Chapter Five
Am I even a princess, anymore? Marea twirled in front of the mirror Kazak had procured, checking out the first dress she'd been given since her confinement in the tower. The more she had cleaned, the more she realized that it served as nothing more than a distraction for her, to keep her busy so she didn't grow bored out of her mind, or plot too strongly about escaping. According to Kazak, he said the dragon manual of How to Keep Your Princess recommended extensive chores, as well as the basic locked tower, and to trim princess hair every now and then so she couldn't use it as a ropeladder. Also, to keep potions of extreme grow and shrink away from them.
The dress shimmered a deep yellow, holding a glossy shine with her glittering blonde hair. Frills and a tight bodice pushed out her chest, making it seem like she had substance there. After a long, hot bath, she'd brushed out her hair until it glimmered, and picked out a sapphire necklace from Kazak's treasury (she hadn't yet seen his treasures, understandable, since dragons tended to hoard a lot.)
One month after Marea’s first Quester, nine more had come along, all of them beaten in a similar manner to the first. Since Kazak had defeated ten Questers, he'd been rewarded formally by a dragon king.
A Dragon king. Apparently, dragons liked to celebrate achievements, and Kazak had messengers turning up outside his cavern to shower him in gifts. More gold, special enchantments, and a formal invite to the king's table in their annual convention.
That sort of thing.
Kazak bought Marea a dress, inviting her to try it on, and now she felt awkward, standing in front of the mirror, closer to the princess she used to be.
Except, she didn't feel like that person any longer. Gone was the woman who felt misshapen and off because she didn't have a husband near the age of thirty. Gone was the jealously and envy towards the servants, for their skill sets and their simpler lifestyles.
Ever since Kazak whisked her away, she'd grown callouses over her hands, and a new hardness about her features. Kazak now left her tower door open, no longer bothering to lock her in, because he saw the light in her face as she appreciated the freedom. She went to his bed in the night, or he to hers. She still didn't know much about dragon society, but he'd promised to take her along with him when he next went to visit the witch of the swamp, and when he needed to check in at the goblin general store to procure new curses.
Marea understood partially why some princesses never returned to their kingdoms after being stolen. Not because they got eaten, but perhaps they learned to fall in love with the peculiar creatures, with their own brand of morality and their irritatingly attractive human forms.
Deeming herself of acceptable appearance, though her eyes seemed too dark for her liking, she ventured down the stairwell, and met Kazak in the main cavern room with the feasting tables, dressed up in a neat black and white suit, smiling radiantly at her appearance. He looked so powerful there, owning the room with his presence, his squared, strong body and rugged features. Though he kept his red beard neatly trimmed, he'd been growing it out a bit, leaving a growth that gave him a rough look to his handsome features.
He held out his arm to her. “Shall we go, milady?”
She looped her arm in his and grinned. “Anything for you, sir.”
All they did, really, was go for a stroll down the mountain path, exploring some of the vibrant scenery there, from the blushing pink flowers to the scraggly ferns that clung to the edges.
“I must say, princess, with that outfit, your beauty could kill.” He bent to kiss her hand, eyes flaming with desire and admiration. She flushed with pleasure from the flattery, feeling confident and beautiful. When they approached a tough cliff edge, Kazak pointed in the distance, to where the human kingdoms stuck out of the land beyond the Wilderness.
“Your home is over there,” he said, pointing to a small city, where the distant castle was the size of her fingernail.
She expected to feel sadness and longing for Glenderal. Instead, she felt nothing. No sadness. No heavy desire to return home. She had no taste for that life again of constant judgement, competing with other princes and princesses far more accomplished than she ever was.
Being a dragon's princess meant more to her than anything else.
How strange.
Kazak watched her expression for a long moment. “You might have a hard time being rescued, princess. I plan to cherish you for as long as possible, and to fight every Quester in your name.”
“I hope you will,” Marea replied, grinning. “But if you want me sticking around, I’d like you to decorate the place better. It’s awfully drab with the gray and the lack of seating areas.”
“That can be arranged,” he said. He bowed to her hand and kissed the back of it, his lips soft and hot against her skin. A pleasant shiver travelled up her body.
“Shall we go home then, princess?”
Home. I like the sound of that.
“Yes,” she said. “Let’s go home.”
She kissed him upon the lips, and he lifted her off her feet, twirling her around, before slinging her over his shoulder, and sprinting for the cave.
She laughed the whole while, her dress billowing in the wind, clutching her new love close.
The End
Tia’s Mate
Shifters of the Bulgarian Bloodline
Prologue:
Blood. Blood, everywhere. Hands swimming in it, the floor saturated with the iron tang of rusting death. It clings to his pants and shoelaces, finding all the impossible places, making him feel as if he would never be clean again. The boy wants to be anywhere but here. The mocking eyes of his father watch him as he backs into the corner, away from the male corpse splayed out on the floor, head turned toward the boy with eyes like clouded green glass.
“Come on, boy,” his father urges, mouth twisted like a grinning demon. “How are you gonna learn to like the taste if you’re too scared to take the first step?”
The boy shakes his head, shivering. That man with the empty green eyes, he had been alive only moments before. “He was alive. I spoke to him. He was scared.”
“And now he’s dead. Useless whelp,” his father snarls, yellow eyes gleaming as his son turns away. He strides up in a swoop of malice, and seizes the trembling boy by the cuff of his neck, shoving his face into the pooling blood of the freshly killed human. “Eat!” A manic expression enters his father’s face. His fingernails lengthen, his canines become that little bit longer. Passion is leaking, the emotions manifesting in physical form.
The boy trembles and cries, as he is forced to bring his mouth to the dead man, and tear into his skin, resisting the urge to retch the whole time.