Night of the Drakoryans: A Reverse Harem Dragon Fantasy by Ava Sinclair

Author:Ava Sinclair [Sinclair, Ava]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-03-27T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 9

NYRON

This woman. This beautiful woman who stands before me with my seed trickling down her inner thighs. She could just as easily be a sprite or a fairie shimmering in her naked perfection.

I try to make sense of what just happened. I had planned to use the magic of the cavern to woo Syrene to my room, where I would take her with firm swiftness. I’d thought of nothing but dominating her. But in her presence, I’d turned uncharacteristically shy.

Wielding only the innocent air she’d retained despite having been taken by Edrys, Syrene had completely disarmed me. Her sense of wonder was infectious, and when she’d touched me, the bravado I thought I’d need melted away. My brother had made her a student of pleasure, and all I wanted was to continue her lesson. She is naturally passionate but when I next take her, I want it to be in my bed.

We do not pass anyone on the way to my chambers, and for this I am glad. Syrene is once again clad in her gown, but I am eager to see her out of it again. I have a tub brought and filled with heated water. Syrene is less bold in the light of my room. She blushes when she removes her gown. Most of the iridescent dust is gone from her skin, but the sight of my seed drying on her thighs fills me with a sense of possessiveness I struggle to contain.

“Would you like me to bathe you?”

She looks away and answers me by stepping into the water.

I kneel by the tub. She is so beautiful. I take in her profile as I lather a soft cloth with a cake of soap. Her nose is sharp and slightly turned up, her cheekbones high like mine. I try to imagine what our sons will look like. Will they have her dark hair? My eyes? Our sharp features?

“Why do you stare so?”

“Because you’re so pleasant to look upon.” I rest the cloth on her shoulder. “I was wondering what our children will look like.”

“Children…” She stares straight ahead, her expression pained. “I think I would be a bad mother.”

“Why?”

“Because my mother died before she could show me what a mother’s love was like. I was raised with bruises and barbs. Even my efforts to give love were punished.” A hurt look floods her eyes, as she begins to share a memory in halting tones.

“My family raised chickens. We had some eggs hatch once. I took a little chick and raised it as my own. It grew into a fine brown hen. I cared for it, and it would follow me. It may seem odd that a little hen could teach me to love, but it did. Then one day my stepmother…” A tear trails down her cheek. “She killed it in front of me. I screamed and screamed as she wrung its neck. But she only laughed, and later beat me when I would not eat the stew she made of my pet.

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