Page 28 of The Dragon Warlord
He does and I remove my jacket, tossing it on the bed. I then proceed to prowl around the room doing a fair impression of Hymta. My thoughts stray in many directions, but the most dominating thought, above missing my men, my family, and even the damn mircat, is how much I need to do something to make sure that River and everyone alive know he’s mine. The way I want to do that needs to get locked up tight in a box right fucking now.
Now I know how Alrik feels when he’s frustrated about a situation with me and can’t do anything about me.
“I need to destroy something,” I admit.
“D-Do you see why no one should lay claim—even familial—on a claimed omega, Warlord?”
I guess I’m beginning to see the wisdom in that too. It’s hard to shake the barbaric undertones, but it’s as much part of my biology as my Markaytian heritage is. As much as being an Elf is now written into every cell of me. I’m a dragon with dragon instincts.
He stands and tosses me my sword, which I catch. All that happens is a hot influx of my dragon’s blood. “I don’t think this is a good idea,” I say.
“Follow me, Warlord. If you don’t like it, disciplining me would work for you too.”
Disciplining him is appealing. Markings. He needs more marks on him to prove that he’s mine.
I tamp right down on that dangerous line of thinking.
We head to his room. I’m hit with a wave of his honeyed scent. It’s all over everything. It’s the antithesis of my burning blood. At the ring of steel, I turn to face River who’s pulled out his own magnificent sword.
“For some people, fighting is akin to … other physical activities.” Sex. He means sex. I’m glad he didn’t say it. “And, um.” He clears his throat. “Marking couldaccidentallyhappen.”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” I say.
“Maybe not in some ways.”
“I’m not a sadist.”
“You’re not and you might be surprised at how well I can fight. I earned this sword.” He spins it in his hand. “Do you think the dragon lord gives anything away?”
I smirk. My father is the same. “Sounds very Markaytian to me.” And it’s consequently the first thing that makes the place feel anything close to “home”.
* * *
I’ve never seen anything like River when he uses a sword. He cuts through the air in smooth, clean lines. His footwork is a dance. I’m almost too distracted watching him. Almost. Maybe it’s “alpha-ist” of me, but I feel the need to show him I’m an exceptional protector.
The sword has been in my possession since I woke up in this place, but I haven’t used it. Gripping the hilt with intent, focusing my thoughts on the battle that’s about to take place, a charge races through my hand and up my arm.
Of course.Dragon magic. The sword has been forged with it. River’s eyes are alive with it as he draws his own sword. Do I look the same? Feels that way. Magic courses through me like wild lightning.
Okay, this is awesome. River preens like a peacock. He knew I’d like this.
I swing hard and fast. My technique is different. A Markaytian foundation with a combination of what I’ve learned from two races of Elves. There’s Markaytian flavor to his dragon style, which means I can predict some of his moves, but there’s more. There are things I’d like to learn from him as well as things I’d love to teach him.
Each movement has ancient magic from my new sword woven into it and I find I have to sway with its power or be consumed by it and tire too quickly. When I work within the same vibration of the magic, it’s the opposite effect, each cut of my sword is easier and smoother. I don’t have to work as hard for the same result as if the sword is guiding me through battle.
We parry across his room, murdering pillows and anything that gets in our way. We end up bruised and cut, but he was right, I’ve worked off the feelings of wanting to end anyone for looking at him. I like the marks I’ve left on him with my sword. He admires the ones he’s left on me—is an omega marking their alpha a thing?
River is one of the best swordsmen I’ve ever encountered. I could sit back and watch him dance with his deadly dragon-forged weapon all day.
“I apologize, River. I want you to have your parents in your life. I didn’t mean to be crazy.”
We’re on the veranda in his room with drinks—water for me, dragon honey ale for him—and food. “It’s what’s expected, Warlord. No one will think anything of it.”
“Are you closest with Simone?”
He nods. “I am. Even though all Father’s husbands are considered ‘my dads’, I spent the most time in Simone’s care.”
“Is there any chance you’re not referring to him as your dad because of me?” He doesn’t want to answer so I raise a brow. “River.”
