Zanaikeyros - Son of Dragons (Pantheon of Dragons #1)(24)

She sat there—they sat there—enveloped in silence for what felt like forever, until finally, she extended her hand. “Don’t hurt me,” she murmured, “please.”

His shoulders twitched, like she had just offended him, but he didn’t utter a verbal reply. He simply nodded, took her hand in his, and grasped it with exquisite gentleness. He pressed his thumb against the center of her palm; caressed it like they were lifelong lovers; and then slid the digit along her middle finger until he was holding the tip of her joint. His fingernail began to elongate until it formed a pointed claw, and he pressed it against the pad of her finger.

She yelped and tried to tug her hand away, but he strengthened his grip, refusing to release her—his grasp was like an iron vise. “Just a little prick,” he said in a deep, soothing voice. “Just a small drop of blood, Jordan; I won’t ever harm you, my love.”

Jordan tensed and wrinkled her nose, practically holding her breath. Why did he need a drop of her blood, and why did he just call her my love?

Oh…God.

She was going to be sick…

She bit her bottom lip, stared down at her hand, and nodded.

What else could she do?

He moved so quickly, so efficiently, that she never saw the nail puncture her skin, and the momentary twinge of pain was as short-lived as it was incidental—he applied immediate pressure beneath the wound. “You good?” he asked.

She felt her face flush.

“Breathe,” he instructed. “Your fear is getting the best of you.”

She closed her eyes and concentrated on her breathing: one deep breath in, one slow breath out, repeating the process several times. He was right: It wasn’t the prick to her finger; it was everything—absolutely everything—else.

“That’s it, baby,” he mumbled, watching, presumably, for her color to return.

This time, it was Jordan who refused to answer: She wasn’t his baby, and she wasn’t his love, and while she appreciated the concern, she would much rather he just leave her alone.

And drop the terms of endearment.

Without hesitation, he squeezed both sides of her finger to extract a droplet of blood. “Child of fire; daughter of flames. More than a woman; more than a name. Born from the soul of The Pantheon.” The dark red droplet on Jordan’s finger began to glow like a crimson light, and then the light turned from blue to aquamarine…from aquamarine to sapphire. With a sudden sizzle, it erupted into a single white flame that burned at the tip of her finger.

Jordan shrieked. She yanked her hand free and tried to shake out the flame, to smother the fire with her other hand, but the radiance would not go out. “Make it stop,” she pleaded in a quivering voice. “Please, I don’t like it.” There was something too peculiar, too unsettling—too familiar—about the enigmatic flame, and it rattled her to her bones.

Zane bent his head to her finger, swept his tongue over the flicker, and the mystical fire went out.

She stared at him like she’d just seen a ghost, a phantom that would haunt her for the rest of her life. Reaching deep inside for a rational explanation, she mumbled, “I…I don’t get your point. So you obviously have some kind of mystical power—you’re some sort of magician—what does that have to do with me? We already knew that. I already knew that…about you.” She sounded so desperate, so piteous, even to her own distrustful ears.

Zane shook his head. “The only power I am wielding now is the power of truth.” He grasped her hand a second time, pricked the same finger before she could see it coming, and held her gaze in an iron stare. “You say it.”

“Say what?” she snapped.

He frowned. “Say it.”

She averted her eyes. “I don’t remember the words…whatever it is you said.”

He shook his head in earnest. “You do.”

Jordan felt like she was drowning, being swept away by a wave of madness, slowly pulled under by a spell. And everything in her independent nature rebelled: how arrogant, how pompous, how rude! And screw him for being such an insolent bastard because, God help her, it was true: She did remember the words.

Almost as if she had known them all of her life.

She stared down at her finger and shivered, helpless to resist. “Child of fire; daughter of flames. More than a woman; more than a name. Born from the soul of The Pantheon.”

Light.

Sizzle.

Fire.

Once again, the blood coalesced into sapphire, and the sapphire became a white flame. Only this time, Jordan didn’t panic. She simply extended her hand to Zane, held it beneath his chin, and waited for him to extinguish the blaze with his tongue.

“You do it,” he said, once again seeking to make a point.

Jordan cut her eyes at him, then looked away, training her gaze on her finger. She already knew what would happen. Raising her hand to her mouth, she brought her finger to her tongue and slowly licked the flame.

As expected, the fire went out.

Her eyes clouded with moisture, and she shuffled further back on the couch, needing the extra space. “So what does it mean?” she asked, defensively.

He sighed. And then much to her surprise, he abruptly changed the subject. “Do you have a large family, Jordan? A lot of relatives?”

Jordan frowned, but she was grateful for the sudden shift in topic. “No,” she answered honestly. “My parents passed away when I was just a child, seven years old, and I was raised by my grandmother—she passed away three months ago. I don’t have any brothers or sisters.”