“If it does not offend, I have no interest in the outcome of this proceeding.” He gestured casually toward the post where Mina stood on the tips of her toes, trembling and panting in fear, waiting for Dante to begin her beating. “I am not particularly interested in this specific Ahavi.” Now this was a risk. He was giving away his preference for the Autumn Mating—was it Tatiana or Cassidy? Dante wondered—and while the statement might very well backfire in the future, he had to sound convincing now. “At any rate,” Drake pressed on, “I would rather continue working on the figures, on the taxes, if you please.” He bowed his head in silent obeisance. “May I take my leave?”
The king pursed his lips together in thought, and then he grunted, not seeming to care one way or the other. “Very well.” He dismissed his last-born son with a flick of his wrist.
Dante waited until the dual heavy doors to the hall opened and closed behind Drake, knowing that he would head directly to Mina’s chambers to see about the other Sklavos Ahavi, Tatiana Ward. Once Drake was gone and his footfalls could no longer be heard receding down the corridor, he resumed his aggressive posture. “At your command, Father.”
The king sat back in his throne and nodded, and just like that, Dante drew back the whip, cracked it bluntly in the air, and pitched it forward toward Mina’s back.
The strike was deafening.
The leather sliced at an angle, making initial contact with Mina’s upper right shoulder and then angling down across her slender spine to pare her narrow waist. She jolted and screamed, her entire body shuddering from the violent contact, and Dante drew in a deep, steadying breath, braced his feet further apart, and struggled not to stagger.
Do not wince. Do not cry out. Do not show a reaction, he told himself, biting down so hard on his tongue that he drew his own blood.
Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen…
He counted the piteous lashes down as he wielded them, one after the other, throwing all the strength he had into their sting.
At ten, he almost faltered.
His vision grew blurry, and he wondered if he could continue. He clenched his eyes shut, but only for a moment, and then he forced them open, determined to press on.
Nine, eight, seven, six…
Mina dangled, limp against the post. She still continued to scream, but her cries had changed to guttural moans and whimpers, her body swaying more than trembling with each strike of the lash. She was doing well; whereas, Dante felt the magic slipping—he had to maintain just a little bit longer.
Focus, he told himself. Hold the spell.
Five, four, three, two…
He was going to vomit. The pain was unbearable.
Every lash, every spike, every bite of the whip had been transferred from Mina’s flesh to his own. Every ounce of pain and agony, every moment of terror and disgrace, was mystically contained, not in her delicate flesh, not biting deep into her trembling muscles, not tearing away at her shoulders—but at his.
Dante Dragona had transferred the lashing from Mina’s back to his own. The whip might have seemed to strike her skin, but it was his that was flayed to the bone. The illusion of crimson anguish, the sight of so many ghastly rivulets of blood, might have appeared on her back, but it was his flesh that was oozing, seeping, and broken. Thank the gods, he was the only Dragona born with the sacred magic, and the only one with occasional second sight.
His knees began to buckle beneath him, and he stiffened his spine once more, almost passing out from that single, vertical gesture.
One more.
He could endure one more.
Thwack!
The whip crackled through the air, and his fist began to tremble. Turning to face his father, he inclined his head in a gesture of deference—or at least he thought he did; he hoped he did—and then he began to make his way to the column.
He untied Mina’s wrists as if in a dream, working the knots like someone in a fog. He caught her body as it slumped from the pole and fell into his arms, and then he groaned inwardly as her weight pressed mercilessly against his battered flesh. He forced his powerful hamstrings to contract, his calf muscles to flex, as he pushed himself upward with all his strength, in order to heft her into his arms. No longer knowing which way was up, he somehow managed to toss her over his shoulder and stroll forward out of the throne room.
Bless the Spirit Keepers, his father let them go.
Even Damian simply stood and watched his retreat.
The moment the doors closed behind him, he stumbled, groaned, and dropped Mina from his shoulder onto her own two feet. “Help me up the stairs to your room,” he grit out between trembling lips. “And hurry.”
Mina gasped, momentarily speechless. She seemed utterly stunned that her body wasn’t damaged, that her skin wasn’t raw, and she instinctively placed her hand on his back as he bent over in agony. When she drew back a palm covered in blood, the realization began to set in. “Oh Dear Ancestors, Dante…how…why?”
He snarled, unable to speak, not wanting to get caught before they made it down the main corridor, through the receiving hall, and up the grand staircase to the second floor. “Now, Mina,” he growled.
She nodded brusquely and quickly slid her slender shoulder beneath his arm, pressing hard against his side in order to sustain as much of his weight as she could on her diminutive frame.
She opened her mouth to speak and then closed it.
What could she possibly say?
Even Dante understood that words were wholly inadequate.
Finally, as she struggled to help him up the staircase and down the upper hall, she murmured, “Lean on me, my prince. I’ve got you. I promise. Just hang on.”
Chapter Ten
The trip down the upper hall seemed never-ending. It felt like an eternity before Mina and Dante rounded the corner, passed the first set of private suites, and then finally arrived at Mina’s remote chambers. In reality, the entire journey had probably taken less than two minutes.
Halting before the large wooden door, Mina pressed her shoulder further into Dante’s upper body to steady his weight—and hers—and then she yanked at the handle, gave it a quick, downward turn, and kicked the panel open with her foot. “Hold on, my prince, we’re almost there.”
Thank the Spirit Keepers, the door swung right open.
The moment they stumbled across the threshold, Dante pushed away from Mina and fell forward onto the floor—it was almost as if his pride could not withstand another moment under her compassionate support.
Mina dropped down to her knees to check him, and that’s when she saw the terrifying sight on the bed: Tatiana was lying on her back, her head and neck extended in an awful, uncomfortable arc, and Drake Dragona was perched perilously above her, like a creature on all fours, his feral mouth gaping open. Blue fire shot forth from his throat, coursing in a preternatural stream of incandescent waves, and tunneled its way into Tatiana’s mouth. And all the while, she was helpless to stop him.
Mina narrowed her gaze and fought back a reaction. Crying out wouldn’t help. Interfering wouldn’t be wise. And besides, for all intents and purposes, it looked like Tatiana was healing, knitting back together from the inside out. Her skin was regaining its natural color; her wounds were closing, even as Mina watched; and her bruises were slowly transforming from a deep purplish blue to a light pasty gray.
Mina gawked in surprise and wonder, and then she immediately turned back to Dante. “My prince?” she uttered remorsefully. “Tell me what to do. How can I help you? What do you need?”
In a flash, Drake was no longer on the bed, but standing perilously above Mina, hovering over the scene, and his feral eyes were ablaze with anger. “What have you done to my brother?”
Mina stiffened. “Nothing!” She shook her head back and forth rapidly, practically straining her neck in the process. “I swear, I’ve done nothing. He…he somehow…he took the lashes for me.”
Drake drew back in surprise and then stared down at his brother. Dant
e was writhing on the floor, shivering and moaning from the pain. Drake knelt down and ripped the now-bloody shirt from his shoulders and gasped at the multiple protruding welts, at all the deep, gaping cuts, the raw, fresh abrasions, and the crisscrossed lesions that had torn Dante’s royal flesh. The dragon prince looked like a piece of freshly ground meat. “Great Nuri, Lord of Fire,” Drake snarled. He glared at Mina, but only for a second, and then he sidled up behind her like he was about to do something indecent.
Mina held her breath and tried to crawl forward out of his reach. “My lord?”
He wrapped his left arm around her waist and pulled her back against him, even as she continued to stare at Dante. He bent his head to her shoulder and thrust her neck to the side with unnecessary strength; and then, without warning or preamble, he sank his fangs deep into her throat, drew what felt like far too much blood from her vein, and began to consume her essence like a dragon, starved.
Drake fed until he was satiated, and then he sealed the wound with blue fire and pushed her away. “Get back,” he growled. Once again, he bent over Dante’s battered body, this time turning him over, ever so gently, onto his back and straddling him on all fours. “Brother, let me heal you.”
Dante groaned, and his head fell back in an unnatural arc, much like Tatiana’s had been just moments ago. It was an indirect gesture of consent, and Drake responded immediately. He opened his mouth, lowered it to Dante’s, and began to channel the same healing blue flames deep into Dante’s throat.
Mina sat on her knees and watched as Dante’s shoulders slowly relaxed, his writhing ceased, and his wounds began to heal. She stared in both wonder and fascination as his bleeding slowed, his breathing began to deepen, and his face, at last, grew tranquil. When he was finally healed, he met Drake’s eyes with a cold, empty stare of his own. “I’m fine.”
Drake inhaled brusquely, retracted the fire, and then measured each of Dante’s features, one at a time, as if gauging the truth for himself, before he slowly crawled off him. He sat quietly beside him, braced his arms on his knees, and then hung his head forward in fatigue. The male was exhausted, depleted, utterly spent.
Dante sat up slowly and growled. He glanced around the room, taking his first true measure of the situation, his keen eyes missing nothing. He stared at Tatiana, still lying dazedly on the bed; shifted his gaze to Mina, glaring at her in reproach; and then turned his attention to Drake and sighed. “I’ll go fetch Cassidy,” he said.
Mina sat erect, her mind at full attention. “Does he need to feed again?” she asked, testing her voice for strength. She quickly sidled up beside him and angled her head, offering Prince Drake her throat. While she still didn’t feel completely well—far from it, really—it was the least she could do. Dante had saved her life. Drake had saved Tatiana’s, and she owed them both immeasurably. Not to mention, Cassidy Bondeville could not be trusted. Not in the least. The power-hungry wench would try to use the situation to her advantage in any way she could, and if that meant spilling the beans to Prince Damian in order to gain his favor, or telling him everything she knew, she wouldn’t hesitate to do so. It was better to leave Cassidy out of the equation.
Dante waved his hand and shook his head. “He can’t take from you again, Mina. Not this soon. Not that much. It would kill you.”
Drake rolled his head on his shoulders and groaned. “I’m all right.”
“No, you’re not,” Dante snarled, standing up slowly and pacing the room. He bent over to pick up his bloody tunic, crumpled it in his fist, and tossed it into the corner, behind a high-backed chair. Then he gestured with his chin toward the bed. “Is she okay now?”
Mina hurried to the bed to check on her friend. “Tati? Can you hear me?” She gently helped her sit up. “Is that better?”
Tatiana moaned and rubbed her eyes. “What happened?”
Mina smiled. Her friend’s voice was faint but familiar, a soothing balm to Mina’s soul. She was going to be all right. “Prince Drake healed you. You’re going to be okay.” She ran her hands up and down Tatiana’s arms, testing for weakness or reactions. She turned her friend’s head from side to side, ignoring the matted, bloodstained curls, and she ran the pad of her thumb beneath a soft, arched brow, marveling at the sudden perfection, the normal, healthy eyelid, and the utter lack of swelling. “You look a thousand times better,” she murmured, pulling her into a tender hug. “Oh, Tatiana. I was so scared.”
“Save it for later,” Dante growled, his harsh voice bringing Mina up short.
She released Tatiana and spun around on the bed to face him. “My prince, thank you for all that you’ve done.”
Tatiana cowered against the headboard, clearly terrified of all things male.
Dante approached the bed restlessly, his cruel mouth curved into a frown. “Don’t you ever pull some shit like that again,” he snarled.
Mina recoiled. “Dante, my prince, I—”
He held up his hand to silence her. “What the hell were you thinking?”
She gulped. “I…I was thinking that Tatiana might die.”
The fair, auburn-haired Ahavi clutched at the bedcover, drew it up to her neck, and cowered beneath it. She peeked back and forth between Dante and Mina and shivered. “I’m sorry,” she whispered in a barely audible voice.
Dante shook his head, warning her to stay out of it.
“I’m sorry, too,” Mina offered. “But it couldn’t be helped.”
Dante bristled at her last words, the muscles in his shoulders growing visibly taut as he clutched one of the four bedposts in his fist. “You really just might be too stupid to live,” he said, and then he immediately turned his attention to Tatiana. “Get off the bed, and go get Cassidy.”
Tatiana blanched. Her hands shook uncontrollably as she forced herself to turn the coverlet loose. She nodded in obedience, even as she glanced at Mina with wide, frightened eyes. “Yes, my prince.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed, shuffled for a moment, in order to test her strength, and then hurried toward the door.
“Wait!” Mina called after her. “Cassidy cannot be trusted.” She regarded Dante with fervent eyes, trying to ignore his last comment—perhaps she deserved it, considering all that had happened. “She’s an opportunist, Dante. She’s power-hungry and corrupt. She wouldn’t blink at betraying any one of us just to further her own ends.”
Dante tightened his grip around the post and drew a deep, regulating breath.
Mina shuffled backward on the bed and hung her head in obeisance.
He let go of the post, rounded the bed, and loomed over her in a threatening pose. “We’re on a first-name basis now?”
Mina felt faint. “Please,” she whispered, “I’m just trying—”
He moved so quickly she never saw him stir. He yanked her up by the swell of her arm, dragged her from the bed, as if she weighed no more than the pillows, and then spun her around to face his brother, who was still sitting idly on the floor. “Look at him,” he growled. And then he addressed his next question to Drake. “How much time do you have before you grow ill, brother? Dangerously ill?”
Drake lifted his chin with no little effort. “I’m fine right now, Dante. Maybe thirty minutes, an hour at the most.”
Dante nodded. He released his hold on Mina and angled his body toward Tatiana—his bare chest looked like sculpted iron, reflected in the firelight. “At the end of the hall, beneath the servants’ bells, there is a square panel. Open it and tug on the braided chain inside.” He fixed his gaze on Mina and scowled. “It will call one of the female courtesans, the Blood Ahavi. One of them can feed my brother.”
Tatiana’s expression registered her disgust, and before she could think better of it, she uttered, “You mean the sex slaves are real?” Her shoulders literally curled forward, and she looked like she might cry.
Of course they’re real, Mina thought, there were a lot more than three Ahavi trained at the Keep. The Sklavos Ahavi just happened to be the only Ahavi capable, and de
emed worthy, of producing offspring. She sighed. Poor Tatiana. Not only had Damian used her so brutally, but he had done so while knowing that he had his choice of numerous females just a chain’s tug away, waiting to fulfill his every need.
Dante shrugged. “My father keeps his favorites at the castle.” He frowned, although his eyes reflected little sympathy. “Normally, the Blood Ahavi are kept separate and hidden from the chosen”—he swept his hand in a wide arc, indicating the room they were standing in—“but under the circumstances, I think we are all beyond keeping secrets.”
Mina also felt like weeping, yet she had no idea why. Once again, Dante had succeeded at both shocking her senses and wounding her pride. Would she never learn to just shut down her feelings, to name herself as what she was—a slave—and apparently, one of many? She nodded at Tatiana, signifying her consent, and then she immediately cowered, throwing both arms in the air, in an effort to shield her head as Dante raised his angry fist.
For whatever reason, he did not strike her. He just stood there, hovering above her, glowering angrily with those venomous eyes. “You would give my slave your consent?” His voice was thick with contempt.
Mina fought to regain her composure, to try to make sense of the situation. By all the gods, what had she done now? “No. No. I just”—she pointed absently at Tatiana—“we’re friends. It was just an instinct. I was just agreeing.” She stared at his fist and tried not to cower.
Dante lowered his arm, stormed to the door, and scooped Tatiana up by the waist. The female shrieked in protest as he carried her across the room and tossed her on the bed.
Mina watched in horror. “Dante, no! Please!”
He rotated his neck on his shoulders, like someone who was this close to snapping, and then he released his fangs. When he next spoke, his eyes were like molten lava, and his voice was dark with malevolent intent. “Shall I undo what Drake has done?” He cocked his head to the side. “Name your poison, Mina.” He licked his feral lips. “Fire?” He splayed his fingers, widely apart, slowly releasing ten jagged claws. “Shall I undress her with these?” And then he reached down and unfastened the threads on his trousers with the tip of a nail. “Or shall I keep her clothes on and just make you watch?” He growled deep in his throat, sounding more like a beast than a man. “Which shall it be, sweet Mina? Which method of correction do you prefer?”