Sneak Peek of Dragon’s Dawn

Genya

"It's an opportunity," Prince Georgiy told my father. I watched a sly tilt grow on his lips from the shadows outside my family's private dining room. "The king requires a favor—a partner for his rough-edged cousin. Someone who can tumble him until he's smooth and docile. Of course, he thought first of your family, as you have always been such loyal friends."

"It would be an honor for either of my sons to marry into the Vasiliev line." Father was standing at the head of the table, his hands on the back of the chair before him. My brother, Feofan, was slumped in the seat beside him, spread out, his elbow only inches from sticking in his plate of salted pork.

As I'd dressed, I heard the sound of men's laughter and sneaked into the hall to listen with the top buttons of my kaftan still undone. Grusha, my mink, perched on my shoulder, curious and completely still. He was listening as intently as I was.

When I'd heard Prince Georgiy's voice, I'd hoped for some interesting gossip to share with the ladies over tea, but I'd never thought their machinations would apply to me.

Feofan's scoff assured me that it could apply to no one else. He, after all, was Father's heir apparent. There was no way he'd be marrying a Vasiliev Prince.

I, however, was expendable, which was about the only quality that was required in these arrangements.

It was not uncommon, among the Vasilievs, to pair their problem relatives off to partners they could not hope to conceive a child with. It was to simplify matters of succession. Occasionally, it went well.

Most of the time, it did not.

There were even rumors that Georgiy himself had killed his husband. Prince Daniil had fallen from dragon back and broken his neck, dead as soon as he hit the ground, less than a year after their wedding.

I imagined the fall then, thrown from a dragon and lost with nothing to hold onto, no way to stop the ground from coming up to meet me. I'd never minded heights, but the thought sprouted roots that chilled my marrow.

Were this marriage to occur, I would be the tool our king used to deny Prince Mikhail the things he desired. If I displeased him, why would he do anything but toss me from the back of his own great red titan, Maraht?

Blood and land, stories said that beast had nearly burnt the whole palace down in his youth, ruling the corridors with Prince Mikhail well before my time.

"We were, of course, considering a match with young Evgeny. He seems... most agreeable," the prince said smoothly.

I did not like that pause.

Father rubbed his beard. "Perhaps having a piece of fine china for a match will keep our quick-tempered prince from bashing his way through the kingdom."

Feofan's laugh was sharp. "Or give him something else to break."

"Provide a distraction from causing more mayhem, at least," Prince Georgiy said.

I couldn't take this anymore. I hastily fastened the last two buttons of my long coat and stepped into the dining room. "Good morning, Father, my prince... Feofan."

At the sight of me, they went silent. I was, after all, not privy to this crucial conversation about my fate. I should have known better than to think I might be included in discussions that affected me so intimately.

But as soon as I turned away, before I'd reached the door to the public hall, I heard my father agree to Georgiy's offer. My doom was sealed.

I could have dug in my heels or thrown a tantrum, but in Voronezh, family was everything. If I rejected both the Belyaev name and the Vasilievs, I'd have nothing.

On the way to the ladies' drawing room, my chest spasmed around each strangled inhale. It was time for tea and I needed?—

Winter's frigid cock, I needed more than blasted tea!

The moment I entered the opulent sitting room, I searched out my mother. She was sitting with the Balakins. Perfect. I could use Sonya's support.

I dropped into an empty seat with a gusty sigh, and the ladies turned, frowning at the interruption of their genteel afternoon. There was no energy left in me to apologize for causing a scene.

Not before tea.

I poured myself a cup of chamomile.

"Lady Balakin, if you wouldn't mind passing the vodka, I would be very much obliged." My voice came out hoarse, as if I'd been screaming. I felt like screaming.

Perhaps I should scream. That seemed a justifiable recourse in this situation.

Instead, I tightened my smile and swallowed the urge.

The elder Lady Balakin frowned my way. Yes, the vodka was there, but it was early in the day, and I'd not even had my first cup. It was uncouth to add spirits to your very first cup. In the Voronezh court, the second was fair game.

To my left, Mother also wore a pinched expression, but her onyx brow was furrowed with worry rather than judgement.

"Lapochka, are you all right?"

At the familiar diminutive, Grusha peeked his head up from where he'd rested it on my shoulder. Long and lithe, he skittered down the sleeve of my blue coat, holding on with his little claws. His front paws hit my thigh, and he scrambled across my knee and onto the arm of my chair.

It took him a moment to stretch across the space between my chair and hers, but he managed it and used a tight grip on the upholstery to hoist himself over.

The moment he was in her lap, he curled one way in the folds of her skirt. She scratched his forehead, and he pressed into the comforting touch. Squirming happily, he got up, twisted around, and curled the other way before settling down.

I was too old to put my head in my mother's lap and cry, but Grusha? He would never have to hold back.

It was soothing to watch her long, pale fingers move through his velvety umber fur. Some prickle of his pleasure and comfort passed between our bond and soothed the sharpest edges of my panic.

From the corner of my eye, I caught Sonya biting her pink lip. She snatched the decanter of vodka from in front of her mother and abandoned the couch they'd shared in favor of squeezing into the chair I was sitting in.

With her full hips, we barely fit, but for once, I had no impulse to push her onto the floor and reclaim my glorious solitude to peals of laughter and much cursing. I wanted to hold her tight instead, and I'd never, ever let her go.

If anyone could protect me from that madman, it'd be her.

Not that she could do much about his dragon.

Frosty tits, he was going to have his dragon eat me whole, wasn't he?

Sonya leaned over the low table between our cluster of seats and poured a generous splash of liquor into my teacup. "Clearly, he's not all right in the slightest. He's as pale as Yuli."

At the mention of my mother's snow leopard, Grusha chirped and looked around for his friend. That was the way of creatures bonded to us—even if they'd have been natural enemies, they formed bonds as fierce as those we'd forged between each other.

"What's happened, darling?" Sonya asked.

I snatched my teacup from its saucer and took a large gulp before I could find the strength to answer her.

"I'm getting married," I rasped, lips wet and bitter with tea and vodka from my clumsy swallow.

Lady Balakin blinked.

"Oh dear." Her daughter sighed, tipping another generous portion of vodka into my cup.

Gratefully, I took another sip before I met my mother's eyes. I needed the familiar burn to steel my resolve.

Those gorgeous irises were the only thing I hadn't inherited from her. We shared the same long, dark hair—the same skin pale as snow. But her eyes were burning onyx coals, and mine were the flat, pale gray of the bottom of a shallow pool on a cloudy day. They were my father's eyes, and I would be the first to admit, they were not half so expressive as hers.

"To whom?" she asked, voice calm and measured, but oh so cold.

"I—" Fear gripped my chest again, strangling the air from my lungs. I couldn't find the words.

With a squeak, Grusha rushed back over to me, squeezing between the small of my back and the seat's cushions to hide.

"To"—Mother sat her teacup down on her saucer with a sharp clink, her eyes never leaving mine—"whom?"

I swallowed.

How had it become my responsibility to explain this whole mess to Mother? I was hardly its architect.

Sonya's eager gaze was boring into the side of my face, but I was trapped in the sights of a predator. Yes, yes, I knew that Mother wasn't angry with me. I wasn't sure that she ever had been angry with me, come to think of it. But that didn't make her any less formidable.

"Prince Mikhail," I whispered.

"Fucking shit." Sonya snatched the half-empty teacup from my hands and replaced it with the whole decanter of vodka. Thoughtfully, she'd kept the stopper in her hand, and I took a drink straight from the bottle.

"Sonya!" Lady Balakin hissed, looking around the room to see if any of the other ladies had heard the obscene exclamation.

"Sorry, Mother. But really. Prince Mikhail is so beastly." She pouted at me, clicking her tongue. "How could anyone think he's a suitable match for our sweet Genya?"

That... somehow did not sound so very different from Prince Georgiy calling me a fine bit of china for his nephew to break. I supposed Sonya's connotations were a bit kinder.

I took another drink. Vodka burned in my belly. I was going to make myself sick.

Good. Prince Mikhail might find me unsuitable if I were to vomit on his boots.

My mother's sharp gaze had gone distant, but it only lasted a moment. Every movement she made afterward—leaning forward, setting her saucer on the table, standing and smoothing her hands over her skirt—was carefully controlled.

"Please, excuse me." She dipped politely without sparing any of us another glance. I knew the hardness that'd taken over her profile. She was going to talk to Father.

I swallowed again.

Sonya leaned against my arm and lowered her voice. "Don't you worry." She gripped my hand. "She'll see you free of all this."

Blood and land, I hoped so.

"And if she doesn't," Sonya whispered, "maybe that's just as well?"

Oh fuck, I was actually going to be sick. I pressed my fist against my tightly closed lips and swallowed down the bile.

"How so?" I croaked, once I had a better handle on the vodka that was both keeping me from fainting and burning through my insides like dragon fire.

"Anastasia told me that our youngest prince fucks like a stallion."

Heat flooded my face, and I was hardly the only one.

"By the blood, Sonya!" Lady Balakin looked like she was going to swoon. Her and me both.

People were beginning to look at us. Lady Balakin started fanning her face desperately.

Sonya's lashes fluttered. She knew precisely what she was doing to her mother, but did she know what she was doing to me?

Nerves squirmed in my lower belly like a coil of snakes, and heat flooded every inch of me.

She did. The minx knew exactly what she was doing. There was no other explanation for what came next.

"You see, it's not just that he has a nice cock, straight as a ramrod, but when it's hard, it curves upward just so, so that, well—" She made a gesture with two curved fingers and her gently closed fist that had my heart threatening to blow apart in my chest. My head was on fire. It was. It had to be.

Sonya stared right at me as her fingers fucked her hand. The thing was, those fingers had?—

I'd—

Well, I'd had those fingers inside me. There was little to do at court, and Sonya and I had tried everything our young minds could think of. She'd not wanted to go to a husband with no knowledge, and I'd been sick of relieving myself. Distractions were necessary when the winter nights stretched out forever and we were all stuck in the palace. Experimentation was natural for young people, damn it.

Everyone said so.

And truth was, there was nothing we had done that I'd liked half so much as her pushing those fingers inside me. I'd asked her to do it when I was only sixteen, stammering and uncertain. She'd been delighted to try—it was one of her best qualities, really, a readiness for anything—and when she had found that place that spread magic through my whole body, I had gasped, and she had laughed, and I'd come apart like the stripling I'd been.

At nineteen, was I any different?

Now, that startling pleasure was all I could think about. But a man handling me that way? A man with a man's rough fingers and brash confidence?

I'd had boys before, but none of them stood quite so tall as Prince Mikhail.

I very nearly squeaked like Grusha.

"Not only that," she said, glancing around at us with a smile. Some of the ladies were shifting closer to our little group, intrigued now that they'd realized we were discussing something lewd. "But it's the way he thrusts his hips, leaving no quarter. Each movement so... so fierce."

Sweet blood, did that actually sound appealing?

Fuck.

It did.

"Are you talking about Prince Mikhail?" Lady Semenov asked.

Fuck. She was married. She'd been married for years. How did she identify him so readily?

That was two women, at least, that Prince Mikhail had taken. What if he preferred women to men?

What if he left me alone each night to bed them?

The whole court would know. Every lady in this room would have opportunity to snicker behind my back. I'd be the laughingstock of all of Voronezh—not man enough to keep my husband's interest. Just a bauble.

With a groan, I dropped my head into my hands. Bad enough that I was marrying a beast, but this one wouldn't even be satisfied with me.

Sonya tapped her nails on the decanter hanging from my loose grip. "Take another sip. You'll feel better."

"Actually, I think I'll feel... worse." Hard to imagine how this could get any worse, really. "I—I should go. Check on Mother. Make sure she's?—"

Getting me out of this? Absolutely.

With a shrug and no answer, I left the ladies to their gossiping, but when I made my way to the residential wing of the palace, I heard raised voices and froze at the end of the hall.

It was not far from the ladies' sitting room to our quarters. The palace arranged so that every living area, each place a person of position might want to spend time, was toward the center. Storage rooms and servants' quarters took up the outside walls, but here was better insulated and more likely to stay warm in the long winters.

My feet scuffed the long carpet that covered the length of the hallway we lived in. I could hear my mother's shouting from the corridor's mouth. Grusha had scampered behind me from the drawing room, but when I walked toward the door, he hung back in fear of her.

"He is mine, Ivan! Mine."

"He is a man grown, and he'll act like it," my father replied. He wasn't shouting, but he had a way of speaking in a voice so loud that it filled whatever room he was in. Like Feo, he enjoyed taking up space in the world.

"He is a boy still, and he is mine. After Ekaterina?—"

She came up short, and I could imagine the tick of her jaw when she shut her mouth.

"You said he was mine," she hissed.

Ekaterina had died—their last child, the daughter she had always hoped for. Mother had been heartbroken, and Father, disappointed. Losing Ekaterina was only one of a long line of disappointments—lost pregnancies and those poor children bound to creatures they couldn't handle, who had died as a result of Father's hubris—tragedy after tragedy. Now there was just Feofan and me, and I could still remember sinking my tiny hand into Yuli's soft fur while tears streamed down my mother's cheeks and my parents negotiated our futures.

They would not try again. Father would raise Feofan to be a soldier, and Mother could do as she liked with me. I had feared then that I wasn't enough to make up for all her sadness, but afterward, she'd come to me with the softest smile and swung me up into her arms, and things had gone back to being precisely as I liked them. Mother and I played all day and ate biscuits at teatime each afternoon.

Feofan learned the sword, and I?—

Well, I supposed I learned to sit still and look pretty, but I also learned how the court really worked—the things that husbands missed and rulers overlooked.

"You cannot trade him away without discussing it with me first. And to that boor? It's unconscionable. I won't allow it."

"It is already done, Ulyana. But by all means, drag him before the king and make your case. I'm certain His Majesty will understand why you'd throw the generous offer of a prince for our son's match back in his face."

King Dmitri would take that very poorly. Everyone knew that he had no love for Prince Mikhail, and even less for Prince Konstantin after the tragedy that had blinded Princess Darya and her dragon. But still, it would be seen as an insult, and nothing, nothing, was worth risking the king's wrath.

The room beyond the door had gone silent, but I still waited for my heartbeat to slow before I cracked the door open. Only my mother was standing there in the center of the foyer, practically shaking with fury, her lovely face red. Redder on one side than the other, I noticed.

The moment I stepped inside, she turned to me, her expression crumpling into one of depthless sorrow.

"I will fix this, lapochka," she swore, but her breath shook, and I knew that she was promising more than she could give.

There was nothing to do but soothe her fears, and my practiced smile had yet to fail me. "There's no need. Prince Mikhail may not be what everyone says."

She huffed, a faint line appearing between her brows when she frowned.

"And there's always divorce," I offered when she remained unconvinced.

It was the law of the land—marriages could fail, and assets were split fairly between partners. If this was a disaster, I would require nothing of Prince Mikhail but a clean escape, and maybe he would be happier for it. We could tell the king that we had tried and failed.

There was no need to feed me to his terrifying dragon simply to be rid of me.

Unless, of course, the prince wanted to offer the king an affront of his own.

When Mother sighed, some of the tension went out of her shoulders. I reached for her hand and squeezed it.

"I should at least meet him. I would... I would like to meet him, I think. Before causing any affront to His Majesty, at the very least."

That was certainly the only reason. Sonya had not said one single word to pique my interest in our hotheaded prince.

Not one.