The Dragon King's Blind Mate

Drain

Xalvador strode out of the bathing chamber, his damp silk robe trailing against the polished floor. He didn't think. He didn't plan. Guided entirely by the violent, invisible tugging in his chest, he crossed the threshold into the guest quarters.

There she lay.

Lyra was curled on the high mattress, her breathing soft and rhythmic. She was entirely oblivious to the dark king standing over her like a specter.

Xalvador climbed onto the mattress, his weight shifting the heavy furs. He leaned over her, his hands hovering mere inches from her sleeping face. He lowered his head, breathing in the scent of winter air and sweet rain.

Instantly, Lyra’s peaceful expression shattered.

In her sleep, a suffocating pressure crushed her chest. Her eyes strained beneath her closed lids. She gasped for air, but the room felt entirely devoid of oxygen. It felt as though her very soul was leaking out of her skin, pulled into a terrifying vacuum she couldn't see. Terror gripped her, locking her limbs in place. She whimpered, a small, broken sound.

Xalvador jerked his face away, tearing himself from her space. He scrambled off the bed, his own chest heaving as the stolen warmth of her energy surged violently into his veins.

Lyra lay flat on her back, inhaling ragged, desperate gulps of air. The invisible weight was gone, but the damage was done. Her muscles felt like lead, completely drained. She tried to cry out, to demand who was there, but her scarred throat could only produce a weak, trembling sigh.

A sharp click echoed through the silence. The heavy wooden door shut.

Lyra was left entirely alone, shivering under the blankets, wondering what kind of invisible monster had just entered her room.

--

The iron gate of the lower dungeons shrieked as Xalvador threw it open. The torchlight flickered violently, reacting to the raw demonic energy rolling off him. Down the damp corridor, three high-ranking Jagan guards stood watch over a row of iron cells containing rebel human factions.

"Your Majesty," the lead guard said, immediately dropping to one knee. "We did not expect you at this hour."

Xalvador didn't look at him. His eyes swept the cells, tracking the trembling forms of the prisoners. "Clear the level. Leave me with the captives."

The guard hesitated, his dark eyes shifting slightly. "Sire? The Commander ordered strict supervision for these rebels."

"Am I the King, or does Vaelen wear the crown this week?" Xalvador’s voice lowered, a soft, lethal purr. He took a single step forward, the stone floor beneath his boots frosting over with dark magic. "Get out before I use your bones to pick my teeth."

"Forgive me, Sire," the guard muttered, his face paling. He signaled the others, and the three of them retreated up the stone steps, their rapid footsteps echoing until a heavy iron door slammed shut above.

Left alone, Xalvador approached the nearest cell. Inside, a burly human rebel scrambled backward against the wet wall, his breathing ragged with absolute terror.

"What do you want, monster?" the prisoner spat, though his knees shook violently.

Xalvador smiled, a cruel, sharp expression that didn't reach his burning gold eyes. "Just a little loan."

He thrust his hand through the iron bars, his claws sinking directly into the man's chest. The prisoner didn't bleed; instead, a bright, crimson mist began to violently pour from his mouth and skin, siphoning straight into Xalvador’s palm. The human’s eyes rolled back as his muscles withered, his vitality being aggressively extracted to gorge the King's internal reserves.

"More," Yves demanded in his mind, the dragon roaring with dark satisfaction. "It is not enough to act as a shield. We need a reservoir if we are to go near her."

Xalvador ripped his hand back, leaving the unconscious, drained rebel on the floor. He moved to the next cell, and then the next, his movements methodical and ruthless. With every soul he partially harvested, the violent, vacuum-like pull in his chest grew dampened, buried beneath a temporary wall of stolen lifeforce. He was creating a biological buffer, storing excess energy like a saturated sponge so that his natural spiritual gravity wouldn't automatically rip the soul out of his fated mate the moment he stepped into her presence.

By the time he finished, five cells were filled with weakened, gasping prisoners. Xalvador wiped a stray drop of sweat from his forehead, his veins pulsing with an unnatural, stolen radiance that turned his skin completely pale.

"Now," Xalvador whispered, his voice vibrating with a dangerous mix of stolen power and deep anxiety. "It's tiime to introduce ourselves to mate."

--

Xalvador pushed the heavy oak door open. The iron hinges didn't make a sound.

On the other side of the room, Lyra was tangled in the bedsheets. Her knees buckled as she tried to force her feet onto the floor. She swayed, her pale fingers gripping the wooden post to keep from collapsing.

Xalvador crossed the room in two strides. He reached out and caught her by the arms.

Lyra flinched, tensing for the agonizing drain that had nearly choked her moments ago. But nothing happened. The heavy, stolen vitality swirling in Xalvador’s veins acted like a wall, blocking his natural vacuum. Her skin remained warm under his palms.

He lifted her easily, placing her back onto the edge of the high mattress.

"Who... who is there?" Lyra whispered. She turned her head toward the scent of woodsmoke and iron, her hands blindly reaching out until her fingers brushed the smooth silk of his robe. "Did the maids send you?"

Xalvador didn't answer. He stood perfectly still, his eyes tracking the way her unfocused gaze swept across his face without actually locking onto his features. He leaned closer, testing the space. Her eyelashes didn't flicker. Her pupils remained wide and still despite the light from the hallway.

A dark, mocking chuckle escaped his throat.

"You can't see," Xalvador said, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous purr.

He reached out, his thumb and forefinger clamping firmly around her chin, forcing her head up. His grip was tight, unyielding, but he didn't draw a single drop of her energy.

"I knew the gods wouldn't let me off so easy," he muttered, staring into her blank eyes.

Lyra’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. The grip on her chin was firm, the skin of his fingers icy against her flesh. She swallowed hard, her scarred throat clicking in the quiet room.

"Who are you?" she asked again, her voice a fragile whisper. "Please."

Xalvador stared down at her pale face. A slow, humorless smile spread across his lips, though she couldn't see the dangerous glint in his gold eyes.

"Who I am doesn't matter," he murmured, his breath hot against her skin. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a gravelly command. "All you need to know is that you are mine."

Before she could process the words, he leaned down and crashed his lips into hers.

The kiss was heavy, deep, and unyielding. Lyra gasped into his mouth, her hands automatically coming up to press against his broad chest to push him away. But he didn't budge. He tasted like copper and dark magic, holding her captive in a fierce, breathless embrace that seemed to steal the very air from her lungs. Panic and confusion warred in her chest, but beneath the terrifying strength of his hold, there was an inexplicable, addictive warmth she couldn't understand.