“You sound surprised.”
“Well, I kind of figured there would be more starvation and torture involved. Fensa had to teach Xenon all sorts of tricks to help him get over the multi-century mind fuck you did on him.”
If I’m expecting contrition, I’m soon disabused of that notion. “He betrayed his race in favor of yours. He deserved a much worse punishment than he received.”
“Okay, then why didn’t you just kill him instead of keeping him chained up?”
“I wanted him to be there when I enacted my final revenge. To see that his machinations were futile and that those he attempted to save would all die in the end despite his interference.” the dragon king’s voice is as dark and ominous as his answer.
“Wow, this revenge of yours is covering a lot of territory,” I say, rubbing at my free wrist. “My dads, my brother-in-law, and now me. What exactly do you have planned for all of us?”
“You’ll find out soon enough,” he answers. “Especially if you refuse to behave.”
His tone is soft and quiet, but it sends a shiver down my back.
“Enough questions. You must eat.”
He’s right. I’ve got to keep my strength up if I’m going to figure out how to escape. And the lamb tastes heavenly, total restaurant quality. “That kid you have driving you around and burying bodies made this?” I ask when I’m done chewing the first few delicious bites.
“Yes, all the modern Colbys train with chefs from the time they enter primary school. They believe it is simply a hobby until they discover it is not.”
All the Colbys…
“That old guy who led my sister up the stairs in your castle? His name was Colby, too?”
“Yes, he died.” An unreadable look passes over his face. “The new Colby is his son.”
“Oh…” I say, but then I frown. “Wait, the old servant died, and the son just agreed to take his place?”
“There was no agreement necessary. When one Colby dies the son takes over his position. The Colby line of first-born sons has belonged to me since what your country refers to as the middle ages.”
“The Colby line has belonged to you since medieval times?” I repeat, not quite understanding. Then suddenly I do. “Wait, are you trying to say you’ve been enslaving Colby and his ancestors for hundreds of years?”
He stiffens. Then nods at the almost empty plate in my lap. “Finish your food.”
“I don’t want to eat. I feel sick to my stomach just thinking about that poor boy you’ve enslaved. You get that I’m half black, right? We don’t do slavery.”
“Black,” he repeats. “Are you referring to the color of your epidermis?”
My eyes widen. Is he serious? “Yes, I’m referring to the color of my skin and the skin of my ancestors who were brought over here in boats to serve masters they didn’t want to work for until the Civil War.”
“The Civil War…oh, so now we are conversing about one of the many atrocities you upright primates have visited upon each other? I see.”
Damianos tilts his head with a thoughtful look. “There have been so many of these squabbles, it has been rather hard to keep track. Ah well, in any case, it is neither here nor there for a drakkon. We care very little about what any of you anthros or mutations do during the short time you are given to scurry about your planet.”
Okay, no knife. Not even a fork. Rage face emoji. I would give anything right now to slit this uncaring bitch’s throat.
I settle for tensing up, preparing to make a run for the door. There’s no way I’m going to let myself fuck this two-dicked sociopath again—
But then a wave of heat completely interrupts that mental resolution. Like the universe is saying, “Fuck you, Ola, and the declaration you rode in on.”
Chapter Seventeen
As the heat smell fills the room, I let out a long string of curses.
Damianos picks the tray up from my lap and sets it aside. His expression is blank, but the bottom half of him sure ain’t.
The boys are back in town…both fully erect and extended.
“You require breeding again,” he says above them.
Yes, yes, I do. The new heat doesn’t waste any time. It washes over me in waves, swelling my breasts, and plumping my pussy.
And it awakens my wolf.
Damianos is a psychopath, a sociopath, and probably a few other path words the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders hasn’t come up with yet. But my wolf doesn’t care. She pants inside of me. Wanting him again. Wanting him to fill her womb.
Not anyone, like they told us in health class when they warned us about the dangers of not getting the heat control shot. Him.
Only him.
“Would you like me to take you this time? Make it easier for your mind to reconcile?”
The dark smoke of his offer wafts over my bent head, both irritating and surprising me.