharp. The creature’s cunning is a resource, one that might just keep her alive long enough to be useful. Her humiliation of Phina was a strategic, effective maneuver. Nothing more.
The lie is thin, brittle as cooled lava. The truth is, the sight of Phina, so perfect and proud, covered in stinking mud while the warriors of my clan roared with laughter, was the most amusing thing I have seen in years. The human did not use strength. She did not use magic. She used the weapons of the weak—observation and trickery—and with them, she brought a dragon to her knees.
I turn my back on the scene, the sound of the clan’s laughter still echoing outside. I stride deeper into the warmth of my cavern, the air thick with the essence of hot stone and my own power. I should be training. I should be focusing on the growing threat of Grakar and his faction. Instead, my thoughtsare consumed by a slip of a human who smells of the sea and defiance.
She is a complication. A disruption to the natural order of things. Before she arrived, my path was clear: grow stronger, challenge Vorlag when the time was right, and lead my people through strength, not through clinging to the tattered threads of a dying prophecy. Now, that path is shrouded in a strange, irritating fog. And the fog has a name. Judith.
A movement at the entrance to my cavern draws my attention. Phina stands there, a silhouette against the harsh afternoon light. She has cleaned herself, her platinum hair once again a perfect, intricate braid, her scales shimmering. But the mud is gone, the fury remains. It radiates from her in waves, a tightly controlled inferno just beneath her skin.
“May I enter, Xvitar?” she asks, her voice a low, melodic purr that does not quite conceal the sharp edges of her rage.
“You are already here,” I say, not bothering to turn fully toward her. I run a hand over the cool, smooth surface of a large, fossilized leviathan bone, one of the prizes of my hoard.
She glides into the cavern, her movements a study in predatory grace. She stops behind me, so close I can sense the heat of her body. “The clan laughs at me,” she whispers, her voice a venomous hiss. “Because of your pet.”
“If you are so easily felled by a creature with no claws and no magic, perhaps you deserve their laughter,” I say, my voice cold.
Her hands come to rest on my shoulders, her claws, sharp as obsidian shards, lightly tracing the lines of my muscles through my tunic. It is a touch that has brought lesser males to their knees. “She is a disgrace. A filthy, weak thing. You shame yourself by keeping her. You shame our people.”
“She survived the Serpent’s Maw,” I state, the fact a hard, undeniable stone. “That is more than some of our own warriors could do.”
“She was lucky,” Phina spits. “A rat’s luck. It will run out.” Her claws dig in slightly, a warning. “Cast her aside, Xvitar. Let Grakar have her for his sport, or let me finish what I started. Stand with me. Together, we are the strongest pairing in this clan. Our children would be true dragons, not the half-breed filth this prophecy demands.”
She moves around me, her eyes locking with mine. With a slow, deliberate movement, she unties the leather cords of her tunic. The garment falls to the floor, pooling at her feet. She stands before me, naked and magnificent, a perfect specimen of our kind. Her body is a landscape of power and grace, her muscles taut, her skin a flawless canvas of shimmering silver scales. Her breasts are high and full, her hips a warrior’s curve. She is everything a dragon male is taught to desire. Beautiful. Powerful. Proud.
She steps closer, pressing her naked body against mine. Her skin is cool, her scales smooth against my own. “Forget the human,” she murmurs, her lips brushing against my jaw. “Let me remind you what a real female feels like. Let me burn the memory of that pathetic creature from your mind.”
Her hands slide down my chest, over the hard planes of my stomach, toward the laces of my breeches. Her touch is practiced, skilled, promising a familiar, uncomplicated release. A year ago, a month ago, I would have taken her without a second thought, right here on the stone floor of my cavern.
But as she presses against me, as her scent of ozone and cold pride fills my senses, my mind conjures another image.
Judith.
I see her on the ursain pelt, her body a pale, fragile offering in the darkness. I remember the shocking softness of her skin, unadorned by scales. I remember the web of faint, silvery scars on her back, a map of a life I cannot comprehend. I remember the taste of her, a wild, desperate flavor of fear and a shocking,unwilling sweetness. I remember the way her body, so defiant in its will, came apart for me, her broken moans a symphony of surrender.
Phina is perfection. She is a flawless statue carved from obsidian and moonlight. But Judith… Judith is a raging, imperfect fire. And in this moment, I find myself craving the burn.
Phina’s perfection feels… sterile. Her practiced seduction feels hollow. Her touch lacks the raw, desperate friction of the human’s.
I grab her wrists, my grip like iron, stopping her hands just inches from their goal. Her eyes widen in shock.
