Heart Of The Dragon. Gena Showalter

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      A heartless man felt nothing, and he felt some emotions. Mild though they were. He simply knew how to control what he felt, knew how to bury it deep inside himself. That was the way he preferred his life. Intense emotions birthed turmoil, and turmoil birthed soul-wrenching pain. Soul-wrenching pain birthed memories…His fingers tightened around his fork, and he forced himself to relax.

      He would rather feel nothing than relive the agony of his past—the same agony that could very well become his present if he allowed a single memory to take root and sprout its poisonous branches.

      “My family is Atlantis,” he finally said, his voice disturbingly calm. “I will do what I must to protect her. If that means waiting before declaring war and angering every one of my men, then so be it.”

      Realizing Darius could not be provoked, Tagart shrugged and returned his attention to his meal.

      “You are right, my friend.” Grinning broadly, Brand slapped his shoulder. “War is only fun if we emerge the victor. We heed your advice to wait most readily.”

      “Kiss his ass any harder,” Tagart muttered, “and your lips will chap.”

      Brand quickly lost his grin, and the medallion hanging from his neck began to glow. “What did you say?” he demanded quietly.

      “Are your ears as feeble as the rest of you?” Tagart pushed to his feet, leaving his palms planted firmly on the glossy tabletop. The two men glared at each other from across the distance, a charged stillness sparking between them. “I said, kiss his ass any harder, and your lips will chap.”

      With a growl, Brand launched himself over the table, knocking dishes and food to the ground in his haste to attack Tagart. In midspring, reptilian scales grew upon his skin and narrow, incandescent wings sprouted from his back, ripping his shirt and pants in half, transforming him from man to beast. Fire spewed from his mouth, charring the surface of everything in its path.

      The same transformation overtook Tagart, and the two beasts grappled to the ebony floor in a dangerous tangle of claws, teeth and fury.

      Dragon warriors were able to change into true dragons whenever they desired, though the transformation happened of its own volition whenever raging emotions gripped them. Darius himself had not experienced a change, impromptu or otherwise, since he discovered his family slaughtered over three hundred years ago. To be honest, Darius suspected his dragon form was somehow lost.

      Tagart snarled when Brand threw him into the nearest wall, cracking the priceless ivory. He quickly recovered by whipping Brand’s face with his serrated tail, leaving a jagged and bleeding wound. Their infuriated snarls echoed as deep and sharp as any blade. A torrent of flame erupted, followed quickly by an infuriated hiss. Over and over they bit and lashed out at each other, separated, circled, then clashed together again.

      Every warrior save Darius leapt to his feet in a frenzy of excitement, hurriedly taking bets on who would win. “Eight gold drachmas on Brand,” Grayley proclaimed.

      “Ten on Tagart,” Brittan shouted.

      “Twenty if they both kill each other,” Zaeven called excitedly.

      “Enough,” Darius said, his tone even, controlled.

      The two combatants jumped apart as if he’d screamed the command, both panting and facing each other like penned animals, ready to attack again at any moment.

      “Sit,” Darius said in that same easy tone.

      Rather than obey this time, they growled gut-turally at each other. Not so the rest. They sat. While they might wish to continue cheering and taking bets, Darius was their leader, their king, and they knew better than to defy him.

      “I did not exclude you from the command,” he said to Tagart and Brand, adding only slightly to his volume. “You will calm yourselves and sit.”

      Both men leveled narrowed gazes on him. He arched a harsh brow and motioned with his fingers a gesture that clearly said, “Come and get me. Just don’t expect to live afterward.”

      Minutes passed in suspended silence until finally, the panting warriors assumed human form. Their wings recoiled, tucking tightly into the slits on their backs; their scales faded, leaving naked skin. Because Darius kept spare clothing in each room of the palace, they were able to grab a pair of pants from the wall hooks. Partially dressed now, they righted their chairs and eased down.

      “I will not have discord in my palace,” Darius told them.

      Brand wiped the blood from his cheek and flicked Tagart a narrowed glare. In return, Tagart bared his sharp teeth and released a cutting growl.

      They were already on the verge of morphing again, Darius realized.

      He worked a finger over his stubbled chin. Never had he been more thankful that he was a man of great patience, yet never had he been more displeased with the system he had fashioned. His dragons were divided into four units. One unit patrolled the Outer City, while another patrolled the Inner. The third was allowed to roam free, pleasuring women, losing themselves in wine or whatever other vice they desired. The last had to stay here, training. Every four weeks, the units rotated.

      These men had been here two days—a mere two days—and already they were restless. If he did not think of something to distract them, they might very well kill each other before their required time elapsed.

      “What think you of a tournament of sword skill?” he asked determinedly.

      Indifferent, some men shrugged. A few moaned, “Not again.”

      “No,” Renard said with a shake of his dark head, “you always win. And besides that, there is no prize.”

      “What would you like to do, then?”

      “Women,” one of the men shouted. “Bring us some women.”

      Darius frowned. “You know I do not allow females inside the palace. They pose too much of a distraction, causing too many hostilities between you. And not the easy hostilities of a few moments ago.”

      Regretful groans greeted his words.

      “I have an idea.” Brand faced him, a slow smile curling his lips, eclipsing all other emotions. “Allow me to propose a new contest. Not of physical strength, but one of cunning and wits.”

      Instantly every head perked up. Even Tagart lost his wrathful glare as interest lit his eyes.

      A contest of wits sounded innocent enough. Darius nodded and waved his hand for Brand to continue.

      Brand’s smile grew wider. “The contest is simple. The first man to make Darius lose his temper, wins.”

      “I do not—” Darius began, but Madox spoke over him, his rough voice laden with excitement.

      “And just what does the winner gain?”

      “The satisfaction of besting us all,” Brand replied. “And a beating from Darius, I’m sure.” He offered them a languid shrug and leaned back in the velvet cushions of his chair. He propped his ankles on the tabletop. “But I swear by the gods every bruise will be worth it.”

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