Dragons and Princes - [COMPLETE]

13. Marquis

There were screams in his mind, screams unlike any he’d ever heard, screams of fear and pain that pierced the woods and the fields that spilled out of them. Always, followed by silence. He walked out into the night, forsaking the safety of the abandoned Castle of Broken Bones, the crumbling waste built into the interior of a small mountain range just at the edge of the war zone. The Fenrir had retreated upon his command, but Morgana had stirred in the nights since the Freyja princess had been given back to her people. Many of his men had taken refuge within the crumbling confines of the ancient castle. Many had been killed, trying to escape the black dragon.

Marquis stared up at the night sky, studying the shimmer of a crescent moon behind the silver clouds veiling its true shape. It was a waxing moon. Soon there would be more light, and Morgana would resort to more trickery and deception to confuse the minds of her prey than she did tonight.

Several had tried to keep Marquis from leaving for fear of his safety, but no one would stop a Morganthe from doing what he chose. He was not sure if the dragon of the night would try to harm him, but he intended to face the dragon. He’d left alone, except for a small company of elite warriors, whom he trusted. Any more than that small number would be easier to spot and destroy.

Nor and his brother Aleil were both elite bowmen; both men looked so alike it was difficult to tell them apart. Also with them was a skilled stealth assassin, a woman with dark hair and dark skin. There were three more, who were the sort of men who hid their faces, the whispermen. The whispermen were highly trained with poisons, and explosive projectiles were a specialty, but what he needed from them was their ability to mix a sedative strong enough to down or kill a dragon. He didn’t care if Morgana was injured or killed any more than he had ever cared about a Freyja’s life up until Faeana Dagur revealed there was more to them than he ever could have guessed . . .

Faeana.

Marquis rubbed at his chest when it contracted with pain, and he bit his tongue hard, reddening with both anger and desire all over again. His blood was in turmoil within him. He’d shattered that shell she shrouded herself within so constantly, kissing her, and what greeted him had stolen him unexpectedly– and then, when he’d just about managed to gather his senses, it had rebuked him like a soul-deep slap. Vicious, shocked . . .

Beautiful . . .

What the Freyja hid within them was something more than emotion, and it was very much alive. It was so bright that it had blinded and numbed his senses for several days, as though the heart of him had been bruised. He was adjusting again, but he’d found not the aftertaste of revulsion. Often, bringing a woman close to steal such a passionate kiss would leave the aftertaste of desire and craving, both his and the woman’s, but no, with Faeana, there was something else . . .

It was as though the moment he shattered that wall, he had touched briefly the heart of the woman that she truly was. She was . . . incredible.

Faeana Dagur was a woman who would sacrifice herself for another, a woman who loved so deeply that every death made her every breath a sorrow strong enough to stop the heart of a dragon. Faeana was flying on fumes of a desperate hope while choking on despair, and she was stronger than he’d ever expected a woman could be. She was a kind, tender-hearted creature, a victim of the war’s wintery hold. She was a woman who’d done what she’d had to do in this war, not out of hate, but out of love and fear.

And the Freyja calm protected all of that and fed her strength to her frey cat. That was why frey cats were so intelligent and dangerous, they were the embodiment of the hearts and minds of the Freyja. Without the calm, there was . . . chaos.