Zanaikeyros - Son of Dragons (Pantheon of Dragons #1)(32)
“It’s beautiful,” she murmured, unable to conceal her awe. She spun around to face him and immediately drew back. His eyes were glowing with liquid heat, perhaps in appreciation, perhaps from something else: some base, primordial emotion brought about by his close proximity to his lair. Either way, she was immediately reminded of where she was and the unthinkable fate that awaited her. She took two healthy steps back, away from the stone-work ledge, and stared out across the vista, suddenly feeling the urge to run.
A low, barely audible growl rose in Zane’s throat, and he slowly shook his head. “Jordan, do not.”
That was all he said, but it struck her heart with terror: Do not…what?
Do not fear me?
Do not defy me?
Do not think of running away?
“Do not lose your courage now,” he supplied. “You are a guest in a strange land; there is much to see, much to learn, and you will grow accustomed to my dragyri nature.”
She shuddered. “Why did your eyes glow just then? When I said the waterfall was beautiful? What was that…emotion?”
His tongue snaked out to lick his bottom lip in a primitive, serpentine gesture, and he shook his head again, this time letting her know that he’d rather not answer her question.
She felt her skin cool, and she knew her complexion had just turned ashen. Then it was satisfaction…or ownership…or lust. She swallowed a lump in her throat and glanced along the length of the porch until her eyes came to rest on her duffle bags, the gear she had packed for her stay in this strange, new land. “Don’t hurt me, Zanaikeyros,” she whispered in a tentative tone. “Remember your promise.” Meeting his eyes once more, she added, “I am completely at your mercy here.”
He sighed. “Ah, dragyra. If you only understood…” He took two confident steps forward—there was no hesitation in his approach —slid his hand around her lower back, and tugged her against his chest, pulling her into his embrace. “I wish only to please you, my frightened little bird. Only to make you happy. I will not harm you, dragyra. I will never…ever…harm you.”
She shivered, but she didn’t pull away.
If he wanted to be her protector, that was fine.
It was better than the alternatives—her captor, her master, her conqueror.
Standing still for what felt like forever, she tried desperately to gather her courage, all the while keeping her head lowered to avoid his eyes, those unsettling blue-gold orbs. “Inside the lair, where will I stay? Will I have my own space…my own room?”
He cupped her jaw in his hands with exquisite gentleness, raised her chin to force her gaze, and stared intently into her eyes, as if he could read her very soul in their depths. “I have my own suite, on the upper level; it has every comfort imaginable. Until your consecration, you will stay there, with me. After that, we can make any adjustments that you wish: redecorate the space to fit your style, move to another floor, find another wing that is more to your liking. But we are only one voice in a chorus of five—I cannot live separately from my lair-mates, nor would I wish to. At the least, it would offend Lord Saphyrius. At the most, it would offend my brothers.”
Jordan bit down on her lower lip to keep it from quivering. She immediately consulted her memory, relying on analytical thought to replace vulnerable emotion. “Axe, Levi, Noki, and Jace?” She rattled off the names, and he smiled.
“Axe, Levi, Nakai, and Jace,” he corrected. “You have an excellent memory, Jordan.”
She started to say thank you, but the words wouldn’t come.
It was all just too much, too soon.
Sensing how deeply her courage was waning, Zane withdrew his touch from her jaw, took a generous step back, and reached for her hand. “Come, dragyra,” he drawled in that curious, unidentifiable accent of his kind. “The sooner you meet them, the less you will fear.”
f
When the door to the lair swung open and Zane and Jordan walked in, one could have heard a pin drop from a dozen yards away.
All eyes shifted in their direction.
Four massive males came to a sudden halt, each in the midst of some mundane task, and an enormous warrior with dirty blond hair and irises, identical to Zane’s, raised his thick upper lip in a semi-snarl and grunted more than he spoke. His pitch-black pupils narrowed, making his visage primal, if not downright savage.
Jordan drew back in surprise.
“Zane,” the fearsome warrior barked, his deep voice pure grit and gravel.
“What’s up, Axe,” Zane replied casually, instinctively placing a protective hand against Jordan’s lower back.
The blond gestured casually, raising his head in an infinitesimal nod, and then he fixed his piercing gaze on Jordan.
He said nothing, and Zane filled the silence. “Brothers, this is Jordan Anderson. My dragyra.”
Jordan gulped. Talk about straight to the point. She still wasn’t sure if she was on board with the whole fated dragyra thing, but now was not the time to voice her objections—or to show her fear. That is, if she could help it.
The pitch-black pupils softened. “Nice to meet you.”
Jordan forced a weak, insincere smile. “Axeviathon, right?”
“Just Axe.”
She repeated the same forced smile, trying to stretch it out, make it broader. “Axe.”