Rebel Bride: A Reverse Harem Dragon Fantasy (Drakoryan Brides Book 4) Read online

  Rebel Bride

  A Reverse Harem Dragon Fantasy

  Ava Sinclair

  Copyright 2018 by Ava Sinclair

  All rights reserved. No part of this book my be copied or reproduced in any form, electronic or mechanically, including photocopying, recording, or by any other information storage or retrieval system without written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Ava Sinclair

  www.avasinclairauthor.com

  Sinclair, Ava

  Cover Design by Maria Solis Carmona

  Cover Images via DepositPhotos

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  BOOKS IN THIS SERIES

  Prologue

  JAREO

  It is my last night in Castle Kri’byl. I plan to make the most of it.

  “I was almost afraid you wouldn’t send for me.” Even though the raven-haired maid just entered my bedchamber, she’s already undoing her bodice. “If you’d left without giving me one last fuck, I’d have never forgiven you, Lord Jareo.”

  I can’t help but grin. “If I left without giving you one last fuck, I’d not forgive myself.”

  I’m naked on the bed, staring down the length of my body, watching as Mila frees the soft, pendulous breasts I’ve grown so fond of. She was my first, and of all the maids I tumbled, remains my favorite. Like most household maids, she is always available but not possessive. This is good, for we Drakoryan lords are known for our appetites, especially unmated ones like me and my brothers. I’ve had three women this night, and my cock is still stiff and hard.

  “See how wet I am for you, Lord Jareo?” Mila grins through her curtain of hair. She’s naked now, and places a foot on the edge of a chair as she spreads the plump lips of her pussy to prove she does not lie. I can see the glistening pink petals of flesh, the large clit already hard with need.

  “You speak true. You are wet indeed.” I give her a wink. “You’re as wet as your sister was when I took her.”

  Mila pouts prettily. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to speak of one woman in the presence of another? Do that when you land a fancy lady and she just may put a knife through your lusty heart. Would serve you right.”

  “Listen you, the only impaling done in this bedchamber will be you on my cock,” I say. I hold out my hand. “Stop making me wait, Mila. You’ll be sorry if I have to get up from this bed.”

  “Oh, really?” She leaves her leg up on the chair, moving her hips in slow, seductive circles as she twirls a strand of hair around her finger. “I rather like the sound of that.”

  I stand from the bed. Mila likes it rough, and I’m in the mood for a wench who can take a hard fucking. I need to expend some of this energy. Where I am going, the maidens are off limits.

  I rise from the bed, walk over, and grasp Mila by the hair at the nape of her neck, jerking her head back so that she has to look at me. She’s biting her bottom lip. Her brown eyes swim with lust.

  “You’ve taunted a lord,” I say. “And now he’ll punish you by fucking you until you can’t walk. Do you have any last requests before I carry out your sentence?”

  The corner of her mouth quirks in a smile. “Will you do that thing with your cock? That thing that makes me beg?”

  I grin, push her foot from the chair, spin her around and bend her over. Mila’s thighs are coated in arousal. I inhale the sweet, musky scent as I shove into her, enjoying the pitch of her cry. As wanton as she is, my cock is still a tight fit in her slick, hungry sheath. I grasp her hips, fucking her hard, enjoying the little mewling sounds as her pussy ripples on my cock. Then her moans begin to change as the surface of my shaft becomes ridged, the ridges moving to caress her pulsing walls as I thrust. I reach for her clit, pinching it. She is holding onto the chair, her breasts swaying back and forth.

  “Ohhhhhh..my lord! My lord! It’s too much!” She’s developing a sheen of sweat on her back as I continue to fuck her.

  “There is no such thing as too much, my hungry little minx.” I fuck harder, faster, wringing climax after climax until she goes limp. As I lift her from behind, my cock changes shape, curving as it vibrates inside her. She is impaled on me, her soft buttocks pressed into my loins. She cries out again. I take her to the bed and push her down, committing this moment to memory—the hot squeeze of her pussy, how her hair glows black in the firelight, the generous globes of her bottom, and the tight pucker I will take before this evening is over. I spill into her with a cry.

  I’m sated. But not completely.

  A Drakoryan lord can only be truly satisfied by a mate, yet my four brothers and I have been ordered by King Vukuris to guard the village against the threat of the ShadowFell. We are not to avail ourselves of the maidens there, who are sacred to us as future brides. And because we do not know when war will begin, or how long it will last, there is no hope that we will be given a bride.

  We will have to wait, and I’d be lying if I said I looked forward to the charge. The village is not without its problems, given the fear and hunger of those we have resettled in the valley below our castles. There will be plenty to occupy us, save pleasures of the flesh we will surely miss. However, we have no choice.

  Those who rule must be prepared to serve. When the king calls, a lord obeys. The king has called the Lords of Kri’byl.

  Chapter 1

  I’ll always remember my husband’s last words to me.

  “Promise me you’ll sleep tonight, wife. If you promise me this, then I promise that come dawn you’ll wake with me by your side.”

  I still remember the feel of his hand, so large and warm, against my face. I still recall how the edges of his eyes crinkled as he smiled. “Or, maybe you’ll wake with me inside you, my love.”

  Bran always said I fretted too much, usually over things I could not control. The winter he died—nearly two years ago now—I’d been fretting more than usual, but with good reason. There had been too much snow and too little food, and because hunger walks hand in hand with illness, many villagers in Darly were unwell. Each reedy cry of a child was like a knife in my soul. At night, I tossed and turned with worry.

  It was concern for me that sent Bran out into the cold that fateful snowy day. He would make things better, he said. He would bring back meat—enough for us and enough to share with the families whose needs vexed me day and night.

  Oh, had I known what else hunted in the woods I’d have fallen on my knees and begged him not to go. But he told me all would be well and to ease my worry bade my father go with him to help carry back a stag or boar he swore he’d kill for me. I remember small things, like how the fire had crackled that morning as my husband and father disappeared into the dawn woods.

  The day passed as usual. Night fell. The following m
orning I did not wake from my fitful sleep to the warmth of my husband. Dawn’s gray light found me alone. I hurried from my bed and rushed to seek out my mother. I found her wringing her hands. My father had not returned either. By breakfast the other village men went to search.

  I sought to comfort my mother, but my words were lost on her. That morning she’d seen a redbird dead in the snow. An omen, she said. She would not look at me as she watched from the window, rocking back and forth.

  I tried to be hopeful. My beloved Bran—my quiet Bran—was so big and strong. So certain and dependable. I passed the hours imagining our reunion, how he would hold me tight as he offered a plausible explanation for his late homecoming and chided me for fretting. This part of my fantasy faltered, however. What possible reason could he and my father have for not coming home?

  When my Uncle Releg and the other men returned late in the afternoon, I’d known right away that my husband and father were dead. Only a man who’d lost a beloved brother would have looked so stricken. In his hands, my uncle carried the bloody shreds of the shirt I’d sewn for my Bran.

  “Thera. Thera?” A rap at the door accompanies the voice calling my name, and I rise from the fire I had been feeding in the stone hearth. It is my childhood friend, Sybil, come around to bring my portion of food.

  A gust of wind enters along with her. Two years ago, I saved Sybil’s son from fever. She has not forgotten, and when the villagers line up at the storehouse for their weekly rations, she collects mine for me. This is convenient, since all too often I am away caring for some ailing person.

  “There are dried apples today.” Sybil puts my basket on my table. “Oat flour, corn, turnips, potatoes, a smoked cod…” She pulls out a small crock. “I brought you butter. I made it fresh this morning.”

  I smile. “You shouldn’t have.” I walk over to a small crate lashed together from sticks I gathered on my walks. Inside are two hens. They cluck in protest as I wedge my hands under their warm breasts to retrieve the eggs. “Here.” I turn back to Sybil. “Take the eggs in trade.”

  “No trade needed, Thera.” She shakes her head, but I can see she longs to accept my offer. When the men went over the mountains to reap the doomed harvest, they’d managed to ferry back some small stock on their return. I was pleased to find my two young hens had been saved. But Sybil’s older chickens had stopped laying and long since gone into the stewpot. Eggs are a treat for her children now.

  “I insist.” I put the eggs in her basket. “Come spring, I’ll pair my hens with Inga’s rooster and give you chicks to raise.”

  “And I will give you a baby doe goat to make up for all the times you’ve cared for my family without pay.”

  “It’s no trouble, really. Thank you for fetching my rations.” I glance back at her as I begin to put the food away. “Any gossip from the village?”

  Sybil considers this an invitation to take a seat. “I overheard your Uncle Releg grumbling to one of the other men. Wilem and Grinfel are joining the Drakoryan army.”

  My jaw tenses at the news.

  “They’re weak,” I say.

  “They’re worried.” Sybil sighs. “Did you see those five lords have finished their cottage? They intend to live among us now, to protect us, they say, and to train the men to fight. At night they sit around the village fire, sharing pipes filled with good leaf. They speak of the glory of battle. It is like strong drink, these stories. The Drakoryans say our husbands, sons, and brothers can be heroes, too, if they join the fight against the ShadowFell.”

  “Drakoryans.” I spit the word like poison from my mouth. “They starve our bodies while feeding the egos of our foolish men. How long have we been here, Sybil? Two months? It’s gotten colder. They ration the food grown by our labor, all the while justifying it with talk of war. I cross my arms. “They lie, Sybil.”

  My friend rises from her chair, looking uneasy. “No, Thera. They are our rulers. They brought us over the mountain. They saved us. When Gregor went with the others to harvest the crops, he saw the devastation. The fields, our homes—everything burnt.”

  “But by whom?” I ask, exasperated. “Evil dragons, they said. But the only dragons we’ve seen are the ones our rulers become.”

  “The Drakoryans say it was the black dragons that did it, Thera. And that woman, Isla of Branlock—did she herself not speak of what she saw in Branlock?”

  I can’t help but scoff. “And a pampered lady who sleeps in a warm castle would have no motive to lie?”

  Sybil tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and looks at the floor. “Ceril is joining.”

  “Ceril?”

  I can hardly believe what I’m hearing. As children, the three of us were inseparable, so much so that many expected that Ceril and I would marry. And even though I fell in love with another, I remained friends with Ceril. He initially shared my skepticism about the Drakoryans, and this news bothers me. I turn away so Sybil can’t see the anger in my face, but I know she has noticed. I hear her sigh as she rises from her chair.

  “For good or ill, we have started a new life here, Thera. The Drakoryans can turn into dragons. Perhaps they are false. But if they are true—if larger, evil dragons do come, who else will we ally ourselves with if not our rulers?”

  I feel weary. I think of Bran, of his easy smile and comforting embrace. I imagine dragon lords feasting in warm castles over the mountains as my husband and father died scrounging for meat in the woods. They are responsible for his death. If they’d not…I close my eyes, pushing the memory down along with bitterness that rises like bile. I do not want to take my anger out on my friend.

  “I understand that during such times, some think only of survival,” I say. “Thank you for the butter.”

  Sybil embraces me. I return her hug. She feels thinner now.

  “You are a good friend, Thera.”

  I step back and stand in silence as she takes the basket and heads for home, where she will divide what little food she’s been given between herself, her husband, and her three hungry children.

  Chapter 2

  ERDORIN

  “What I would not give this night for a warm bed, a roaring fire, and a hot, slick, serving woman’s pussy to send me off to sleep.” The wistful words of my brother, Gyrvig, resound throughout the cottage that will be our home so long as we serve as guardians to the resettled villagers.

  “Be glad you’re inside and not on night watch,” I remind him grumpily. I turn onto my side, trying to get comfortable on the pile of furs that make up my bed. “Our brothers would be glad for just a fire, but they’re out watching the skies.”

  “I’d rather be out there. My cock is hard as a rock. At least on watch I could take my mind off the need. In the castle, the wenches…”

  “We aren’t in the castle.” I shift on my makeshift bed with a suppressed groan, resisting the urge to lecture. I can hardly do so without feeling like a hypocrite. Gyrvig is not the only one consumed with unmet desire, but at least his is directed towards women we are allowed to have. He may dream of serving wenches this night, but I know when I sleep, I’ll dream of a sharp-tongued woman in a green cloak.

  Her people had not been long settled here when she approached and demanded provisions. Where others quaked in fear, this female had been defiant. Where other women in the village are starting to offer small smiles, her glare remains cold as the wind.

  Today, I stopped the village woman I know to be the healer’s friend. She’d just come from the storehouse, and my eyes had followed her, not because she was comely, but because I know it is her practice to take the healer her rations.

  “What’s your name, woman?”

  “Sybil, my lord.” She’d seemed surprised that I’d spoken to her, and a little afraid. She would barely look up to meet my eyes, and had clutched the baskets she carried tighter, as if she were afraid I’d take them. I’d gentled my tone to put her more at ease.

  “You’re going to the healer’s?” I’d inclined my head towards a s
mall cottage set apart from the others, and Sybil had nodded.

  “Take this to her,” I said, reaching into a pouch at my side for some dried apples. “Tell her not who it comes from, understand? Tell her it is part of the rations.” I’d narrowed my eyes. “Obey me on this.” The last order was not really necessary. I knew she would.

  “Yes, my lord.” She did not ask why I did what I did as she hastened away.

  Why did I do it? I told myself it was because the healer deserved it. Since the villagers settled here, my brothers and I have witnessed how much Thera does for others. She is the youngest healer, and the only one who leaves her cottage to care for the villagers in their homes.

  Each morning she walks past our cottage before the rest of the villagers are even stirring. I watch her unseen from the window as she heads to the creek to draw water or makes an early visit to some woman close to giving birth. She is not like other women. There is purpose in her stride, as if she seeks to prove something through the very act of walking from place to place.

  But it is her bravery that intrigues me most of all. The other villagers look away in fear when we pass. Yes, there is some resentment, but few are willing to show it. Even the healer’s uncle, Releg—the first male to openly defy us—does not dare direct his defiant gaze our way. But the healer? She ignores us altogether, which is somehow more galling. The more she treats me and my brothers as if we are invisible, the more I wonder about her. What color is the hair under her hood? Is her body straight and sleek or soft with full curves? They say she is a widow. Did she love her mate well, and he her? Does she miss a man’s touch?