It made no sense.
And a violent man doing illogical things… that made Lucian nervous. That kind of unpredictability meant his grip in protecting the realms wasn’t as tight as he thought.
And Arabella would be the first casualty.
His dragonfire welled up inside him, anger mixed with magic, and it wanted release, but Lucian held it back—venting at top speed would just slow him down, and he couldn’t afford that.
When he finally glimpsed the glittering black towers of the House of Drakkon in the distance, it sent both relief and a surge of anger-fueled adrenaline through his body. He kept just below the speed of sound so as not to give any warning of his arrival. Then he counted the seconds until he crashed into the infernal tower of black glass and painted his revenge in Tytus’s blood.
As he rocketed forward, Lucian stretched his fae senses even further. The House of Drakkon was protected by some weak warding spells—the kind a common witch would place. Tytus must have hired one, given dragons without fae in their blood didn’t have access to that kind of magic. Summoning his runes to act at this distance took focus, but Lucian managed to project their power forward enough to knock away the spell a few moments before he arrived. In that short breath of time, he swept the keep, searching for Arabella’s scent, the heady mix of her soap-scrubbed skin combined with his scent, as he’d marked her again and again during their lovemaking. Tytus couldn’t have missed it, and he would have made her pay for her time in Lucian’s bed.
Once, twice, three times he searched the House of Drakkon… but she wasn’t there.
Or she was already dead.
Lucian crashed through the glass roof, shattering a rain of black shards onto the mountain on which the keep was perched. He screamed his anger in a shower of dragonfire as he landed talons-first on the level where Tytus’s loathsome scent was strongest. The black dragon cowered under the curtain of glass raining on his head, then arose out of it, wings spreading wide to lift off. Lucian barreled into him before he could flee, crashing them both through another wall, a solid one made of wood and plaster, before tumbling into a large room in the center of Tytus’s lair. Lucian’s talons found purchase, slicing through Tytus’s scaly black hide like it was common leather—the only things sharp enough and strong enough to cut dragon skin were the claws of another dragon. The feel of Tytus’s flesh parting as Lucian squeezed, the black dragon’s blood gushing over his claws, only fed his bloodlust, pushing his anger higher. Tytus screamed and blasted fire in Lucian’s face, which forced him to wrench away—then the slip of Tytus’s blood in the meat of his side caused Lucian to lose his grip. Tytus whipped his tail against Lucian’s legs, swiping them from under him, but Lucian took to wing, his fae powers muscling him higher, lofting up the two-story room and back down on Tytus’s head as he turned to run. This time, Lucian’s talons found the black dragon’s throat, squeezing from behind and cutting deep into his flesh. Tytus gurgled with the noise of a man choking on his own blood and plowed face-first into the stone of his own lair, the floor already slick with his blood. His wings and tail flailed at Lucian, but to no avail.
Just as he twisted his claws to finish the job and split Tytus’s long, serpentine neck in two, something struck Lucian from the side and knocked him free from where he had Tytus pinned to the floor. Lucian let loose a sweep of dragonfire as he came back around, setting all of Tytus’s lair afire, but then he abruptly pulled up—
Leonidas. Lucian halted mid-turn, confused as his brother hovered over a gasping and gurgling Tytus. What the fuck?
She’s not here, Lucian. Leonidas turned away from him and flipped Tytus over.
Lucian watched, still amazed, as his own brother placed the flat of his taloned hand on Tytus’s neck and summoned his runes. The inky magic symbols wriggled across his bronzed scales and down his forearm to gather their power where Leonidas was holding the shreds of Tytus’s neck together. The runes were capable of limited healing for dragon wounds. Of course, their own dragon blood had tremendous self-healing powers all on its own, but a wound grievous enough, especially one from another dragon’s talons, could end an immortal’s life. It was how wyvern were destroyed, and how many dragons ended their lives in battle. But here his brother was, bringing Tytus back from near-death with the added power of a healing spell, a bit of fae magic for their enemies.
What the hell are you doing? Lucian landed with a wall-shaking thud next to his brother and Tytus on the floor.
Saving your beloved, my brother.
Lucian blinked. Said nothing, then blinked again. His mind had been so hazed with anger and bloodlust that he hadn’t thought it through—but, of course, she must still be alive. Otherwise, Tytus would have taunted him with her body. Or been ready for the fight. Something.