1
FIGHT
Hurricanes have nothing on a Blood Dragon, as I spar with my drakes in the towering lightning-stone amphitheater, mad with intent. I whirl, clash, and roar, insane with the battle-fury of my people, as they hammer my blows away, strike after strike, blast after blast.
Rage and wrath consume me as I fight inside the gargantuan colosseum here in Chambord, home of the Storm Dragons of France. All around, Storm Dragons watch with eager eyes. My drakes and I are center stage in the massive space, as the uppermost tiers fill with blue, purple, and cloud-grey dragons. Because we’ve sparred the morning away, well into the afternoon.
And we just aren’t stopping—as fury and darkness consume us.
Gripping the highest boxes with massive restless talons, my cousin, King Rhennic Erdhelm’s dragons, growl at today’s spectacle. Others in human form watch in the grandstands below, come to see the Royal Blood Dragon drakaina lose her shit at what’s been done to her.
Because all my memories of home and clan have been stolen, as I rage now to get them back. It’s only been a week since the Black DragonKnight’s High Council Excommunicated me from my home and took my memories of Sweden and all the people I love there.
But a week is enough time for me to be livid, since nothing the Storm Dragon healers have tried these past days has helped me.
Not one bit.
A bitter taste fills my mouth now, and it’s not just the tang of my own blood from a split lip, as a seething truth roars inside me. That truth is matched by a furious hum on my chest from Aesa’s silver Truthstone embedded in my bones and skin, knowing that my time here has been futile.
I’ve been through tests; I’ve given blood. I’ve endured countless bouts of lightning-storm magic from the Storm Dragon healers coursing through my body to figure out what’s wrong with me.
Just about everyone can see my dragon-aura’s full of holes, where my human memories and my dragon’s instincts concerning my home should be. What no one can figure out is how it was done.
Or how to reverse it.
Fuck my life.
Still, the bastards on the Black Dragon Knight’s High Council don’t know what’s coming for them, as I fight in the amphitheater now, livid. My drakes, Bjorn Magnussen and Ström Eriksson, weather it, because that’s what they do. They support me as my First and Second Bloodmates, even when supporting me means fighting me all morning so I can go ballistic in a safe, controlled space.
We’ve paced ourselves. None of us have shifted into our dragons today in this ginormous amphitheater of alabaster lightning-stone columns and tiers like the Colosseum of Rome, which flicker with opal-blue Storm Dragon magic.
I’ve needed to go at it for hours to diffuse my rage, however; I woke up before dawn with both my inner Blood Magic drakaina and my dark Bone Magic drake seething for war, needing to fulfill it. My dual dragons want retribution on the Knight’s High Council,and so do I.
And I know who’s pushing my need for revenge, as a dark presence now enters the space.
I know my Third Bloodmate, Mikkel Thorsen, has come into the towering lightning-stone hall the moment he arrives. He’s barely set foot upon the blue-white stones of the foyer when I turn towards him with a snarl, hammering a massive volley of devastating Bloodspears at Bjorn and Ström, sending them right to their asses on the white sand floor.
I’m just that strong now with my Third Drake’s incredible torrent of energy rushing through me, thanks to our recent bond. Mikkel’s indomitable power surges through my veins like a hurricane, as I see him settle into one of the most ornate, throne-like stone seats at the lowest edge of the fight ring.
Those boxes are reserved for Storm Dragon royalty, but Mikkel doesn’t care. With power like his, he should be royalty. Not to mention that he’s also the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome, with a runner-lean frame, strong shoulders, and an almost wasp-lean waist.
Fucking hot, he’s a body I want, hard; not just that, but the rest of him is beyond sexy, as well.
His short black hair with its dark auburn hi-lights is always stylish; as he runs a hand through that hair now, I can almost feel it, knowing that soft wave is all natural and not products.
His face is almost more beautiful than a mere mortal; Mikkel has a high-cheeked, full-lipped face like an Archangel, making me wonder if there isn’t just a little Archangelic blood far back down his family line somewhere.
Though he looks like an angel or a demigod, however, his power is beyond devilish, full of poison and darkness. As he stares at me with his darker-than-black gaze now, I feel my inner Bone Magic rush to him in a torrent.
Two of a kind.
Our beasts coil around each other in a towering auric Bloodknot asthey greet one another. It’s massive, poisonous, and powerful, as our darkest natures connect, happy to see each other again.
Seething auric ropes of oilslick black magic flow between our dragons, uniting them in our bond. Our dragons get along just fine; the jury’s still out on me and Mikkel, however, as he stares me down in the fighting hall.
We are life-mated now after the events of the past week in Copenhagen, but I’m still not sure where I stand with him, or him with me.
And neither are my drakes; Mikkel’s presence in the gargantuan rotunda stops our fight as both Bjorn and Ström turn. I hold up a hand to my First and Second Drake, though I needn’t have. They’ve already halted our battle as they felt my energy change when Mikkel entered the hall.
