He whirled towards a guard near his back. They engaged, another fae joining the fight. Dawnthorne said nothing, he didn’t have to. The fae attempted to subdue Amnan. His hands shifted into claws, shoulders sweeping and bursting through the seam of his shirt.

“Do not let him shift,” Dawnthorne snarled, walking around his desk.

Serephone sagged, as if in shock, or faint, or some stupid shit like that. Anissa sighed, her hold loosening.

“This isn’t going to help,” her sister muttered. “He is so damn stubborn.”

Serephone had no idea if Anissa was referring to Dawnthorne or Amnan, and didn’t care. She took the opportunity—filing away the knowledge that her sister had simply let her go, to think about later—and ran towards the fight.

“Run, Serephone!” Amnan roared.

She ignored him. It would piss him off, but did he really think she was going to obey that order? He locked a guard in close quarter combat, using claws and strength to wrest the man’s blade, using him as a shield when Dawnthorne’s magic entered the fray. The Lord closed his fingers, and it dissipated before hitting his own guard. They grappled, ramming into a seating area, sending a chair skittering into a wall with a crash. Amnan flung the fae off him, crouching as scales formed, where there had been skin.

“If she runs,” Dawnthorne said icily, “she will die. Unless I allow her to leave, the geas in her blood will take her life rather than let her go.”

Amnan roared his defiance. Serephone’s anger mingled with his and overtook her normally calm demeanor. She wanted blood—any fae blood would do.

Weaponless, she attacked the guard she recognized as Yuruth, pulling him away from Amnan, who now was only outnumbered two to one. He was fast. She had neither experience or greater skill or strength on her side—but she had the advantage that he didn’t want to kill her. All she needed was to give Amnan enough space to fully shift. He could fly out of here, go get help. Damnit. If either of them was more likely to escape, it was the goddamn person with wings.

But if her opponent was fast, she was fast as well. She attacked, a series of blows to his face and body he defended, but did not return. She tripped, crashing into him. Yuruth’s arms lowered to catch their fall and her hand swiped at his side, grabbing his blade before he reacted. She twisted away, a grim smile on her face.

“Anissa,” Dawnthorne said.

“This isn’t going to end well,” her sister said, voice sharper than Serephone had ever heard it.

“Contain her.”

“No.”

Dawnthorne did not give another order. She liked that he didn’t waste his breath. She didn’t like the thought that Anissa may have earned herself a punishment.

“Serephone, halt.”

“Go dig a ditch,” she growled, circling the guard. She needed to end this fight, and quick, but the man was a professional. She wasn’t. Damnit. She needed training. Dawnthorne was right about that—she was ignorant. The skills that worked so well in a backwoods mining town were nothing here.

“Very well.”

He turned towards Amnan. “End this.”

The two fae fighting Amnan pulled slim, silver rods. Each flashed, lengthening into a bladed staff similar to those she’d seen the front gate guards carrying. Amnan could hold his own in a fair fight. But magicless, against two warriors and a sorcerer…those weren’t good odds.

“Shift!” she yelled. “Damn you, go.”

Dawnthorne’s black magic wrapped around him as he rippled into dragon form. He shuddered, and a guard darted in, blade sinking into his side. He roared, but did not spew his flame, confirming her suspicion that the bubble kept not just his magic contained. His body jerked, tail flailing, swiping at the guards. Dawnthorne leaped, avoiding the swishing blow, his desk crashing into a wall. Yuruth lunged, ignoring her blade as it sliced a line along his chest and grabbed her, dragging her out of the way. She struggled, cursing.

Yuruth grunted as her heel connected to his shin. “You fight well for an ignorant kitten,” he said, “but you need training. Accept the oath.”

She was tired of everyone telling her to accept the damn oath. The fact that he didn’t sound either winded, in pain or upset, stung. Had he just been playing with her, keeping her entertained, while Dawnthorne took care of Amnan?

Amnan shifted back to human form, collapsing onto the white marble floor. The black light didn’t let up, his blood pooling beneath him. He threw his head back, eyes full of fire, and snarled.

“Stop, damn you, Dawnthorne,” she yelled, struggling.

“Accept the oath.”

“I’ll accept your death.”

He lifted his other hand, a second tendril of the pain inducing power joining the first. There was no mercy, no pause. She clawed her way through the barrier Amnan had placed on their bond, cutting his residual emotions off from her. He couldn’t hold it against her half distracted; his pain flooded through her, a bright flash flood of red-hot light and she screamed.

“Serephone,” he gasped.

Her skin was being flayed while red hot pokers danced in her blood.

“Stop it, I’ll do it. I’ll take the damn oath.” He was bleeding. He could bleed out on the floor, shifter fast healing or no.

The pain stopped and Dawnthorne turned towards her. Amnan pushed to his feet, the guards stepping in front of him.

“No, Amnan,” she said. “Just…no.”

“Damn you,” he said. She didn’t know if he meant her or Dawnthorne.

She turned to Dawnthorne. “He needs medical attention. I’ll take your damn oath, but I want him healed first. Otherwise it’s for nothing.”

The Lord nodded, eyes on her face. “Very well. Take him to your suite, and see to his care. You have given your word, Serephone. If you break it, there will be consequences.”

She darted forward and slid an arm under Amnan’s shoulder. He pushed to his feet as if he didn’t need her help, but she felt the growing weakness in him as his blood dripped from the wound. It was sealing, but from the puddle on the floor, the strike had hit something vital. If he’d been human, he’d be dead.

He said nothing until the escort ushered them inside Serephone’s room and left. “You should have fled,” he said.

She didn’t like the flat tone of voice. Whether it was from pain, or anger, it wasn’t his call to tell her what she should have done.

“I wouldn’t have got anywhere. How many warriors does he have? And who knows what kind of gate security, plus magic. Lie down.”

“I’m fine, Serephone.”

“Don't be snippy with me,” she snapped.

He sat on the edge of the bed. His expression was drawn, tension white around his mouth. “I didn’t want you trapped here. You don’t know the fae.”

She crouched at his side, pushing his hand aside to examine his wound. “I am fae, apparently.”

He grimaced. “Blood will tell.”

Her head snapped up. “The fuck does that mean?”

“Forget it.”

Serephone stood. “If you hadn’t followed me, you wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“What did I tell you?”

She looked away. “That you would always follow me. I don’t understand why, or what that means.”

“The dragon knows.” He stood. “Where’s the bathroom? No reason to get your bed filthy.”

She pointed, and followed after him. “I'm going to bathe, Serephone,” he said, voice edged. “Unless you want to join me, get out.”

She leaned on the counter, folding her arms. “You lost a lot of blood. You need my help.”

He whirled, crossing the few feet between them and slamming his hands on the counter on either side of her, leaning in with a hot glare. “I’m tired, battle hormones are running around in my blood doing happy dances, the dragon wants to claim its woman, and we’re both in danger. I am not in the mood, Serephone.”

“I can’t leave here,” she said softly. “But you can.”

His eyes closed. “No, I can’t. Not while you’re here.” When they opened, they speared her with a hot, angry stare. “I held back. I knew that this would happen, inevitably. And that if I pissed off Dawnthorne or died, you would be here alone, without an ally.”

“Your father—”

“Will never come here. If he does, he risks losing his own mate. Kailigh is fae, as well. They’ll have to find what Line she belongs to. What do you think will happen, if they try and take her away from my father?”

She didn’t want to think about it. Amnan was strong, and cunning, but Maddugh was centuries older, and hid under a charming, jovial exterior she knew was a complete lie. Especially when he made casual references to eating humans while he was drunk.

“Get washed up. Has the wound sealed enough to get wet or do I need to dress it?”

He stared down at her with narrowed eyes, then shrugged. “Your choice, Sere.”

She wondered if he meant for that to sound ominous. She shoved him, lightly, and walked past him to crouch on the edge of the tub. The sunken, tiled monstrosity must eat up an entire week’s ration of water for a normal family. It was barbaric. But she ran the water, turning to beckon towards him.

“Get in and scrub up before you soak so you aren’t sitting in your own filth.”

He stared at her a moment, then sighed. “You sound like someone’s mother.”

She ignored him, watching as he pulled the shirt over his head and tossed it to the ground like trash. It was trash now, anyway. The cloth had stuck to his skin for a second, but he hadn’t flinched. She glanced away when he peeled off the trousers. Not necessarily because she was shy or particularly modest, but because she didn’t need him getting any ideas. She’d heard him loud and clear. Strong, bare calves entered her line of vision and he stepped down into the tub, hissing.

“It’s hot enough to flay the skin, woman,” he complained.

“Aren't you a dragon? I thought you’d like heat.”

“In my bed, not my bathwater.”

She sniffed. “Don’t be a baby.” She considered the angles, realized she couldn’t really help him by leaning over the tub—and she’d look ridiculous laying flat on her stomach—and sighed, standing to strip out of her own clothes.

“Serephone,” he said, ominous.

“Don’t be such a male.” Naked, she climbed in with him, snatching a cloth from the built-in shelf. He lounged on a bench, the water not quite covering his lap yet. She ignored him, though it was difficult not to see the rapidly growing erection rising with the water.

“Can't you control yourself?” she asked, annoyed as she approached. She wet the cloth and began swiping it gently over the mostly knit wound.

He snorted, brimstone in his nostrils for a moment. “I am controlling myself. You aren’t flat on your back, my cock between your thighs.”

She grit her teeth. “That’s no way to speak to your stepsister.”

“Now you’re my stepsister. My stepsister, who is crouching naked at my feet, close enough to my manhood to take a taste if she wanted.”

“You’re crude.”

He spread his arms. “All you have to do is hop on, sweetheart. No hands, I promise.”

His rough, sensual talk was affecting her. Her nipples hardened, a physiological response she ignored because she couldn't control it any more than the scoundrel could control his erection. She glanced at it, hand stilling on his chest. Would it even fit in her mouth? Or inside her? Persia would know what to do—she was as horny as a…well, just plain horny. But Serephone had never been the one for a casual romp.

She looked up at his face. His eyes were closed as he rested against the ledge, seemingly at ease. She abandoned the cloth.

“How can you even get it up with so much blood lost?”

He snorted, and didn’t dignify her question with a response. Serephone wrapped her hand around him.

He jerked, eyes flying open. “Woman!”

“You asked me to.”

“I didn't think you would actually do it.” He moaned as her hand moved up and down his length.

“Stop whining,” she said.

His cock moved in her hand, swelling and bobbing as if it were urging her on. The water slicked her path and she moved faster and faster, enjoying how she made the veins of his neck stand out. How he was completely helpless to move under her tender…mercies.

“I’m going to come,” he ground out.

“Then come.” Her voice was a cool command. In the space of a second she’d made a decision, crossed some kind of barrier in her mind. “Come now.”