YET AGAIN IN THE KINGDOM OF ORODEN

IN KING DROKAH'S PRIVATE CHAMBERS

The King of Oroden fisted the sheets with a snarl before he rose from his enormous king-sized bed. Setting his feet on the silver polished floor, he remained seated at the edge with his eyes shut, waiting until the heavy pounding stopped.

Trust incompetent fools to disturb my slumber, he thought while gritting his teeth.

Though to be fair, the thundering echoes booming across his bedchamber were no match for the constant damning ones slicing through his skull, and he supposed that he should be grateful for the distraction as it was bound to take his mind off the throbbing.

However, Drokah hated to be disturbed—especially after retiring for the night—so that ignorant halfwit who had dared to rouse him from sleep had better have a dragon hot at his heels, burning his condemned arse.

Wincing when the heavy thuds persisted, Drokah let out a menacing growl. He was left with no more patience.

Opening his sharp gaze to fixate it on the intricate oak door of his bedchamber, the wizard could feel his eyes burn as he slashed his right hand through the air, causing a green haze to follow in its path. The wooden structure, recently dormant, then burst open with the force he'd mentally applied, revealing the culprit behind the bothersome pounding.

Short, black hair ruffled and white shirt hanging rakishly over his brown pantaloons, the intruder dropped the hand that had been ready to knock the door down and placed it calmly into his pocket.

"Father," Prince Micah Rhakys of Oroden, Crown Prince and second son of King Drokah Rhakys, greeted with a casual nod as he strode confidently into his father's bedchamber, a lazy smile crawling along the length of his lips.

At seeing the arrogant way his son had burst into his private chamber, Drokah could only imagine what the insolent young wizard had to say at such an ungodly hour.

Micah reminded him so much about his late wife that at times, he couldn't stand to look at him. They had the same black locks, same cunning smile, the same mark—which sat squarely on top of his right brow—and even the same bloody nose.

It sickened him that Forodi had left him to raise an image of herself, a striking reminder that she had existed in his life, and he hated her every day for it.

"Your frail mother ought to have taught you some manners, child," the king growled, wishing he were by himself as he shut the door behind Micah. Now that sleep had eluded him, he yearned for more than a few moments alone to gather his thoughts. A lot needed to be planned with caution now that certain circumstances no longer favoured him that he just couldn't stand to be disturbed.

Not that he could before, anyway.

Micah's smile only widened at his father's comment. "Unfortunately for you, sweet sire, my mother was a bit preoccupied dying of a broken heart to worry about how I was raised. It had been the least of her concerns then." His handsome face sported a flash of spite when he added, "She always worried for your return like the weakling she was."

Not caring to respond nor wanting to imagine what his deceased wife had gone through in his absence, Drokah thrust the tangled covers about his mid region aside and snatched the pair of night-trousers that had been laid neatly by his valet from the bed.

After he'd covered his nudity, the king rose to his feet and grabbed the decanter from his nightstand, pouring himself a glass and dousing its specially spiked contents before turning to face his son once more.

"I can only imagine what you want from me at this hour," Drokah said, aiming to change the subject. The enchanted wine had managed to calm the ache in his temple and sway his mood for the better. But Drokah knew it would be for naught, for his son always had him on edge. "It should be worth the blasted entrance you just made."

The slight hatred that had crossed the young wizard's expression had completely vanished. At least Drokah's effort to branch their conversation elsewhere had worked.

"Lift your spirits, Father, for bitterness does not suit you." Micah leaned against one of the bedposts, a sudden dreamy look on his face. "I am only glad I followed your advice. Who knew for a green lad I'd be such an expert?"

At that, it suddenly clicked what nonsense had his son grinning like a satisfied fool and intruding into his private chamber as if he owned the place. "Of course," Drokah observed, eyeing Micah in a slow perusal, "you have finally bedded the ogre."

"Finally." Micah didn't bother to seek permission before he fell on his father's bed and lay sprawled on the covers. "Forget her face, everything else was bliss. It was certainly worth the wait."

Indeed, it is, Drokah thought bitterly. The King of Oroden looked down at his glass and studied the swirling liquid with little concentration. Its constant colour change was a view that held little fascination to him after only a few hours of mastering the spell, but he had to admit that it emitted a calming aura he was quite fond of.

A calming aura he needed right then, because Drokah didn't want to think of the day he'd lost his manhood innocence. The memory, however, managed to manoeuvre its way into his mind's eye, urging him to plunge it into oblivion with another toss of the wine glass. Emptying its contents down his throat in one gulp, he didn't spare any time in pouring himself another.

"It was obviously pleasurable for you then."

"Immensely."

Drokah lifted a brow. "And for her?"

Micah supported his upper body with both arms. A sly grin slid across his face. "She wouldn't stop screaming."

This made Drokah pause, although he had expected nothing less from the young wizard. Even with the distance between his dark, gray canopy bed and his position by the wine table, the king could see the dark gleam in Micah's inherent silver eyes.

A growl resonated low in Drokah's throat when he saw the answer to his unspoken question in his son's sadistic orbs. He tightened his grip on the glass. "You chose the wrong hand, you fool. How will she trust you now?"

"You worry too much, Father." Micah dismissed his reprimand and arose from the bed, taking lazy steps towards the wizard who'd sired him. The confident way in which he carried himself evident with each stride. "I know what I am doing."

Micah stopped two feet away and raised a finger. Drokah regarded him with a scowl when he began to twirl it in a small circle, assuming he was about to make a fool of himself. Eyes glowing a steady green and lips curled upward at the edges in a conceited fashion, Micah repeated the action only twice before a little white flower suddenly popped into his hand.

And damn it all, but Drokah couldn't stop his eyes from widening in surprise, much to Micah's obvious delight.

"Judge my methods, dear sire," the young wizard gloated with a smirk before he crushed the lily in his palm, "but the results speak loud and clear."

Drokah snatched his son's wrists and snagged the mangled flower from his grasp, still not believing what he'd seen.

The fool actually did it, he thought, rubbing the remnants of the delicate lily in awe. For the first time, Drokah held an ounce of respect for his legitimate heir.

The King of Oroden was a hard magic bearer to please, but this little show Micah had displayed was something that would change the course of their lives forever. Something that shone widely in the young wizard's favour, and the bastard knew he had earned the reaction he'd probably been expecting.

"Not all her screaming was stemmed from pain, Father, I assure you," Micah spoke in a low tone after Drokah had released his hold on him. "Her cries were mingled with pleasure. And this," he grabbed his father's hand and pried his fingers open, letting the ruined parts of the flower fall to their feet, "is proof that your theory was solid all along."

"My theory..." Drokah repeated as he continued to crumble the pieces in his hand, needing to feel the smoothness. Needing to reassure himself that it was real.

He moved away from Micah and stood in the middle of the eerily glowing bedchamber, still mangling the little left in his palm.

"Our time is nigh, my son," Drokah murmured, experiencing a wicked sense of euphoria as he watched the remaining parts fall. "Quite sooner than we imagined, the faint line between wizards and sorcerers will be broken, and we will be as powerful as they are. Even more so." He turned to face Micah who had leaned against the nightstand with that smirk still on his face.

Yet at that instant, it didn't bother Drokah. Surprisingly, not in the least. His son deserved this moment of triumph, and the King of Oroden didn't mind allowing him to have his fill of it. In fact, he would remember to gift Micah with an incentive that might even spark jealousy in Kora if she ever found out.

But she wouldn't. Nobody would. Not until the right moment arrived.

Instantly filled with determination upon receiving the evidence that Micah had just graced him with, Drokah knew it was time to act; he could avoid it no longer.

For the first time that night, a sudden thrill hummed throughout his body and a cold smile broke across his face. For he knew, without a doubt, that an irresistible seduction was about to befall the Queen of Drakonwell.