5. Spitfire: Rekindled | Chapter Three: A Terrible Party

**Warning: this chapter contains explicit sexual material and is 18+ only

Feon

An icy wind blasts me directly in the face, like getting bitch slapped by the weather. I hate it here. If we’d just delayed our trip by a couple months instead of scrambling to leave immediately after the anniversary it wouldn’t have been so bad. In summer, Voswain is actually kinda nice. Still weird and too big and full of up with my least favorite kind of nerds, but at least it wouldn’t be snowing in April.

I drape myself over the elaborately carved limestone balcony and stare down at the rushing waters far, far below. Whithelm Castle stretches out before me, a towering mass of glittering white stone that rises from the frothing river as if raised from the spray itself. It juts out like a fist, splitting the last waters of the Urva and the Chatlin before they merge into the great Virgis River. Large chunks of ice flow by, unhurried in the river’s tumult. I hock a loogie over the side and watch as it gets whipped away by the grasping wind.

In summer, the sky here would be an open expanse of blue, the wind a delightful kiss of coolness. Spring is already well underway back home in Nadara, but you wouldn’t know it here. Today’s sky is a dark, bleak gray, peppered by snowflakes that have already turned half to slush by the time they hit my face. The snow has the gall to beset me from either side, unbothered by the wind’s course, hissing as it evaporates against my skin.

The Virgis thunders bitterly beneath me. Even several stories up, I can feel the thrum of it in my feet, a roaring so deep it’s in my marrow. Rushing water slams itself violently against the black rocks below, sending up a spray that is so pervasive it cloaks the castle in a heavy, freezing mist. It reaches even this height, leaving any person about the palace exterior—namely me—perpetually damp and utterly miserable despite the castle’s heated floors.

It’s almost satisfying, the way it all matches the deep, seething resentment festering within me.

I’ve been dressed and ready for the engagement ball for ages: my best leather boots over fine white trousers with a stiff knee-length tunic in Nadaran red over top. One of the attendants had attempted to get a comb through my hair before I snapped at her, my face glinting gold with a flash of scales, a small puff of smoke blowing into her open mouth. With a shriek, she fell backwards onto the carpet before scrambling to her feet and hastily fleeing the room. I savored her reaction for a good few moments before noticing Caed’s displeasure.

“Don’t go scaring the servants just because you’re unhappy,” he said as Mikul eased him into an elaborately embroidered sherwani coat, mindful not to disturb the flashcards in Caed’s hand. “They’re not accustomed to your temper here.”

Caed, of course, had his two favorite retainers seeing to his grooming, but with our plans to hasten our travel across the Ogrench wilderness, it was decided prudent that I not do the same. Not that I have favorite attendants or that I particularly need them anyway, as I’m often expected to look a little wild, but I feel somewhat slighted on principal. Caed, on the other hand, must look as perfect as polished gold, a task that apparently cannot be entrusted to the perfectly competent Voswainian servants.

I left after that, glowering all the while as I stormed out of the lounge that adjoined our rooms. I slammed the door behind me and rushed into my own room and threw open the large balcony doors to stand, furious, in the frigid open air.

My hands now clutch at the cold stone parapet. I aim a little kick at the intricately carved railing, right in the center of one of the abstract roses—Voswain’s emblem. It does nothing save scuff up the toe of my spray dampened boot, and I spend the next few minutes nursing a throbbing toe while trying to work the mark out of the fine leather.

“Fae.”

His voice is soft, almost too quiet to hear over the roar of water beneath us. I whip around, half seated on the cold stone, and hastily get to my feet. Caed stands several paces before me, just inside the room. The wind howls between us, cold and desperate. Behind me, the sun begins to dip below the cliffs of the Ashalt Range, limning the icy edge with molten gold and throwing us into shadow.

“Solir,” I say.

It’s a Daenian word: Bonded, Soul, Sun, and a million other things all wrapped into one. They all mean the same thing: you, vital, blood and life and fire. It’s a word dragons only had cause to make when the first of us set their heart to a mortal and forever bound us as one. I don’t think Caed knows what it means.

Caed hesitates. Though he does not understand its true depth, he has some grasp of the gravity of the word. Much as I love him, he is still human and can only comprehend so much. “Fae,” he says again, voice somber. “Please come inside. I know you are angry with me, but I need you. I need you with me.”

I lean back against the railing, shoulders tensing up towards my ears, hands clutching at the frosty stone. I can’t look him in the face, at the vulnerability I know is there. I slump forward and grit my teeth, gaze cast down towards his feet, hair hanging over my brow. We’ve been through it already. Caed has his reasons: the need to secure a lasting alliance with the Voswainian royal family, his duties as heir to the throne, and the unspoken but overwhelming pressure of the king’s expectations. The fortnight from Soliss to Harrogate were fraught with tension, resentment and frustration that boiled over into verbal jabs and minor spats.

“You ask so much,” I bite out.

“I know,” he replies sadly, his guilt a near palpable thing for how dreadfully it drags at the rhythm of our Bond. He stands quietly, hands outstretched, golden bangles clinking on his forearms, rings glittering on his fingers.

It’s not his words that do it, but the slow tremor that travels up the length of his body before he begins to shiver in earnest. I push myself away from the railing, my soggy shoes squeaking slightly on the stone. I clasp either side of his face and stare up into those dark, wretched eyes. I feel myself torn: achingly aware of the pain he has caused me, and yet unable to deny him all the same.

“I will be by your side,” I say finally. I lean up and press a small kiss to his cheek. “It will have to be enough.”

I leave him in the doorway and return to the central chamber, where I finally submit, defeated, to another servant’s fussing. She makes a despairing noise at the sodden state of my clothing, but relents once I stoke the heat within me to steam off the excess water. She gapes, fascinated, until my collar starts to smoke and I hastily cool myself back down. The girl clicks her tong and trims away the singed fibers and then sets about trying to tame the hair around my horns. I bear it with ill temper, but bear it all the same.

Beside me, Jasper affixes a chain charmer to Caed’s coat just before the shoulders. Each end is headed by a gilded sun pendant, between which drape three strands of pearls. A fine red stole is then pinned at one shoulder and draped loosely about his arm and down his back. With a mouth full of pins, the ever fussy attendant checks and rechecks all the fastenings to ensure their security.

“Pop quiz: which of Princess Allene’s siblings shares a father with her?” Mikul asks.

Caed pockets his flashcards and answers: “Princess Zerenity. And Princess Dannica, though they don’t share a mother.”

“Good. And Princess Zerenity is engaged to..?”

“Lady Juliette Lemaire, eldest daughter of Lady Aveline Lemaire, Voice of the Noble Assembly of the Larish Parliament.”

Mikul nods and thumbs through a thick book titled Decorum in the Public Forum: A Guide for the Modern Voswainian. “What accessory is commonly worn by licensed arcanists as a signifier of their trade?”

“A big dumb pointy hat to show everyone how tall and important they are,” I reply.

Mikul laughs but Caed doesn’t.

Wish a sigh, Caed answers, “A silver bramble ring, typically worn on the non-dominant hand.”

Still grinning, Mikul moves on. “And which of Allene’s cousins will be in attendance?”

They continue like this, on and on, until at last Mikul is satisfied. “Our little prince is all grown up,” he sniffs with mock sorrow, tho I suspect the emotion in his voice is only half in jest. He slides a simple band of gold into place on Caed’s brow and then claps Caed warmly on the shoulders.

Jasper smooths out an imaginary wrinkle in Caed’s coat and mumbles something about making his father proud. I don’t hear it above the pounding of blood in my ears. My throat grows thick with emotion as Caed turns to face me. He holds his hands out, palms up, a wordless question. I nod back at him, unable to speak.

❖

We stand behind a large set of dark doors made ornate with silver filigree. They’re tall enough to account for a man twice my height and then some. On the other side of the doors, a high and melodious voice calls out, “Prince Caederyn Elio Sa’Nova, The Noble Sun, Heir to the Nadaran Throne.” The doors swing open, silent and unaided by human force, and a servant clad in deep blue ushers us forward. “And Lord Feon, Hand of the Sun and Royal Dragon.”

We step out onto a massive set of wide, shallow stairs, the tread and rails a gleaming black, the rise a glittering silver. Caed heads our party, descending with a practiced elegance. I keep my chin high and my eyes fixed above those of our onlookers. Nervous energy radiates through our Bond, like the tremors of a high wire when a performer begins her egress. To Caed’s credit, it doesn’t show on his face.

The stairs open onto a polished floor of deepest black. All along the walls are numerous doors, which I know from previous experience open onto an impressive array of lounges meant to facilitate private discussion and other more intimate forms of gathering. Despite its enormous size, the ballroom is absolutely packed with glittering people, more than I’ve ever seen stuffed into a single enclosed space, so many that I wonder how anyone will find the room to dance—or, more importantly, how anyone will find space to lay out the food. I’d assumed we’d be having a meal tonight but I should know better than to assume anything when it comes to Voswainian parties. They’re so eccentric and inconsistent it almost seems a sport: a competition to see who can more thoroughly flummox their guests and spur on the newest trend.

Still, despite the dense throng, whose crowding is further padded by the ridiculously voluminous dresses that seem to be in vogue, they part enough to offer us a clear path to the far end of the room, where there is another shorter set of stairs that lead to a wide dais. Upon this, there rest the twin thrones of the Voswainian queen and her royal consort. They sit at either end of the platform in their regal silver thrones, two imposing and tall women who watch our approach with interest. Between them are two more seats: these ones less grand, but embellished elaborately with twining, silver vines that bear large, velvety roses in a pure cobalt blue. One of these chairs is empty. In the other sits Princess Allene Yvonne Fidele Narissara Briallen, third in line to the Voswainian throne, my future queen.

She beams down at us, her smile just as radiant as the small white fairy lights that float about the dais, bathing the inhabitants in a flattering brilliance. And before we can even step foot upon the stairs, she rises to her feet in a tide of gleaming silver fabric and all but runs down to greet us, the many skirts of her ballgown floating effortless about her. Some of the fairy lights follow her and I realize that they’re twisted into her thick black hair like tiny, twinkling stars in the night sky.

Caed stops dead in his paces, so suddenly I nearly run into his back. I shoot him a glower but he has no mind for me: he is transfixed, his gaze full of a sort of wide, wondering adoration that strikes me through my marrow. Every eye in the ballroom is on my prince and his prospective bride. Every held breath sits in the scant few feet between them. Finally, Allene closes the gap, her face bright and beautiful, her hands outstretched. Caed meets her with a smile, his pale hands finding her brown ones. They look like a matching set, he in gold and she in silver, the pair of them standing nearly eye-to-eye with one another.

“My dear Prince Caederyn, it pleases me immensely to welcome you into my home,” Allene says.

She’s suckered him, I know it, with her natural grace and winning smile. Allene came into puberty earlier than most of us and had no qualms flaunting the changes wrought, as if she’d never seen an awkward day in her life. She has the same look now, but grown: her chin lifted with pride, those generous lips never far from laughter, a full figure and heavy bosom providing ample distraction for the wandering eye. Her black eyes glitter with a secret joy. There is a particular look about her, as if she is party to some private joke that she has not yet deigned to share. It makes me hate her intensely.

“Princess Allene,” Caed begins, his voice stiff in comparison to her natural comportment. “The pleasure is mine.”

Allene glows with delight and in defiance of all decorum, she leans forward and kisses my prince right then and there in front of the queens and everyone, as if she were so eager she simply couldn’t wait any longer. Caed stands very still, anxious but not unwilling, and only belatedly remembers to close his eyes. I gawk openly. When they part, they are both smiling: Allene with the satisfaction of well pampered cat, and Caed with an awestruck sort of befuddlement.

Someone in the crowd whistles, high and sweet, and it’s as if a bubble is pierced. Allene turns her gaze upon the dais and calls out, “Oh shut it, Cass!” Then she laughs her glorious, full-throated laugh and the crowd quickly joins in, filling the ballroom with all manner of jubilant sounds. I remain at Caed’s heel, my face frozen and hands clenched.

Then another voice cuts through hubbub, this one low and firm and unnaturally loud. “Welcome, Prince Caederyn,” says Queen Fateen. She’s a proud woman, tall and stately with warm copper skin and broad shoulders and a mass of coiled chestnut curls that are streaked with silver. “Welcome to my land and to my family. Come.” She raises a hand and gestures towards us.

Smiling, Allene beckons Caed forward and together they ascend the stairs to take their seats at the center of the dais. On either side of these, between the betrotheds’ seats and the thrones, are more chairs: five for Allene’s siblings and one left empty for me. It’s a strange configuration to be sure: ten chairs and no table, just an unimpeded view of the entirety of the ballroom and the ocean of eager courtiers that wait breathlessly at the foot of the stairs.

Once we’re all seated, the queen continues: “You have traveled far to join us in celebration, to join hands with my daughter Allene. May your journey together be prosperous and bright, may your minds and hearts bloom in tandem unimpeded by the blight of apathy.” Caed bows his head in thanks while Allene beams. “You now sit side-by-side as equal partners, not just as individuals seeking companionship, but as representatives of two great nations forging a union through an oath of kinship.” The queen surveys them both with a measured expression before a slight smirk pulls at one side of her mouth. “Well, what are you all waiting for? Let the festivities begin!”

As if their merriment had only barely been contained, a tumult of sound bursts free from the enthusiastic crowd. Laughter and conversation rise all the way to the vaulted ceiling as a large number of eager nobles ascend the stairs, all of them intent upon congratulating the pair on their betrothal. Allene looks completely at home holding court at the center of the dais in a way Caed has never managed. My poor prince is beset on all sides, overwhelmed by a tide of exuberant flummery. And this time, I’m not feeling nearly charitable enough to rescue him.

“You look bored,” drawls a familiar voice. “That’s rather rude, don’t you think? Considering this whole celebration is for you and yours.”

I glance up, a scowl ready on my face, and find myself face-to-face with Lysithea Ballard: daughter of a war criminal, childhood friend to Allene, and an absolute sun-be-damned nightmare. She has, unfortunately, grown up hot. She’s a rapier of a woman, thin and sharp-featured with light brown skin and blunt-cut, perfectly straight silver-white hair. I don’t like greeting her at the best of times and I like it even less when I’m seated and she is not.

“This party isn’t for me,” I reply. “Why are you talking to me anyway? What, is Allene too busy to indulge your obsession with her?”

“It’s called friendship, you oversized iguana. Though I guess I shouldn’t expect your puny lizard brain to be able to comprehend such concepts,” Lysithea retorts. Still, her gaze betrays her as it strays to where Allene and Caed are deeply engrossed in conversation with a boisterous group of courtiers. One of them laughs so hard they have to take a step back and accidentally elbow Lysithea in the side. Displeasure flashes in her silvery eyes but as soon as the noble turns to apologize it is quickly wiped clean away, as if it were never there to begin with.

“I don’t need friends, I need food. Where the fuck are the tables? What, are we just supposed to starve?”

Lysithea merely gestures below, where a small army of servants weave expertly through the throng, and floating all around them are trays upon trays of food. My mouth starts to water. “They’ll make their way up here eventually—ah, here we go,” she says, and bats an approaching tray directly into my forehead with more force than is strictly necessary.

“Ow,” I say as the platter bounces off my brow. “Fuck off.”

Lysithea just laughs.

Still, before the tray can glide out of my reach and into Lysithea’s awaiting arms, I grab it and remove the lid. Inside is a mountain of canapés, arranged neatly upon several large, tiered plates. I snatch a few and replace the lid and pass the tray down the line before gobbling them up.

“I’m surprised,” Lysithea says, sounding bored. “I thought dogs usually ate outside.”

I bare my teeth at her. “If that was the case, I’d expect to find you out there, seeing as you’re such a massive bitch.”

She swipes a passing goblet from the air and raises it to me with a sneer. “Cheers.”

I open every dish that reaches me: a strange, bitter soup; an array of finger foods that crumble upon contact; a small cluster of slimy orange balls atop some extremely hard toast; a weirdly sticky and sweet salad; a variety of small fish dishes, some cooked and some raw. None of it is particularly to my taste and, worse, none of it can be truly considered a meal. It’s more like some bizarre, disgusting snack fest.

“I hate this,” I seethe. “I hate these floating trays and their lids. I hate not knowing when I’ll get food or what it’ll be. I want to find whoever suggested playing roulette with my stomach and throttle them.”

“That would be me,” Allene says, leaning forward so she can peer at me from across Caed. Finally, it seems, there has been a lull in conversation—enough for her to stick her nose into my own quiet musings. “It’s fun, isn’t it? It encourages palatal exploration and, well, if nothing else it’s a good conversation starter.”

“I’ll start a conversation between my fist and your throat,” I grumble.

“Feon!” Caed hisses, appalled, but Allene just laughs and passes another platter my way.

Before Caed can further chastise me, the tink tink tink of someone gently striking glass with cutlery sounds above the hubbub. Slowly, the chatter lulls. “A toast,” calls a familiar voice, smooth like molasses and just as sweet, “to the union between our closest neighbor and dearest ally. May your love keep you just and true.”

A hearty cheer rises from the guests upon the dais and is quickly picked up by the rest of the crowd. I lean forward to look for the speaker and find them easily. At the far end of the platform, beside Queen Consort Esther, stands Halwynn Ballard: esteemed Larish ambassador, Lysithea’s parent, and one of the few living humans to have slain a dragon—and the only human to ever murder a Bonded dragon and live.

The absolute gall it must take to attend this of all parties would be impressive if I didn’t hate them so much. And yet, Halwynn Ballard seems utterly unaffected. They stand with the ease of a lounging panther, their graying locs falling like a long curtain over their shoulders. Silver threading and glinting beads and bits of metal accent their hair. They turn slightly, giving me a clear view of the ugly old burn scars marring the right side of their face and neck. Just looking at them makes my skin crawl and my gut clench.

“To family, new and old,” Queen Consort Esther returns with a smile. Sycophants, the lot of them.

Something brushes my hand—Caed’s fingers. A thrill of expectation shoots down my spine. He leans in and whispers in my ear. “Feon. You’re glaring.”

I look away, scowling, my spine gone numb.

From beside the Queen Consort, Allene’s youngest sister, a girl no older than fifteen, bursts into tears and stands. Her chair scrapes loudly against the polished floor, a dissonant shriek that cuts through the music and conversation. She rushes to Allene’s side and throws her arms around her neck, gulping in large, unsteady breaths as tears stream down her face.

“Oh, Dannica,” Allene says, regarding her tenderly. “Why are you crying?”

“B-b-b-because y-you’re l-leaving u-u-us!!” the young girl manages through her sobbing.

“Dear one.” Allene places her hands on either side of Dannica’s shoulders. Each of Allene’s wrists is adorned with a cluster of small, midnight roses, with pearl netting laced up her forearms. “I will not be so far.” She smiles, saccharine sweet, and presses a forefinger to the girl’s breast. “I will always be here.”

I fight the urge to retch.

Dannica glares at her then, her chin jutting forward defiantly. “I am not a child!” she exclaims through her hiccups.

Allene grins. “But I got you to stop crying, didn’t I?”

Dannica regards Allene with an air of deep betrayal, chewing angrily on her own silence as she struggles to find words. “Fine! Leave! See if I care!” she says finally and stomps back to her seat, glowering the whole way. To my surprise, no one seems to find this outburst to be unseemly or even unusual. Despite the formality of the function and despite her royal status, there are no scandalized faces, no reprimands, no tide of ill-disguised judgmental whispers. I can’t imagine Caed being treated the same way even at that young age. Maybe it’s different when you’re the youngest of six rather than the heir apparent, but like as not it’s just another example of Voswainian lunacy.

Allene laughs and raises her goblet again and says, “To ensuring I make you all miss me less.” She is glowing. I’m not certain if it’s happiness or some trifling magic, like the way her long, dark curls are ornamented with tiny, scattered stars.

Many more toasts follow. Each of her siblings takes up the mantle in turn and eventually the crown prince manages to coax even Dannica to join in. I have to swallow back my bile when Allene’s blood father (for there can be no mistaking their likeness) all but weeps through his speech. I drink and drink, staving off my discomfort with alcohol, to the point that midway through dinner I find the Voswainian cuisine almost tolerable—that is, until Allene passes a particularly large platter in my direction. She aims it poorly and we only avoid a collision by virtue of Caed’s reflexes, as he quickly pulls his floating plate out of harm’s way and redirects the platter to me with a light tap to its side. Curious, I uncover it and behold the single most disgusting dish I have ever seen.

It’s a vaguely hemisphere-shaped concoction of orangey pink. Atop, there are petals shaped of the same strange substance, radiating from the center like a sunflower. As far as I can tell it is all of the same mold, as I can see no delineation between the curvature of the main form and the petals. At the center of the petals, where the seeds would lie were it a real flower, is a mound of corn, and all of it—hemisphere, petals, and corn—has a strange coating that glistens wetly. I poke it experimentally with the butt of the accompanying knife and the entire creation jiggles in place before springing back. I pull a face at it, feeling a deep mistrust.

I catch Allene looking at me and hastily pull the knife away from what I assume is some sort of gelatinous monster, slain, carved up, and served cold.

Allene laughs. “It’s just salmon in aspic, Feon. It won’t bite you.” I note that she has a similar dish in front of her, but instead of fish it is filled with an assortment of fruits. She’s already cut herself a slice and is eating dainty forkfuls.

Beside me, I can feel Caed’s displeasure thrumming through our Bond. I glare at him sidelong. “Is there something I can do for you, Solir?” I ask through gritted teeth.

“Please try not to insult our hosts after they have seen fit to celebrate us so warmly,” he says, leaning in so only I hear it.

“Of course, Solir. And while I’m at it, would you like me to get on my knees and kiss their feet as well? I do live solely to serve your pleasure, after all,” I hiss.

Caed startles backwards, a look of surprise and hurt writ on his features before he smooths it away. He turns, then, and says to Allene, “My dear wife-to-be, would you do me the immense pleasure of joining me on the dance floor?”

My stomach drops.

Allene breaks away from her conversation with Lysithea and places her hands in his, “Oh, Caederyn, I’d grown so impatient waiting, I’d half a mind to ask you myself!” And then—as if she’d nearly forgotten—she looks back at her friend and asks, “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not,” Lysithea replies smoothly. “It’s your party, after all. You should dance if you want to. You can leave your friend behind.” She heaves a melodramatic sigh.

Allene laughs and plants a kiss on Lysithea’s cheek. “You’re a peach.”

Caed pauses, his free hand finding my shoulder, and leans in to mutter, “Feon. Behave.” I slump back in my chair, a deep shame burning in my gut, slowly smothering my anger.

Then, hand in hand, Caed and Allene rise from their seats and make for the stairs, leaving me with nothing but the low twang of Caed’s guilt echoing through our Bond. As they turn, I catch Allene’s eyes once again cast in my direction. She gives me a small wink and I decide that perhaps anger is the right call after all. The two of them take to the dance floor, a matching set of silver and gold atop a black stage polished to such a high shine, I don’t realize that the silver flecks in the floor are reflections until the couples pass over them.

I look up and am awed for a moment. The curved ceiling has been painted to look like the sky at midnight, with small inlaid pricks of twinkling silver stars. These, then, are what I saw reflected below. The deep blue of the ceiling fades quickly down the walls, giving way to the soft purples and pinks of daybreak, which then shift to the pale, serene sky blue of morning. Dispersed along the walls and doorways, the dais and the banisters, are more roses in a multitude of blues, from fresh cobalt to deep midnight, their crawling vines rendered delicately in silver.

I find one affixed to the back of Caed’s chair and run my fingers over it. To my surprise, it is soft to the touch, the dark petals velvety as they should be, the leaves appropriately thin and vegetal, and the thorns just as sharp as any I’ve felt before.

“They’re real, you know,” Lysithea says as she slides into Caed’s deserted chair. Somehow I don’t think she’s supposed to do that, but no one stops her. She rips off a petal with her long bronze fingers and flicks it at me. “It took many years of selective breeding. And magic, of course.”

I snort. “Is there anything here that isn’t magic? This whole place reeks of it.”

Lysithea smiles beatifically. “Probably not.” She sits angled towards me now, one long, stockinged leg crossed neatly over the other, her plate of primarily pastries floating at her shoulder. She wears a stiff white-and-silver jerkin over a black doublet with long, voluminous sleeves and a pair of shiny black boots that come up to about mid-thigh. A single earring dangles from her left ear.

I glance back at the dance floor and watch as Caed spins Allene slowly in time with the music. He holds her close, a smile softening his stiff face.

“How come you don’t wear dresses anymore?” I ask, forgetting the flowers.

“It’s called style, you uncultured lizard.”

“I look fine! My clothes are perfectly fine!” I am, in fact, wearing my best. And I am not a lizard.

“Oh I suppose they are perfectly well made, but one should strive for more than simply fine. Your wardrobe shows no personality, no panache. It’s absolutely and fundamentally boring.” As Lysithea shifts in her seat, light glints wickedly off the silvered toes and heels of her thigh high black boots. “Though I guess the horns are something of a statement on their own. Pity you don’t do much with them.”

Lysithea’s eyes trail the betrothed couple, her mouth pulled into a hard line. Many others have joined Allene and Caed on the dance floor, but none shine so brightly as they.

“Just because you’re wearing trousers doesn’t mean you’re making some sort of daring statement. People wear trousers all the time,” I huff.

“They’re hose,” Lysithea replies.

“Takes one to wear one.”

Allene has her arms around Caed’s neck now while his hands rest at her hips. They gaze at one another, performing an absolutely disgusting amount of prolonged eye contact. Every now and then they speak to each other quietly. My stomach turns with the nauseating intimacy of it all.

I feel a sudden, sharp pain in the meat of my back and yelp, jolting upright from my slouch. “Fuck!”

Turning, I find Lysithea with her arm around my back, her thumb and forefinger poised for another pinch.

“What the fuck was that for?” I bark.

“You deserved it for the damage you dealt my psyche,” she says. “Though your abysmal attempt at humor harmed me far more grievously than your so-called insult.”

“Oh, fuck off,” I spit.

My outburst was loud enough that I seem to have drawn some attention, if the amused looks of the nearby guests are anything to judge by. A young woman with a high twist of coppery hair wreathed with an unseemly number of yellow feathers stands frozen on the top step, several paces before my chair. Her mouth hangs open in an unbecomingly scandalized expression.

“Can I help you?” I demand.

Her face goes an ugly, blotchy sort of red that clashes with her hair. “No—I—err—uhm!” She turns and flees, picking up her skirts to hasten her retreat, one hand skimming the rose vine affixed to the banister and stirring up a tiny storm of blue petals that mingle with the little tufts of feathers she sheds. She must stick herself with a thorn, for shortly after she jolts mid-step and promptly stumbles into another guest. “Oh, beeswax!” She disappears into the crowd, mingled petals and feathers trailing behind her.

I slouch back in my chair, arms crossed, fuming.

“You know, I think she was about to ask you to dance,” Lysithea remarks, suppressing a smirk as she butters a biscuit. “Pity. It would have been nice to have gotten rid of you.”

“Oh, fucking fine!” I hiss. I stand, my chair scraping loudly against the floor.

I feel it then, a dark note of displeasure plucked on the tether to my heart, the Bond that ties me to my prince. I look out over the dance floor and find Caed watching me from over Allene’s shoulder. He wears a look of deep disappointment on his face, one that clearly says: If you’re intent on embarrassing yourself and by extension me, the least you can do is be out of sight.

I feel the prick of eyes upon me like stinging nettles. Some of the other guests have begun to talk in low voices, pointedly not looking at me, sometimes raising a hand to smother a laugh. None of them seem to have noticed the instigating spark: Lysithea and her sharp little fingers. I spare a glance back towards her and see her eating her biscuit with calculated poise, a glimmer of mischief in her silvery eyes. My face colors a deep, horrified red. At the end of the dais, Halwynn Ballard sips smugly on their wine. As they catch my eye, they raise their goblet in my direction and the man standing next to them lets out a low bark of laughter.

I turn to the guards stationed at the back of the dais to bestow the duty of the prince’s safety upon Captain Elske and add that she’d better not fuck it up. She raises an eyebrow, unamused, and watches silently as I flee down the stairs and into the awaiting throng. Many people try to waylay me, no doubt to ask me any number of inanely academic questions about magic, dragons, or Caed’s wardrobe, but I barrel past them, not caring if I scuff shoes or chafe egos. For once, I’m furious with myself for being so damnably visible. The horns, the hair, the golden scales—I curse it all as I skirt the room, grab a flute of champagne as it floats by me, and all but run up the wide, sweeping staircase on the other side.

This staircase joins with a wide balcony that runs the perimeter of the ballroom, save for the space occupied by the dais.  And where the dais is hyper visible, a well lit display case or a stage raised high above the adoring crowd, the balcony is a much more private space, its length peppered by large sculptures that arc across the railing and overhead, obscuring the people behind them.

I plow forward to the furthest end, away from the smattering of people scattered across it. I find a secluded nook hidden by a pair of large marble statues immortalized in their longing. They form an informal arch, each of their bodies leaned in towards the other as if pulled by gravity, their arms outstretched and reaching.

I lean against the handrail and chug my champagne. I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand and stow the empty glass at the statues’ foot, wishing I’d thought to grab another. I glower down at the pretty dancing couples, all turning in time with the music, the women’s full skirts twirling like stupid, fluttery flowers spinning in the breeze. Even among the finery of all the other dancers, Caed and Allene shine, like comparing common stars to the sun and moon.

“Are you not fond of dancing, Lord Feon?” A large figure settles against the rail a polite distance away from me.

I look up, irritated that in addition to watching Caed fall in love with someone else, now I have to deal with a mouth breather as well. I get them every now and then, people intent on ingratiating themselves with a true dragon—not one of those common brainless wyrmlings.

But there’s something different about this one. He’s a large man with a ruddy face and a wild mane of hair that he’s attempted to tame into a low tail at the back of his head. He has the look of a bear made to sit through grooming for the circus before being stuffed into a suit that doesn’t quite fit.

“No,” I reply disdainfully.

“Me neither,” he says, oblivious to my discontent. His massive hands dwarf the railing to a near comical extent. “Events in Ogren are a bit less hoity toity, you know?” He gestures towards the silver inlay in the walls, the glittering chandeliers, and the whole of the ballroom. His seams strain against the movement.

“I’m still not used to, well…” He reddens a bit. “I’m just a bit new at it all, you know?”

“And you’ve no one to guide you, then? No one to introduce you to society, to make sure all your buttons remain buttoned?”

The man quickly glances down at his shirt, his expression falling as he notes that the button at his throat has come free. He fumbles at it with clumsy, too-large fingers but can’t seem to find a good angle. “No,” he says, voice quivering anxiously. “No, just me. I’m just here to serve as witness to the proceedings.”

He wears the deep green of Ogren, trimmed sparingly with copper thread, which I note is coming unraveled at one of his too-short sleeves. Though I know Ogren isn’t the place for fancy functions such as this, regardless I thought they’d at least outfit their would-be representative in something more fitting—and preferably something that actually fits him. When I turn towards him and take an experimental sniff, he smells untamed, more than human. Interesting.

With a sigh, I reach out and take the man’s shirt in hand and button it myself. “You’ll acclimate eventually,” I reply, sliding the button into the hole. My knuckle brushes his throat. He swallows. “Or they’ll eat you alive.” The man blanches and I grin wickedly, withdrawing my hands and turning to lean back against the railing. “But you’re right, these parties can be terribly stuffy. Personally, I prefer Ogren’s offerings. Here, I feel like I’m suffocating.” I tug at my stiff collar with the crook of one finger and watch as his eyes follow the motion. I cock my head to one side and regard him.

He stands there transfixed for several moments before blurting, “D—d’you wanna—I mean, would you like to get some fresh air?” He looks fit to bursting with nerves. “Outside. With—with me.” His eyes are wide with supplication. “Please,” he breathes.

I spare a glance back down towards the dance floor. Caederyn is laughing, Allene held reverently in his arms. My eyes flick back up towards the Ogrench man, his sweaty hands balled anxiously around the railing. I could use a good distraction.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

I push off the handrail and we set about looking for somewhere to get some “air.” I forgo the first floor lounges, as they’re always full and I don’t feel like playing empty room whack-a-mole with a bunch of sexed up sycophants. We pass through the ostentatious entry to the ballroom and file out into a large hall lined with more doors than Caed has swords (which is a lot). To the left of us a door opens, music blaring for a moment as a couple stumbles out, laughing, before they traipse towards the ballroom. I start searching rooms at random, irritated to find none of them empty, the occupants staring at us dumbly as we peer in, only to promptly slam the door shut moments later.

We find a multitude of lounges, a powder room, three lavatories, a music parlor, and a trophy room—all of them occupied. Finally, I find a large closet halfway filled with coats and blessedly empty of occupants. I grab my companion’s wrist (though my fingers can’t circle its entirety) and drag him inside after me.

“This isn’t—” he starts, surprised, but stops as the door swings shut behind him and I grab his face in my hands and tug him down towards me. “Oomf!”

“It’s absolutely fucking freezing outside, so unless the fresh air is really what you were intent upon, here’s as good as anywhere,” I breathe.

Large, heavy coats press in around us as I shove him back into the door. His surprise quickly turns to fervor and he spreads his lips open for me, welcoming my kiss. I bite at his bottom lip and he gasps.

His hands hover nervously around me, like he’s afraid his touch will hurt me. As if. I growl impatiently and press my hand against the growing thickness in his trousers. I hear a sharp intake of breath, feel the rush of his warm exhalation against my neck, and then his hands fall to my hips, too gentle, his thick fingers creeping around tentatively to my ass.

I squeeze him, hard, taking great pleasure in the whine caught in the back of his throat as I thumb over the clothed tip. He curls forward, leaning into me, all heavy bulk and muscle, massive and nearly suffocating. His chin presses into my shoulder and his breath rasps across my skin, hot and wet and greedy. He smells like musk and earth and sweat with something gamey at the edges.

I push my tunic aside and try to undo the buttons on my trousers one-handed, fumbling awkwardly for a few moments before I give up in frustration and hurriedly go at it again with both hands. Thumbs in my waistband, I drag the fabric down, pants and trousers both, and fist my semi-hard cock.

“Down,” I hiss urgently.

He doesn’t seem to understand for a moment, still focused on kneading the globes of my ass with those giant hands, so I nudge his thigh with my knee again and again, each time harder and more impatient, until he finally gets it. He lowers himself and I reach up to place both my hands atop his shoulders and shove him to the floor. He makes a half-broken sort of wheeze as I grin down at him. His mouth forms a perfect “o” that’s now level with the head of my steadily swelling dick.

My cock gives an eager jump in my right hand while my left hand cups his face, thumb moving to his full, slack lips, brushing them gently before pushing in and spreading them apart, ‘til his mouth is open and waiting for me to press inside. I breach his lips with just the head, reveling in the velvet warmth of his mouth and the barest hint of teeth. I feel the shudder of his breath on my sensitive skin, watch the tide of his hunger rise, and soon he’s letting me in deeper, his tongue sliding wet and sloppy down the length of me.

His eyes fall closed and his nostrils flare as he takes me to the base, cheeks hollowing, a moan half stifled as he swallows me down obediently. My hands fist in his coarse hair, tugging him forward as I thrust shallowly, groaning as he constricts around me, throat working to take it all, spit dribbling down his bottom lip to his chin.

I thrust again and his throat flexes in an aborted swallow, trembling around me as he chokes down his gag reflex. I laugh and pull him off my cock, then drag the tip against those swollen, wanton lips. His face is all wondering and open, eyes wide and hungry for me.

“That’s a good look on you,” I purr, cupping the side of his face with my hand.

He lets out a sort of pathetic, strained keening sound and lists forward to nose at the base of my dick, tonguing my balls attentively.

“Come now,” I say, grinning, watching the way his eyes follow the bobbing motion of my cock. “Off with those.”

I bend down til we’re nose to nose, my wine-laced breath gusting into his open mouth. My forefinger trails a line down the front of his trousers, stopping just shy of the very noticeable bulge begging for my attention. His breath catches and his hands scramble clumsily at his belt buckle, all desperation and no dexterity. I kneel before him and impatiently push his big, oafish hands out of the way. I tug his belt free of his pants with a speed that makes the leather crack like a whip before I toss it aside. I jerk his fly open, ripping off several of the buttons in my haste. I don’t care.

Still kneeling, I lean forward, my back arching. I meet his mouth with my own, utterly dwarfed by him and completely in control. Our kiss is all teeth and hunger and he yields to me readily, caving as my hands move to either side of his neck. I nudge him back until his shoulders hit the door and he’s half sitting, half lying beneath me.

My mouth thoroughly occupied, I slap his hip lightly a couple times until he gets the idea. He lifts up his hips to shimmy his trousers down below the thick curve of his ass. I break the kiss to tug his pants the rest of the way down his legs. They snag on his boots. I tug, harder this time, until I hear a seam rip open and suddenly the trousers come free. Grinning, I toss them behind me.

He lays back, panting and exposed, his massive cock heavy and weeping against a full belly covered in thick, dark hair. I drink in the sight of him, a towering body of muscle and fat, built for strength, made gentle and wanting as he cedes his being to my will.

I crawl forward, one hand bracing my weight on the cold floor next to his chest. The other trails over his skin, down the gentle curve of his stomach, to ghost over the length of him, which is already slick with precum. He whimpers. My hand slides from the head down the base and I thread my fingers into the coarse curls nested there, then give a short, sharp tug. He groans, tensing for a moment before exhaling a huff of frustration as my hand moves lower still to the crease of his ass.

I pause just long enough to retrieve a small bottle from my pocket. I unstopper it and dip my finger inside, coating it with a liberal amount of carrageenan-and-clove gel. It’s thick and slick and pleasantly pungent. I smear a generous helping over his rim and wait for him to relax before I breach it. His breathing is fast and shallow. He stares back at me with eyes gone wide and bright as I sink into him down to the knuckle. He exhales sharply. He’s hot and tight and wild for it, and when I curl my finger inside him he makes a strained, plaintive gasp.

His hair has escaped its tie and gone feral about his face. When I add a second finger, his mouth falls open and he begins panting, his sharp teeth glistening wetly. His musk is heavy around us. I feel as if I’m watching the untaming of him. My cock twitches against his thigh.

I coax him open with three fingers, nosing up the hem of his shirt as I do until I’m able to bite one of his hard, dark nipples. He jumps and his ass clenches around my fingers as he lets out a strangled groan. Grinning, I draw out of him and he makes this pathetic sort of keening sound. I spread his thighs apart and fill the empty space between them with my body. I grit my teeth as I grasp my cock in hand and press the blunt head of it against his slick, wanting hole. He squeezes his eyes shut and lets out a rasp of air. Once his chest fully deflates, I push in.

His ass burns wanton and hot. I watch his expression as I steadily press into him until I am sheathed to the hilt. His face is red with blood and his body is trembling. I lean in against him, lavishing the tender skin of his chest with teeth and tongue, as he is so large that I can reach no higher on his body. His powerful thighs wrap around me, calves tucking in behind my hips. Slowly, his eyes open and he looks at me like his entire world has been narrowed down to his own pleasure. I smirk back at him and begin to move, my hands finding his hips as I start to build up a rhythm.

His voice is a rumble in his chest. His hands move to the back of my neck, drawing himself up as he pulls me to him. My hips move faster, fucking him deeper, balls slapping against his ass. The sound he makes is wild and desperate, a howl of pleasure. I smell the coppery tang of blood and look up to see his canines have lengthened and curved, bloodying his lower lip. A growl forms low and heated in my throat and I grab his thighs and press them back towards his gut. I only realize I’ve started to shift partially myself when I feel my claws dig into his meaty flesh. He cries out again, beastly and beseeching, begging wordlessly for me to fuck him senseless.

There’s a ripping sound and his shirt, already strained to its limit, now bursts open as his chest expands. Fur, coarse and thick, has sprouted from his flesh, and I take great joy in sinking my claws in deeper, knowing he can handle it.

I pull out of him as slowly as I can, reveling in the wrecked sound he makes. I drag his thick hips forward ‘til his upper back hits the floor and his meaty, muscular legs are hooked over my shoulders, a feat I would not be capable of were I truly human and only capable of a human’s strength. I plunge back in, hitting him deeper still, and he arches off the cold floor, spittle dripping down his ursine muzzle, all the breath fucked out of him in a single savage moment.

My hips thrust frantically, knowing the mounting tension in my abdomen means I won’t last much longer. I slide a clawed hand between his thighs, letting his left leg drop forward off my shoulder and onto his furry chest. The next time I slam into him, I grab his balls and squeeze. He makes a loud, choked sound, only barely human, and his cock jumps, spilling cum all over his beastly chest and face. His ass spasms around me and he howls, full-bodied, as the tremors take him.

I don’t make it much longer. A few more thrusts, my pace erratic and frantic, riding that high as he milks me for all I’m worth—and then my balls seize up and my ass clenches and my thighs burn with the strain of it all until it’s too much and I’m filling him up, gasping to completion.

I crumple and let his legs flop awkwardly to the cold floor. I slide out of him and fall back on my heels, hand moving to my cock to eke out the last remnants of my orgasm against his sweaty thigh. He lays on his back, legs splayed, dick swollen and spent. His chest is heaving, glistening with sweat like a horse that’s been run to exhaustion. There are red lines of blood on his thighs from where my claws dug into him.

I tuck my dick back into my pants and button myself up before getting to my feet. I step over his limp body and open the door. “Pleasure making your acquaintance,” I say, grinning. “Thanks for the fresh air.” He stares up at me, his forehead shining with sweat, his chest and face covered in cum, his mouth gaping.

I shut the door behind me with a decisive click before he can gather his wits to speak. I take a few minutes to visit the lavatory and tidy myself up a bit, then I head back to the glittering ballroom, feeling sated and almost at peace.