The Warrior King (Inferno Rising) by Owen, Abigail (online e book reading txt) 📗

Meira cast a wide-eyed look at Aidan. He’d said all that in the two seconds he’d taken to kiss his mate before their son had distracted him? Or was their connection that strong?

Sera turned back to the stove top. Her chin-length hair didn’t cover the marking that stood out starkly against the pale skin at the nape of her neck. Meira didn’t need to check Aidan’s neck to know that was his mark. His mate.

More questions piled up. Like how long had it taken for the mark to show? And did it hurt when it appeared? Did it do anything for them beyond show them as a bonded pair? What about the other ways mates connected? Most likely they could communicate telepathically, like many mates could, which was probably how Sera knew what she did already. What else?

Even now, Aidan and Sera watched each other with a knowing, as though their souls settled around each other, and with an intensity that bordered on uncomfortable. Like Meira’s sisters and their mates.

“Can I help with anything?” Meira offered. At home, they’d always split the chores, with whoever was working at the café that evening taking a night off from dinner duty.

Sera shook her head, shooting a smile over her shoulder. “It’s basically done. We had dinner earlier, so this only needed to be reheated.”

Which meant more dragon shifters lived here. How many? Probably better if Rune didn’t tell them. Knowing nothing was better if they were captured. Torture scenes from movies popped into her head. Scenes based on human experiences. Imagine what dragons could do.

A shudder tumbled through her, clenching her stomach.

With a few twists, Sera turned off the propane flames on the stove top. “If you don’t mind, we’ll serve from the stove?”

“Of course.” Meira had no wish to cause anyone extra work.

Taking her cue from Tyrek and Aidan, she took a plate from the counter and piled it high with heavenly smelling chicken alfredo.

A small movement at the entrance caught her attention, and Meira’s gaze stole across the room to where Samael entered, talking quietly with Rune. At least they weren’t snarling at each other like before.

I think you’re my mate. The memory of Samael’s words echoed softly in her mind, and suddenly Meira was tempted to close her eyes and see if she could sense that knowing.

But no. Her life, her loyalty, had to remain with her sisters, and their only goal was to take out Pytheios. As long as Gorgon was still alive, her promise to him held. Life had left her with terrible choices.

Frustration welled up inside her like oil spewing from the earth, coating everything in poisonous liquid gold.

Driven by a sudden urge to step away from the harsh boundaries set for her before she was even born, Meira defiantly snatched up a glass of wine, ignoring how Samael lifted an eyebrow at the alcohol given what she’d told him about her tolerance levels. Spying a seat across from her uncle at the end of one table, tucked into a private corner, almost, she took it.

Tyrek lifted his head as she set her plate down and smiled, which she suspected he didn’t do often. The way the skin pulled across his aging face made the expression appear strained. More like a grimace. They sat together in silence, both simply taking each other in.

Her uncle reminded her of old black-and-white movies about war, or footage of the human Second World War. Sadness lingered in his eyes, behind a keen intelligence, like clouds obscuring the sun from shining, leaving him colored a murky gray.

Were traces of her father in that face anywhere?

“Tell me about him,” she said quietly.

Tyrek must have followed her thoughts, because rather than frown his confusion, he leaned back and the sadness deepened, casting him farther into shadow. At least to her eyes. “Zilant was born to be king,” he started slowly.

He spoke in such a low tone, Meira scooted forward. Their mother had shared small details, but she’d rarely talked of her love, the pain too sharp no matter the passage of time.

“I don’t mean because of the bloodline we come from,” Tyrek continued. “Amons had ruled the White Clan for generations, and he was the firstborn. I mean he always knew the right thing to do. I’ve never met a man, then or since, with a stronger sense of protectiveness over the people he loved.” He slid a glance toward Samael. “Though I’d say your bodyguard shares that trait.” He shifted his gaze back to her. “You too. You get that from your father.”

Meira’s heart squeezed in tight with the knowledge that she carried some of her father in her.

Tyrek’s gaze shifted as though he was watching a reel of memories in his mind’s eye. Memories she wished she could watch with him.

“He loved your mother from the instant he laid eyes on her, long before they mated, and wrote her love letters every day they were apart. Their connection was so strong, so powerful, it filled a room with an electric charge.” Tyrek grimaced. “Almost painful to be around, actually.”

Meira sighed at that, softly, an ache creeping over her at never having seen her parents together. “Do you look like him?”

Her mother hadn’t even had a photograph of him to share, the technology coming centuries after his death, and dragon shifters didn’t do painted portraits. Something about not needing to capture their youth in image as it lasted a thousand years or more.

Tyrek shook his head then shrugged. “In some ways. Most said we looked alike in our faces, all sharp angles. I was more muscled, but he was taller. I have more cream in my coloring as a dragon, where Zilant was brilliant white. Blinding, practically, and he used that to his advantage. We both wore our hair long then.” His lips twitched at a forgotten detail remembered. “He was missing part of the pinkie finger on his left hand. Lost