Page 58 of The Dragon Warlord
The training fields are located in a protected and secluded area in the mountain ranges west of The Tower. It can only be accessed by flight or by portal. There are heavy blankets of protective magic over the main area where the army lives, which casts an eerie blue fluorescence over the expansive mountain range. The warriors are permitted to go home, but being warrior dragons, they would rather spend their days training.
The dragon Warlord is so handsome as he stands before his vast army of warriors with his chest held high. The sun hits his red-scaled jacket setting off an uproar of glimmer. He’s bulked up some and continues to every month. Our long hours of training have sculpted his sturdy physique into something formidable.
Sometimes I miss the carefree Tristan that was wiped from existence after Amira’s death, but I know that this one, the one that wears the austere mask of the dragon Warlord is the one we need and the one he wants to grow into. Thankfully, I don’t think he’ll ever lose his brattish charm or his proclivity for puckishness, he just hides it better.
With his Warlord’s mask in place, he addresses his warriors and it’s hard for me to follow suit with a similar mask when I’ve been listening to the “very important” notice number one he felt it imperative to address before anything else: Me. In other words, the proper conduct and protocol for interacting with his omega.
“No direct skin-to-skin contact,” he says. “Everyone working with him will have to wear gloves. The gloves are just a precaution as I understand that accidents will happen, but in general, you should not be touching him for any reason other than if he is hurt or needs help. If you touch my bite, may the Gods help you.”
Yeah, that last one. Tristan still hasn’t managed any bit of control over that one. I’m not even allowed to touch it. I’ve gotten good at avoiding it, but the other morning, it was itchy. It’s still skin after all. Without thinking I scratched it.
Tristan doesn’t remember pouncing me but thank, Drakon, his inner dragon recognizes my scent. It was still terrifying, and fuck, a turn-on, but the only reason he didn’t maul me is because his instincts are set to protect me at all times. He growled over top of me for a good long while, biting me more than once to prove that I’m his, to me and to himself, before he returned to his senses.
We don’t know what he’ll do to someone else, and he doesn’t want to find out. We came up with the glove solution together.
After some more instructions, all of which center around proper etiquette around his omega, he sends them off to do drills and then leans toward me to whisper in my ear. “Did I do okay, Omega? Was it too much?”
Whenever he uses “omega”, I know where he’s at. He wants to hoard me away. It’s a tad adorable.
“What’s too much, Alpha? Did you mean to skip the greeting?” I tease.
He frowns as realization dawns on him. “Shite. I didn’t even tell them my name. Fuck it. Everyone already knows my name and now they know the only other piece of information they should worry about while they’re here.”
“And what’s that, Alpha?”
He bares his dragon teeth. “If they touch you, they die.”
Smacking my arse,hard, he makes his point and then he leaves to bark other orders at his warriors. I’m left to die of heat with flushed cheeks and a stinging backside, a combo that sets my heart to bubbling with rapture.
And I can’t move.
It’s like the first time I set eyes on him, he takes my breath, and I’m lightheaded as I stare at him in that brilliant red Warlord’s jacket. It’s not just his height, his large chest, his rippling muscles—though none of that hurts—it’s the confident way he carries himself. It’s the energy that pours off him. He always has good intentions in his heart even if he fucks things up. Royally. He’s a good man and I can’t wait to see who he’ll become.
“You’re thinking awfully hard, Omega,” he says to me when he returns. I’ve stood where he left me, mesmerized by all that makes him,him.
I know he’ll want the truth and honesty, which he considers to be two different things. “I can’t put my finger on it. You’re more, um, in-charge like.”
He laughs. “I think the words you’re looking for are dominant and authoritative. I don’t think I’m quite changed yet, but I’m on my way to growing up for real this time. This is another step in the evolution.”
“Um, okay, Warlord.” I still don’t understand, but he’s being vague, and prying feels rude.
“Come here.”
I walk over to him with the sounds of swords clanging and warriors crying out their efforts in the background. Standing before him, I itch to drop to my knees but force myself to resist.
“Before I flew into the sky and ran away from my family, which was also the result of a giant temper tantrum because I didn’t want to listen to what was best for me, I thought I could change who I was. I gave up my sword, refused to fight and I was—for lack of a better term—a good boy.” He wrinkles his nose as if that term offends him.
“Sounds like a recipe for a disaster.”
“It was. My husband, Corrik, helped me confirm for the hundredth time that I am a brat. I love my brat self. I’ve developed that part of me over the past few years, but other aspects of my character haven’t had the chance to grow. If they don’t, I’ll never be the Warlord I want to be, and Riv? It’s all I’ve ever wanted in life.”
“It’s your destiny, Warlord.”
“I might be.” He winks. “But a Warlord has to be authoritative and dominant. A Warlord has to be steady. I’m too impulsive, it’s always been my downfall. A little is fun, but too much will cost lives. Emotions are beautiful, but they can ruin you if you give them too much dominion. They are not always right. They are not more important than the truth. They cannot be the foundation of an identity or that identity will be unstable because emotions are not stable.”
“But, Warlord, I love your passion.”
A smile breaks his face and reaches his eyes, and his long Elven ears give a delighted wiggle. “Not to worry, Omega. I will always live with passion.”
