Page 49 of The Dragon Warlord
There’s no doubt that he will. In the weeks following his punishment, he’s changed. The dragon lord has introduced a new discipline style for him and it’s calmed Tristan’s mind. Our bond has settled some too. “Enough,”as the Warlord says. It’s almost unheard of for a bond to remain as unsettled as ours has for this long. I’m hopeful that it will smooth out, but Tristan doesn't think it will.
“I know you know more about this kind of thing,” he had said to me as he brushed my wild hair off my face after an intense sword duel. We were both panting and sweaty. I had admitted to him how much I still ached, and he confirmed that the ache had not left him either. “But it’s a feeling I have that goes deep to my bones. I think we have to learn to live with it, Riv.”
I don’t care what I have to live with for him, but I don’t want him to always be fighting the ache of me.
“Let’s get lunch,” he says. “That way I’m well fed before my arse gets a skelping when Lady Amira finds out that Ikara is a member of our secret fight club.”
Orange sunlight pours in from the tall windows. His face cracks into a smile that can only mean utter adoration. The Warlord’s love of me is obvious and he never hides it. It was instant love for me—when I first laid eyes on him—but a realization hits me on the head, one that seems obvious now, but escaped my awareness.
I don’t just love Tristan. I’m in love with Tristan.
The first kind of love for him is acceptable. The second kind isn’t.
He has a hard enough time accepting our bond. He still hasn’t forgiven himself for biting me in the first place. There’s an apology embedded somewhere into every day either verbally or through his actions. His morals are too strong, and he’ll never allow himself to be in love with me under those circumstances.
But I love him so fucking much. I vow on the spot to love him with steadfast endurance for the rest of our lives together. I get more from our bond than I ever thought I’d have and it’s enough.
His hand slides against my face and I grip it while inhaling his scent at the same time. Touch has become part of our day. As regular and as normal as breathing. I sink into him and close my eyes.
“What are you thinking about, Omega?”
“How much I adore you, Alpha.” My lids flutter open.
“I-I adore you too, Omega.”
There’s a change in his breathing. It slows along with his heart rate. He licks his lips and he’s still touching me. Touch is the only thing that soothes our mutual ache. A brief moment of relief from the constant torment it is to be away from each other. Sometimes, it takes all my will not to cry out when he pulls away from me. Sometimes, like now, I need more and his lips against mine would be a sweet reprieve.
Licking his lips, he remains trapped by my gaze, brushing a thumb softly along the crest of my cheekbone. He leans in. It’s about to happen. I’m going to get my first kiss from the only man I have ever wanted to kiss me.
A shrill cry breaks out from beyond the door. We pull apart as more cries echo their way up the corridor.
“What the…?” he says.
“Attack. I think there’s an attack.”
“Guess that means we’re up. Grab your sword.”
I scoop it from where I left it on his desk and keep it in my hand as the chime of steel breaks the air declaring the arrival of the Warlord’s sword. We run into chaos. Hordes of dragons run in every direction, snatching up their children as they scream.
Inhaling, I try to detect any bit of scent in the air that doesn’t belong. Tristan is well ahead of me. “That way,” he shouts.
Following him out of the hallway, we enter a large open area. There’s a massive fountain with one of Father’s deviant statues in the center. The walls climb skyward. The balconies to every level of this section of The Tower can be viewed by looking up the pearlescent swirl. The place is swarmed with panicked dragons, trying to find their way to safety.
That’s when I detect the putrid stench of a thousand rotting corpses. “There, Warlord,” I shout over the din. “A Wasteland beast. They’re created in the underworld.” But they live in the Wastelands.
“Shite,” Tristan says. “How do I fight that? I don’t have any command of dark magic.”
“Yes, you do.” I smile. “You’re a dragon, Warlord.”
“Yeah. A dragon who doesn’t know how to be a dragon.”
“It was my understanding that you were proficient in swordplay, Warlord. Whack it with your sword.”
“Oh, sure. He picks now to get cheeky with me,” he says, but I think he likes it. “Dammit. That’s probably something I should have figured out by now. If I live through this, I’m going to hear about it.”
Through the open archway, the giant winged beast slices across the crowd, swiping its long claws and hurtling dragons into each other.
“Gods damn it!” Tristan shouts. He spins across the open foyer, letting his jacket flare and flying straight into the thick of the danger. I follow after him as quickly as I can, but his legs are longer than mine. He can’t fight this creature on his own. It’s four times the size of him.
