Series: Willow Winters
Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 60207 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 301(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60207 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 301(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
“I see no point in any of this.” Galen’s cheek rests in his hand as he stares at the entrance to the dark room, waiting rather impatiently for our guest. The fire lit behind us adds a shadow to his face, making him appear even more angered and intimidating. The idea of his exasperation pulls a smirk to my lips.
“I agree.” The hint of my smile falls at Cyrus’s bland statement.
“You two used to be amusing.” I allow my irritation to be apparent as I sit farther back in my seat and straighten my shoulders.
“I have no use for the sorcerer, nor the humans for that matter.”
“It’s not about possession, it’s about the perception of power,” I respond coldly to Galen’s words.
His shoulders rise as Cyrus snorts a laugh. “Are you suggesting that our power is being questioned?”
“What power, Galen?”
His brows furrow and his pupils flatten, turning reptilian and sparking a pale blue. “What do you mean ‘what power’?” He sneers his angered words, and they sound clear in the vast, cold room, echoing off the jagged stone walls. “No one dares to question our claim to this territory. We have more wealth than we have room to store it.”
“Yes, but you miss my point, brother.”
“And what is that, Drago?” Cyrus’s curious voice utters his words carefully, as if testing out their taste before letting them pass his lips.
“We’ve been forgotten. You cannot perceive power if you have no memory of it. We sit alone in our castle, enjoying the spoils of our wealth, but it’s been too long brothers—far too long—since our names have been spoken.”
“And this sorcerer?” Galen’s disbelief is apparent. “What does he have to offer us?”
I wave my hand aimlessly in the air. The sorcerer spoke vaguely of glory and wealth, but it didn’t appeal much to me. “You dragged me from my chambers merely because of your boredom.” Galen runs a hand down his face. “You need a hobby.”
Cyrus’s wicked eyes find mine as a stealthy grin forms on his face. “Or better yet, someone to warm your bed.”
“If they don’t heat for me than I’m not interested.” My tone is flat.
“Since when?” Cyrus scoffed. Being the youngest of us, he hasn’t grown bored of the women who throw themselves at us. Although we’re feared, we’re still desired. They long for expensive baubles and offer their bodies in exchange. Cyrus set a bad precedent on that front.
I used to give in to temptation, but it’s been years since I’ve indulged. I want more now. I long for dragonlings. Carrying a dragon is nearly impossible for mortals or other shifters. My brothers and I are the last of our clan and our species is sure to die with us. I may only look thirty years old, but I’m nearly two hundred. I’m growing old, and it’s long past due for me to settle with a mate. A sigh leaves me in longing, and I run the pad of my thumb along my stubbled jaw.
In the last few years I’ve accepted that it’s not meant to be. In the presence of dragons, women capable of carrying our seed display strong signs of ovulation, the most obvious is her heated core and strong scent. I’ve searched the kingdom for years for a woman who would be able to carry my young but have never found a woman to heat for me. Nor have my brothers. Unlike Cyrus, I’ve no desire to bed a woman for sport, and unlike Galen, I’m not bitter that the women capable of carrying dragonlings to term have disappeared with the remainder of our clan.
Galen sits farther back in his seat, getting comfortable. “If only a woman would heat for me, I’d fill her every chance I was given.” As Galen’s soft words settle in the emptiness of the vast throne room, a timid knock echoes off the walls.
“Enter.” I bellow, and in response the large door cracks and slowly opens. A petite woman in a simple linen dress enters with her head bowed. One of the many servants in our quarters. Our kingdom is littered with humans, only those born into servitude are permitted to stay in the castle. They’re permitted to leave if they’d like, but none do. We ensure their wellbeing just as much as their fear in us. Our kingdom is prosperous, but those who stay to serve us are given wealth far beyond the possibilities awaiting the commoners.
The woman walks obediently, her eyes on the floor and her hands clasped in her front, stopping a few feet from the thrones and waiting as expected.
“You may speak.”
The small woman raises her head and meets my gaze. Respect outweighs the fear in her eyes as she speaks confidently. “Your guests are here, my Lords.” Her sweet voice is so soft it barely registers.