Page 2 of The Dragon Warlord
Someone with omega tendencies is naturally inclined to be chosen. Taken. They dream of the day their alpha will pick them from the probable potential mates.
Even I knew how right Father was before he’d mentioned anything to me. I have never been inclined to be alpha anything. In the fairy tales about alpha dragons choosing their mate, I always envisioned myself as the omega—like my father.
The dragon lord himself is proudly omega-leaning and a brat. Only now he’s an alpha to one, which my older brother Keldrid finds hysterical.
Before today, I’d stood in many lines, hoping I wasn’t chosen. I knew the dragon Warlord would come and I wanted to be in his lineup.
There were a few times a potential alpha took interest in me, inhaling my scent, and enjoying it before moving on to the others. Even when I was glossed over, the potential took their time getting to know the scents before letting instinct take over.
But, on rare occasions, an alpha will stride over to “their one” without glancing at the others. This happens less often because when the scent of attraction is that strong, the dragons usually find each other long before an arrangement takes place and Father always approves of what’s known as a soul bond.
An alpha might choose, but an omega falls. There are many ways to fall. It’s not always love or even friendship. In the case of my younger brother, Aynnie, his alpha is more like a mentor. That works better for some.
The Warlord strides in. He’s feral, eyeing the lineup like the predator he is.
Thirteen hundred years was not enough to prepare me for him. He robs me of breath. He’s taller than I am by at least a foot and a half. I’m just over six feet—small for a dragon—so he’s got to be well over seven feet tall, close to eight. He’s … He’s an Elf. His Elven ears stand high above his temples and his long black hair whips with each click of his boots against the white stone beneath his feet.
We are in the Hallway of Choosing. All choosings happen here. It’s a long stretch of stone, with a lower ceiling than in most of The Tower, but still high enough for a full-grown dragon to mosey through if necessary. There are long purple carpets and several windows, but it’s dark and the only light is in the form of orbs of dragon magic hovering in intervals along the corridor.
The Warlord’s gleaming metallic red collar glints under the incandescent white light. It fits against his neck as if it were part of it. Father’s bite sits over and under it on the right side of his neck. It’s red and still healing, but unlike the rest of him that would heal smoothly that bite mark will leave a proper scar.
I can’t wait to see what it looks like.
It’s called a choosing, but most of the time the alpha has as much choice as the omega does. However, the pairing largely relies on the alpha’s ability to smell who is the best match and so it’s the alpha’s senses that determine which one they’ll take. The alpha will be drawn to one of us more than all the others. This is the natural way of things.
Of course, anyone can bite anyone else, and a bond can be struck, but unless a dragon seeks control over another it’s not desirable. Dragons would rather have their match. It’s regrettable when a dragon has to be controlled. I suspect that to be the case with the dragon Warlord and Father though I’m not certain. If the prophecies are true—and one look at him makes me think they’ve got to be—Father needs to keep a tight leash on his dragon Warlord.
The Warlord has beautiful dragon teeth that sit against his lower lip when his mouth is closed, but he bares them into a snarl as he gets closer. Anyone can see he’s still not himself. Still more animal than the animal with a blend of human that most of us are.
Or would it be Elf instead of human in his case?
His sapphire eyes lock with mine and I know in that heartbeat that he’s already chosen without having to smell the others or consider them in any way. Even though we all know how this works, we can’t help but boast as to whether we were chosen for our strength, our intelligence, or our good looks. Some believe there are several biological factors at play that will attract an alpha to you. I believed that too, until today. Surely, if strength is what the Warlord wanted, he would have picked Keldrid. If he wanted ferociousness, he would have gone with Ikara. There are plenty of my other siblings if he wanted an omega with strong inclinations for the gift.
And while I have my own admirable attributes, there is no way he could conceive them by scent alone.
As he heads straight for me, something else happens that I rarely experience. My cock swells near to bursting. I’ve never been more turned on in my life. With him like that, eyes glowing and so … some-focused, my length fills faster than ever before.
No one else in the room matters. He doesn’t see them and neither do I. Everything has fallen away as blurry edges. He reaches me and presses the palm of his hand to the small of my back and I arch not to get away from him, but to let my torso bend toward him. Without hesitation, I open my neck for him. Not just to make it easier for him. I’m compelled. A greater force is at play. We’re running on instinct.
“Mine,” he growls before sinking his teeth into my proffered neck. His dragon is still at the helm even with him shifted to his Elven form, cognizant but animal. I want to tell him that I’m his, but the bite burns and I can’t push the words out. Many pass out from the pain. Even he did.
I fight to stay awake. I don’t want to miss a moment of it no matter how painful.
He chose me. His dragon chose me.
The world slams back into my awareness, briefly, until I’m writhing in pain. Dragons are used to their blood getting white-hot, but this is beyond that. More like the way acid burns than fire does. The Warlord whines, distressed by my distress as he lifts me to his arms and it’s instinct for me to cling to his neck to prevent myself from flopping like a fish out of water.
“Let’s show the Warlord and his omega to his room. He’ll want to tend to him,” Father’s voice commands through the thick air. He’s already referred to me distantly as the Warlord’s omega. I’m not a dragon prince anymore. I don’t even have a name until the Warlord gives me one. It’s a special privilege given to the Warlord. He’ll be at the top of the chain of command and so becoming his omega comes with different rules than the standard alpha and omega bond.
It's okay that I’ve lost my name and my title. I’m something much better now. I’m his.
Inhaling his scent of smoke and sky brings some relief from the searing inferno wracking my limbs and there’s no place I’d rather be than in his arms.
“May I do it, Father?” Ikara asks.
“Absolutely not,” Father says. “Not on your own anyway. He’s still dangerous and you don’t have enough magic, my dear.”
“If she’s going in then so am I,” Rayne says.
