He’d be super-hot if he wore a mask, like a meathead Phantom of the Opera.
“Then perhaps,” Jazreal continues, clapping Celutok on the back with a force that nearly sends the farmer stumbling, “Celutok here wouldn’t have to beg to escape your misdirected wrath.”
Dracoth’s eyes narrow, his muscles tensing almost imperceptibly—though I notice. I’m the only one capable of enduring the hot-head for so long.
“You dare berate me for a crime uncommitted—”
“Listen, Jazzy,” I interrupt, cutting through the rising tension with a sharp smile. I give Dracoth a ladylike nudge with my leg. “It’s clear who’s in charge around here.”
I spread my arms wide to encompass the cheerful mingling of the Magaxus crowd. “Dracoth’s your leader now. So, stop pretending you’re not impressed and get in line.” I finish with a grin that doesn’t touch my steely glare.
For a moment, Jazreal stares as if weighing every ounce of my sexy self. But I don’t care. My eyes bore into his, knowing, despite his size, I could crush him with my powers as easily as a bug.
Can he feel it now? My divine blessings?
Jazreal breaks into roaring laughter, evaporating the sizzling tension. “You both wear the cloak of Chieftains well,” he admits, wiping tears from his scarred face.
“Join me, Jazreal,” Dracoth says suddenly, his pride soaring within our bond like my credit card debt. He extends a clenched hand, his crimson eyes gleaming. “Retake your place as Death Herald of the Ravager Berserkers. Serve me as you served my father.”
“Your father...” Jazreal’s laughter fades as his gaze drops, his expression darkening with thought. “No, Dracoth,” he mutters, shaking his head like a man waking from a heavy dream. “Never again will I serve the Scythians, or anyone who brings about our extinction.”
Scythians.
The name sends an involuntary shiver down my spine. There’s something about that word—it clogs the air like a stinky curse. Among the Klendathians, it’s spoken in hushed whispers, accompanied by wary glances over shoulders, as if the mere word might summon some evil spirit.
Dracoth had told me bits and pieces about them. How his people served the Scythians as mercenaries. But for someunknown reason, they took his people’s females to control their population. It sounded more like slavery than employment. But I never questioned him further. Even he seemed unsure of the full truth, calling it his father’s wish.
Ugh! If I listened to my father, I’d have done nothing—the prick never spoke a word to me.
“What I bring is our glorious destiny!” Dracoth snaps, crimson eyes flaring with an almost feral intensity.
“Promise me you’ll forsake the Scythians,” Jazreal fires back, his voice heated and raw. “Do that, and I’ll bow before you here and now, War Chieftain. I swear it on our ancestors.” His emerald eyes gleam with conviction, his expression pleading yet unyielding.
Dracoth’s gaze falls—a rare moment of hesitation from my fiery dragon.
“I will not,” he declares, lifting his head once more. His voice is steady, his lip curling to reveal the gleam of fangs. “No matter the cost, I will have the strength and revenge that was promised!”
I almost laugh at his silly, overly dramatic display. It’s endearing, really! That’s why he needs me to smooth out those sharp Mr. Frowny Face edges.
“I mean,” I interject, hoping to salvage the moment, “in time, we could reassess—”
“The zarberries have fallen close to the bush,” Jazreal cuts me off, the smug prick. He shakes his head, sending his stupid long hair flapping like vulture wings. “In two hundred years—if any of us remain—I will challenge you again, Dracoth, son of Gorexius.”
He grins, and I see it: the fire in his eyes, the hunger for the fight yet to come. “May you die a glorious death.” With that, he turns and stalks back into the crowd, every step radiating dramatic flair.
“That was... intense,” Sandra says after a long pause, wiping sweat from her brow as she exhales loudly.
Tell me about it!
“All part and parcel of being a Chieftainess,” I shrug, attempting to appear casual.
“Disappointing,” Dracoth grumbles, a hand against his chin appearing thoughtful for a change. “I need great warriors such as him.”
“There’ll be others,” I say with a reassuring smile, though glancing at the chatting crowd of maimed grandads makes my words ring as hollow as my mother’s love.
“You’ve changed so much, Lexie,” Sandra says suddenly, judging me like I’m a model strutting down a runway.
“Oh! You really think so?” I beam, warmth flooding my chest. I flutter my new super-important cloak for effect, the fabric catching the molten seams as I absentmindedly twist my wedding ring. Maybe it’s the cloak. Or maybe it’s the ring that caught her eye. “Ah, of course I have! So much has happened since we last spoke. Honestly, I hardly believe half of it myself!”
