The Dragon King's Blind Mate

Almost

The golden light of the next morning filtered through the heavy velvet curtains, casting long, pale lines across the bedroom floor. Lyra had barely slept, her mind exhausted from the looping terrors of the prophecy and the heavy, unyielding weight of the King’s arm across her waist all night.

When the morning light fully broke, Xalvador slid out of the bed, leaving the room briefly to take his bath. The temporary peace brought by Shama’s ancient bracelet was still holding, keeping his dark aura tightly tethered and calm.

When he returned to her chambers, a lavish breakfast had already been laid out on the low table near the window.

Without a word, Xalvador approached the bed where Lyra sat. He didn't ask for permission; he simply reached down, lifted her slender frame into his massive arms, and carried her over to the table. He sat down heavily in the grand chair, pulling Lyra directly onto his lap.

He picked up a small silver fork, lifting a piece of sweet fruit to her lips. "Eat, Lyra," he murmured, his deep voice vibrating against her back.

Lyra opened her mouth passively, accepting the food. She chewed slowly, her posture entirely rigid against his chest. She didn't lean into him. She didn't hum in delight at the taste. She was merely going through the motions.

Xalvador’s eyes narrowed as he watched her. He fed her another bite, noting how different she felt somehow. The soft, fragile warmth that usually radiated from her whenever he was near had vanished. In its place was a hollow, chilling compliance.

"You are remarkably quiet today," Xalvador said, setting the fork down. His large hand slid up to cup her jaw, his thumb brushing over her cheek.

He leaned down, his breath warm against her lips, tilting his head to claim her mouth in a soft morning kiss.

The moment Lyra felt his breath ghosting over her face, an involuntary jolt of panic shot through her veins. Before her mind could even process the action, her body reacted on pure instinct. She turned her head slightly to the side, averting her lips from his.

She had no idea why she did it. It was a split-second reaction born from the terrifying memory of Lilith's words. He will kill his mate.

The rejection was slight, but it was enough to instantly tick Xalvador off.

A dark, dangerous heat flared in his chest. His grip on her chin tightened, his fingers digging into her soft skin with a sudden, bruising force as he violently jerked her face back toward his.

"Look at me," he commanded, his face mere inches from hers.

Lyra’s breath hitched, and she immediately began to squirm against him, her small hands pushing futilely against his iron chest, trying to twist out of his suffocating hold.

As she thrashed weakly in his lap, a dark, long-buried memory flashed through Xalvador’s mind. She looked so small, so utterly helpless. The way she was panicking beneath his hands reminded him vividly of a little, fragile bird he had captured and accidentally strangled to death in his bare hands when he had just been crowned King—a creature too delicate to survive his monstrous grip.

The more he stared at her pale face, the more he saw the terrifying resemblance to that dying bird. A primal, possessive fury took over his senses, overriding his calm.

"Little bird," Xalvador muttered, his voice dropping to a low, lethal growl that vibrated with dangerous intent. "Are you truly foolish enough to test my patience? Are you going against me now?"

Before she could answer, he brought his mouth down hard against hers.

There was no gentleness left in him. He kissed her roughly, a punishing, desperate possession that completely stole the air from her lungs. Lyra gasped into the kiss, but he only used the movement to deepen it, conquering her mouth until she was entirely breathless.

The world became a blur of tearing fabric and heavy silk sheets. Within moments, she was pushed flat onto the mattress, her clothes stripped away beneath the overwhelming, frenzied weight of his body.

Silent tears began to pool in Lyra's sightless eyes, spilling over her temples and wetting the pillows beneath her head. She stopped fighting. She stopped squirming. She simply stayed completely still on the bed, her body locked in a state of sheer terror, waiting for a fate she couldn't see and didn't understand. Was this how he would kill her? Was it happening now?

In the corner of the room, a shimmer of dark energy manifested. Yves appeared from the shadows, his eyes widening in alarm as he took in the chaotic scene on the bed. He stepped forward, his face pale.

"Xalvador, look at her!" Yves shouted, his voice sharp with urgency. "She's crying! You need to stop this right now!"

But Xalvador couldn't listen. The rush of finally being able to kiss her, to touch her bare skin without the constant, suffocating fear of his curse draining her life force away, had driven him completely oblivious to her distress. He was drunk on the feel of her under his hands.

His calloused hand slid down her stomach, his fingers finding the aching center of her honey pot.

At the sudden, intense contact, a helpless, involuntary moan tore from Lyra’s throat, immediately followed by a pathetic, trembling hiccup from her heavy crying. She was shaking beneath him, completely broken.

"Xalvador, damn it, stop!" Yves shouted again, stepping closer to the bed, his voice booming through the room.

The sharp authority in Yves' voice finally pierced through the fog of Xalvador’s desire.

Xalvador blinked, his breathing ragged as his movements ground to a sudden halt. He looked down. In the dim light of the bedchambers, he finally saw the wet tracks on her cheeks, her chest heaving with silent, terrified sobs, and her sightless eyes filled with a profound, heartbreaking dread.

Xalvador froze, his entire body going rigid above her.