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Chapter Text

Blood.

It was all he lived for.

A thick, metallic substance that could be warm but soon cooled. How its slippery tendrils wrapped around him. And still, he hated it.

These were Drax’s thoughts as he stretched beneath a crescent moon pool that twisted out of the river. White-hot fury and misery leaking from him as he dipped a cloth that was once white and innocent into the clear water to rid the blood of his so-called enemies from it.

He watched with bored eyes as a cloud of pink swirled, infecting the water, polluting it with his wrath. Not even the river was spared the consequences of the war.

Late winter was a pleasant time of year in Transylvania. Spring was coming. The Carpathian Mountains sang with newborn birds, and the sway of blooming trees emerging from snowy blankets added a light perfume to the air. Sometimes, in the quiet of misty mornings, one could hear the song of the swallows as they foraged for food for their young ones.

It was morning now, yes. Yet, instead of the songs of birds, the land echoed with a different kind of tune. One of the celebrations. Their rampage and war had hit a turning point. Drax’s land, once taken from them cruelly to be plucked and placed as part of the grand Ottoman Empire, was beginning to reclaim and reinforce its solidarity and independence. It was a fair war, one Drax himself had trained ruthlessly for his entire life.

No one spoke of the tragedies of war. Only how sweet victory smelled, as the last enemy dropped, lifeless, on the grounds of your home city. Despite knowing how much the Ottomans deserved no mercy, there were innocents tied up in the politics: children, young animals, women with bellies round with new life. The thoughts grew too painful. Drax, exhausted from his own meddlesome memories, lay on the soft, damp bed of the river and looked to the clouds for escape, finding shapes in the puffs of white. Perhaps it was a happy release for many of them.

Between the merriment sounding from camp behind him and the twisting shapes of the sky, he only hoped this would be their last fight. But then, why had he sharpened his sword moments ago? Deep down in the pit of his stomach that only hungered for peace, he knew it to be true.

The war was in its infancy. It had only just begun. And as soon-to-be-reinstated Prince, it was his duty—nay, obligation—to see it through. If not for his people, then his god.

And what a cruel god he was.

*

“You have done well, my son.”

Drax waved his hand lazily, drinking more of the precariously fruity wine from his cup.

The halls of their castle were still buzzing with the electricity of winning the latest war. A normal Prince could enjoy this success around a fire with his fellow soldiers of war, mead in hand, half a dozen more buxom babes attached to his hip and side. Not him.

Duty called him to report to God. As God had no voice, or ability to receive hand-written letters to report their success (no matter how neat the penmanship), he instead was inclined to speak to the high priest in the grandest of the Wallachian Orthodox churches.

“And what next,” Drax said, circling his finger in his cup and bringing a taste of wine to his lips, “what does God have planned for us now?”

The priest, drunk on his own success as opposed to wine, smiled widely, caressing the gold that lined the chair in which he sat. A chair fit for a Prince, but housing God’s messenger instead. “My boy…”

Drax winced at the term of endearment. Not a boy; he had quite literally proven his place as a man with countless decapitated heads and enough blood to fill the Danube River.

“For now, we have claimed our place; your God thanks you,” the priest dipped his head. “There are many moons before the Ottomans can regroup. We have spoken, and the clergy think now is the time to make your position clear.”

“Position?” Drax queried, placing his wooden cup on the table and casting his eyes to the fire.

“In Wallachia, yes. Your father, God rest his soul, was a good man. Unparalleled and unquestioned in his rule. Our King, his brother, has covered for long enough. His son with him. The people need a real leader; they need their Prince to be strong. To be fit for rule to be…” He paused, his eyes misting with trepidation.

“Spit it out, priest,” Drax commanded. His weariness was catching up with him and, lastly, only caused him to grow more restless.

“To be wed.”

“Wed?” Drax bellowed a deep laugh, only to be reinforced by the cackling of his most loyal soldiers who also sat waiting in the pews of the church. “I am Vlad III, unquestioned Dracul blood. Why do I need a woman to prove this to my people?”

“Not your people, my child,” the priest said. “To God.”

“Always God,” Drax said, rising from his chair and refilling his wine. He cast a glance at the array of statues and portraits of religious icons that dotted the church. “Jesus was not wed,” he added.

“His purpose was different. You are to lead an entire country, to re-establish your line. As the only son of your father, do you wish for your line to have a stopper? To not continue the vein of your family with an heir?”

“I have no time for relationships. War is not kind to those who love.”

Having quite enough of this topic, Drax drained the wine until the cup was dry, slammed it down, and, with a mere tip of his head, commanded his men to follow him out.

Tonight was for rest. He had no time for ridiculous talks of marriage.

Chapter Text

Another evening. Another ridiculous celebration of a bloody victory blessed by whatever god they followed blindly.

Drax, sitting quietly amidst the fevered partying, drank in silence, swallowing his brooding with a strong ale. He listened with a half-smile as his fellow soldiers—perhaps one may call them friends—spoke of their latest triumphs.

“Who’d have thought the neck would produce so much blood!” Ion lamented with a chuckle, pulling the spine of a mackerel from his whiskery lips.

“Ah, how it spurts!” Matei, another key soldier of the war, agreed. “Vlad, do you not think there is a beauty in the way our enemies perish? The Turks, they bleed so beautifully.”

Drax, 'Vlad' as he was known officially, was now bored and growing weary of more talk of war. He simply nodded.

“I think the women are of more interest,” Mircea said.

Drax turned to the most repellent of the soldiers. Mircea was a man who left little to the imagination. Beastly, tall, broad, and grotesquely scarred, he pulled at his tangled beard untamed on his chin as he appeared to imagine the female conquests of war.

They were not consensual. Therefore, Drax found them to be repulsive. Women, by right, should be left in peace. They had no place in war. And, in his humble, bloodthirsty opinion, should have had a right to consent. Unfortunately, with raids and plundering, many innocents were caught in the line of fire. And the victorious men at the table where Drax sat were the worst for taking what they deemed as theirs. Prizes of the battle—that is what the women were considered.

Many of these women were left bleeding and broken in the very villages they rifled through. The more beautiful and sought-after, however, were taken as trophies. Tomorrow, at the third celebration feast, the men would be presented the cream of the crop of their journeys through Europe. It was an affair that Drax would undoubtedly miss. He took no pleasure in viewing their trembles. These particular females were the untouchables. Branded the finest and fairest of them all, the captains had marked them and imprisoned them. They were given humble lodgings, good food, scented oils and creams, and prepped for their future husbands. Many were virgins, many only just on the brink of womanhood. It was grotesque, but as the priests said, all is fair in love and war. Drax would rebel for his own mantra, but it was pointless. It was easier to turn a blind eye. Being blissfully ignorant was Drax’s personal gift. Instead, he would drink, read and, if he was very lucky, dream without the nightly disturbances of nightmares and interrupted winks.

“Have you selected a bride?” Mircea asked, wiping his greasy mouth with the back of his hand and leaning back in his chair until the chestnut wood groaned.

“No,” Drax muttered, plucking a ripe plum from the plate before him and chewing it. “I have no interest.”

“Always one to miss out on the fun,” Mircea chuckled. “Surely one of them is fine enough to be the bearer of your seed. You’re not bound to stay faithful, being a Prince an’ all.”

Drax glanced to the long, spread table at the foot of the stone hall, where six of Romania’s most eligible princesses and noble women sat, politely eating and waiting for his decision. A decision that would never come. For what he spoke was true: he had no interest.

Four of the six potential wives the priest had so thoughtfully curated were blood relatives of his. They could be crossed out immediately. He didn’t love the idea of his firstborn child sprouting an extra limb or being birthed with a third ear. This left two others.

Sitting second on the right was Catrina the Third, daughter of the ruler of Moldavia. Stephen, her brother, was a personal friend of Drax’s; therefore, it was an easy match. Unfortunately, Catrina stirred little feeling of lust. She was, to put it politely, not blessed with great beauty. A product of selective royal breeding had lengthened her chin quite substantially. Through a squint, she could be agreeable. But one did not wish to keep one’s eyes half-closed for the entirety of a marriage. Catrina, therefore, was an unregrettable pass.

Sitting beside her was the more fair Ruxandra. A noble woman of Transylvania, she could equally have offered good status. Her light hair flowed in an attractive way past her shoulders, sitting on the dip of her trim waist. Famously, her eyes were a dazzling violet, like the lavender that bloomed around their castle in the harsh of winter. What she boasted in beauty was squashed by an unpleasant personality.

Keeping true to his promise to the priest, Drax introduced himself upon arrival, making small talk. She spoke immediately of her disapproval of the castle—that the stone was crumbling and would require upheaval and renovation before they were wed. She refused to wear the traditional cream silks at their wedding, so would import the linens that she preferred from her home country. The cherry on the cake was her compliments to his performance on the battlefield. She requested a head to be kept for her outside of the castle, so all who visited would know of the ferocity of her husband.

"Such precision in your blows, dear Prince. You must dream in blood and gore. How delicious they must be. I should like to take a dip into your most erotic nightmares."

So, she was certainly insane.

Dracul fought because God willed it, not for enjoyment. While many of his fellow soldiers took pride and enjoyment in their kills, Drax yearned for an escape from the bloodshed. Ruxandra, for all her insanity, was right. His subconscious was stained scarlet with the murders of the past. And no matter how hard he tried, how much he prayed to God, how much he repented, how often he bathed in relaxing, clear waters, read peaceful tales, ate clean food and drowned in wine and ale, he always emerged bloodstained and shell-shocked.

And this was the very reason he never wished to be wed. For what husband would he be? A man tortured by the thousands of lives taken by his hand, who stained his linens with sweat each night. A husband, by his nature, should be protective and open to love. Drax was a shell of a man. He existed in his armour, a foreboding killer, the most skilled and ruthless soldier of the army that washed through the Ottoman Empire without breaking a sweat. Yet beneath the metal of his armour, only a shell existed.

What kind of husband would this shell be?

He was bound to this life of God’s soldier. There was no place for love there. And he had accepted his fate with his oath to the priest.

Chapter Text

“I think it was the tall redhead!”

“Which one do you think?” Ponvelt chuckled to Mircea.

Mircea grinned in agreement, raising his full mug enthusiastically. “I’ll fight you for her.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time!” Lor shouted back happily.

A day later, Drax, bored as ever, sat brooding in the armchair closest to the fire in the main quarters. Rather than join in the rowdy arguments about the “untouchables,” he fixed his gaze on the flames. They crackled and licked greedily at the wood in the furnace, a quiet hypnotism he found preferable to company.

The fight they spoke of was not an uncommon practice in the court. Generally, the girls were offered up to the highest-ranking soldiers of the army. Drax, as second in command, was offered third pick — only after the stand-in king (his perpetually power-hungry uncle) and afterwards to the leader of the army, his son, Barsarb.

His old uncle, he could just about handle; it was his offspring that Drax loathed. A sheltered lad who decided the battlefield was beneath him. He had made a recent habit of listening silently to Dracul and presenting their schemes to his father, taking credit for his cleverness. A Dracula might have been expected to care more for appearances, but truthfully, he felt little on the matter.

Besides, in this case, there was security in the theft. If, for whatever reason, his plans were to fail, the fall would not be his.

Drax watched with little concern as the men continued to squabble over the untouchables. Some had heard rumours about the women; one or two had seen them in the flesh.

Vlad sadly knew exactly how this would pan out. The king would take the first of the women, usually the most juvenile, knowing his taste. His son, Barsarb, would take the next best, still unquestioned and unchallenged. Drax would pass, as he always did, and the rest of the men would fight brutally for claim of whatever women were left.

They could, by their laws, make a claim early. Regardless of rank or heritage, it was a tradition that any man could challenge the king or princes. But no one dared to question the madman that now sat on the throne, or the sadistic son who was, in many ways, even worse. Besides, to question a royal was an insult to the throne and, by definition in Transylvania, an insult to God.

To date, the kingdom had only witnessed a single early claim. A duel was immediately called before his uncle could open his mouth to select his prey. Drax’s very own late brother, Radu, the only person he truly cared for, was the one to break the tradition.

Like Drax, Radu found the entire ordeal sickening to behold. That the claiming of any soul as “theirs” without consent was abhorrent. Therefore, he laid his claim for each and every untouchable of the fourth war. This was ten years ago, before Drax could so much as lift his sword. Fifteen-year-old Dracul watched his brother massacre eight men who dared oppose him, who had greedily fought back, happy to kill a prince to satisfy their most repulsive desires.

Radu won, saving four women from years of relentless assaults and likely many unwanted children.

It was, however, at a cost.

For it wasn’t the thousands of enemy Ottoman warriors that caused the downfall of Radu, arguably the best soldier (and best man) Transylvania had ever seen. His death would be at the hands of his own men.

One man, to be specific.

Not right away, of course. The slimeball waited until Radu had won by his own right — with a measured ease, it should be added. Efideral, one of the noblemen of Hungary who lived at the castle, was a cowardly human. He dared not face Radu on the battlefield or in a duel. Instead, he crept into his bedroom in the dead of night three days later and cut his throat as he slept.

Revenge for freeing the fourteen-year-old girl he had his beady, crab-like eyes locked on from the moment they were presented to the party.

Drax got his revenge shortly after. At fifteen, he killed his first man, and it was a delicious kill. All the better tasting because it was a murder of revenge.

Still, it left Vlad with a bitter taste in his mouth about the whole process. The untouchables were a tradition he hated, but left be. For he knew the consequences of meddling. He loved his country and most of its people. The soldiers who fought for it were a different story. There were good and bad, and few who could be trusted. As a teen, Drax had learned the hard way the consequences of upsetting traditions and playing with politics — even if the matter was barbaric.

“The rumour is,” Lor, the youngest of the soldiers, muttered, breaking Drax’s reverie, “the king has his eyes on the fiery-haired maiden.”

Drax didn’t look away from the fire.

“There are two redheads. He lays claim to the younger; she's more strawberry blonde than true red anyway. His son wants the other, I hear,” Ponvelt replied, tossing a handful of almonds into his mouth and crushing them noisily between his teeth.

“Everyone has unique tastes,” Drax murmured, flicking an almond of his own into the fire and watching it blacken and shrivel in the flames.

“And pray tell, Vlad, what is yours? You never seem to have a lady on your arm, despite your access to the most desired beauties in all of Transylvania,” Ponvelt replied, lifting his chiselled face to observe Drax.

“Is it a brawny breed that satisfies the Dragon?” Mircea snivelled, pulling at his long, tangled beard.

“Is it true, Prince, do you…” Ponvelt paused. For all of his ego, he was, deep down, one of the kinder lads. Not entirely trustworthy, but as trusted as a soldier could be in Drax’s books. He was born in Hungary and adopted by the king as a baby — therefore, Drax was raised with him like a true cousin. But the king was unpleasant to him, treating him as the bastard of the two boys. Ponvelt, like Drax, hated his brother Barsarb.

The only warning sign about Ponvelt was his curious habit of burning ants as a boy, which Drax found a little strange, but he was yet to stab him in the back, so gave him the benefit of the doubt. He just made a point to place Ponvelt away from the vicinity of innocent insects.

“Would you think less of me if I indulged in men rather than women?” Drax drawled lazily, tapping the wood of the armchair with a sharp, pointed nail.

The men grew poignantly quiet, watching his finger — Lor jumping at the sharp tap as he continued.

“N-no, my Prince. We only meant… Mircea was surely jesting…” Lor stumbled over his words, shooting a royally pissed-off look at Mircea.

Lor was a simple man. Despite him being perfectly pleasant, Drax found his fear repellent and therefore kept a distance. Fearful men were usually hateful men, and he had no place for that in his inner circle. He was a particularly skilled archer, which was the only reason Drax made a place for him in his army.

“So, you are into men. I knew it,” Mircea fearlessly rumbled, a smile curving on his lips. “Wouldn’t be the first royal or soldier, for that matter, to partake.”

“I didn’t say yes,” Drax said. “I would simply prefer not to comment. I care so little for the topic I am already growing bored in fact.”

“We were just curious, is all… wondered if you were gonna break your pact of no prisoners. I think you should treat yourself just this once. The untouched flesh tastes so much nicer than the wenches of the court, trust me.” Mircea flashed a yellowing grin his way. Drax could only scowl.

“Mircea, you are a pig,” He said softly, rising from his chair. “Do as you wish. But do not think for one moment I will join you.” With that, he aimed an almond at his eye, whipping it at him so fast that the air made a thrusting sound with the speed.

Mircea howled a delightful noise of pain, throwing his hand over his right eye.

“And that was with an almond. Imagine what my sword could do, given a reason to,” Drax chuckled, leaving the room to ready for the horrific evening of untouchable selection that was fast approaching.

Chapter Text

What did one wear to a ridiculously pompous evening where his ‘friends’ would bet on prisoners of war…

Perhaps not slippers.

Drax peered at his most comfortable pair of silk-lined shoes sitting on his four-poster bed with a hearty sigh, slipping them off and tossing them to the end of the room.

A small squeak interrupted his brooding and, for the first time in days, Vlad smiled earnestly.

Moving to the darkest corner of his wardrobe, he tapped at the carved hole in the walnut wood, grinning more as another high-pitched squeak echoed from within.

“I thought you would be out for the evening,” Drax chuckled, watching as two dark, beady eyes appeared in the crevice.

A stretching noise followed, and finally, the little creature emerged from his makeshift home.

Ana, his dearest friend, a vampire bat.

One evening almost a year ago, as Drax lay in bed quietly reading and revising strategies, he heard a loud bang at the centre stained-glass window. He passed it off as a rogue bird that had made a wrong detour. Being at such a height, at the very peak of the castle, called for casualties among the odd birds. Yet, one page into his book, he heard a squeak for the first time. Curiosity piqued, he approached the window. And lo and behold, sitting dangerously close to the edge of the castle, was Ana. Her right wing injured from the impact.

He knew what his uncle would say — vermin. A creature of disease. This only made him more drawn to the delicate thing.

As if sensing his pure intentions, Ana let Dracul reach for her, perched on his pale palm as he brought her inside and onto the soft silk sheets of his bed.

She was a juvenile bat, which explained why she hadn’t quite mastered the art of flying. Drax only planned to let her rest for the evening, then give her space to fly off the next morning. But she quickly found herself comfortable in his dark abode. Her wings returned to use after a month or so, and with regular bowls of pigs’ blood Drax fetched from the kitchen, she grew quite plump and content.

Ana could — and should — have left after the first month. She had no reason to stay once she regained her health. But the little vampire bat enjoyed her time in the castle. Drax was certain she sometimes understood him. When he warned her not to venture deeper into the castle, keeping to his upper floor, she listened. When he told her to go out only at night, she obeyed. And when he insisted she could not sleep on the pillow beside him most mornings, she ignored him — often snuggling up on the soft silk and, occasionally, resting on his bare chest.

She was an odd creature. From his own research, he learned bats were generally social animals, usually living in packs of their own. He wondered if she had forgotten where her family lived and had chosen him as her pack instead. She certainly had a sense of superiority about her. Drax had no doubt she thought herself the alpha of the two.

Ana was very small, a measly 8cm, he guessed. With nutmeg-brown fur, pointed ears, and very sharp teeth — he had learned this the hard way, as she often, in a show of affection, nibbled at his fingers or neck when she nuzzled up to him in the mornings.

“You’re hungry?” Drax asked, watching as she peered at him with expectant eyes.

“I have no blood for you, my dear. You’ll have to wait until morning.”

She blinked twice, as if she understood, and dragged her sharp-tipped wings across to his left pillow.

“I’m not resting yet,” he laughed. “I have a ball to attend.”

Ana didn’t listen, quite content to sleep alone, it seemed. Drax sat beside her, watching his curious companion as she spun twice in a spot, making it more comfortable for her small body.

“I would rather stay, my friend,” Drax continued. “These events are… tiresome.”

As if on cue, Ana yawned, making Vlad chuckle deeply. “If the people could only see their Prince talking to a bat. They would think twice about their future leader. A man who cannot talk to people, only small blood-drinking animals.”

Ana squeaked once, finding a cosy spot. She often hung from the rails in the wardrobe, preferring to sleep upside down. But she had grown spoiled with Drax, clearly enjoying the luxuries a soft pillow could offer.

“Do you think a sword is necessary tonight?” Drax asked himself — and the bat sleeping in his bed. He observed his reflection in the mirror, fighting a grimace of his own. He had chosen an all-black outfit, unsurprisingly: an onyx doublet with leather lining and embellishments. The pants were matching black leather, and the pointed boots, a sturdier hide.

He could have been going to war in his get-up. Then again, this event was much like a battle to him. A room full of people he half-despised, and enemies dressed up in cotton gowns that left little to the imagination. There would be tears and blood and god knows what else. So, really, he was going to war — just not the kind he would have preferred.

*

The atmosphere in the great hall of Poenari Castle was thick enough to taste. Women were scarce here—only the harder noblewomen, the ones who turned a blind eye while their husbands flaunted their mistresses, seemed to have the stomach for the evening’s spectacle.

Not a bench was empty. Every soldier, nobleman, royal hanger-on, and merchant fattened with gold had come to lay claim to a beauty who did not wish to be claimed. What had his country become, when wagering on unwilling women was one of the unmissable entertainments of the year? Even if those women were the spoils of the enemy.

King Răsabel gnawed at a turkey leg at the head of the centre table. He had softened in recent years, flesh slack, leaving his son to dazzle the court with his cunning. But everyone knew what loomed. His uncle’s eyes—those furtive, darting eyes—kept slipping toward Dracul.

He was next.

After his father and brother had been butchered by the Ottomans (the same Ottomans with whom young Drax had been forced to live under the guise of peace) everyone in Transylvania had known: one day Vlad, son of the Dragon, would return. In fact, he already had, briefly… At seventeen, with Ottoman backing, he had sat in the very seat his uncle now occupied. But then the boyars betrayed him and his rule only lasted a measly three months before he was forced to hide out in his native Transylvania. Now the Wallachian boyars understood better. They had tasted the cost of weak rule. Soon, once he was wed, nothing would stop him from taking back his crown.

An assassination attempt was expected. His uncle, and more so his cousin, had grown too comfortable. But fear was a currency too. And Drax was rich in it. His brutality on the battlefield was legendary, a shadow in the minds of all who whispered his name.

The thought made him smile into his wine. Across the hall, applause broke out as the King stumbled gracelessly to his feet.

“My people, the moment you’ve been waiting for is near. After countless raids led by my valiant son”—he turned, smirking at Barsarb, dressed smugly in silver silk—“and, of course, your great Prince Vlad.” He gestured toward Drax, seated not among royals but among his hardened men, in the belly of the hall.

Drax inclined his head, his expression unreadable.

“In the Saxon towns of Transylvania—Brașov, Sibiu…” Boos thundered. Traitorous towns, siding with the Ottomans. “We found beauties. Captured and so far, untouched. Innocent of any man’s hand. Such prizes no gold could buy.”

The King sat while his advisor rose. Theysar: weedy, rat-like, and loyal to Răsabel’s line only because he knew he would have no place once the Dragon ascended.

“You know the rules,” he rasped. “Our great king chooses first. Then Barsarb. And finally, Prince Vlad. The last woman will be up for grabs. Ready your bets. Ready your blades.” He gestured toward the raised platform, a small fighting ring hammered together overnight. “Without delay, let us meet the beauties.”

Drax’s soldiers—Mircea, Ponvelt, Lor—cheered with the rest as the heavy doors crashed open. He did not. Untampered rage clamped his jaw shut.

The women filed into the hall like lambs in single file. Only the first was visible. She was angelic, of course. Olive skin, dark red hair, tall and slender, her scarlet gown clinging like flame to her form. She was the one they had whispered about. A temptress. Though, it was not lust that seized Drax but guilt at the trembling of her lips, the wet on her cheeks, the terror in her eyes.

“The women have been arranged by perfection. This is Maria, from Sibiu. Twenty years old. Virgin. Hair like a red apples, breasts firm…” Theysar’s oily voice slid through the air.

The King advanced. He passed Maria and stooped to murmur at the girl behind her—hidden from Drax’s sight. “You’ll be fine for my son.” Then he reached Maria. He licked his lips, already moist, and bile clawed at Drax’s throat.

“Yes. She will do.”

“Does anyone oppose?” Theysar’s hawk-eyes swept the crowd. Silence. Maria’s hand shook as she placed it in the King’s. Back at the table, he pulled her into his lap, his laughter sharp as he nipped her neck.

Drax’s hands curled into fists beneath the table. Attending had been a mistake. Fury was all he found here.

Theysar cleared his throat. “Now, a true jewel. Found in Brașov but Hungarian-born. Twenty-one. Strawberry-blonde. Untouched.” His smile was poison. “I present Elisabeta Szilágyi.”

Drax’s eyes landed on her, and something inside him—something he had never known, never imagined—stirred with a force that made the hall dissolve around him.

He had seen beauty before, of course. Women whose laughter was like a bird song, whose skin was soft, whose lips had tempted him into meaningless affairs and shallow conquests. But he had never been truly taken. Never possessed by love or lust. 

This was different.

Her hair fell in trembling waves of strawberry-gold, catching the torchlight and setting it ablaze. Not fire that burned, but fire that licked around her delicate collarbone. Her dress, silver cream, clung to her like morning mist over a pale hill, sculpting the curve of her waist, the swell of her chest. And yet it was not the silk, not the curves, not even the careful elegance of gloves and veil that held him—it was her face.

Her face. Heart-shaped, young and innocent. Her lips quivered, delicate as the wing of a trapped swallow, and her oval eyes—soft, glistening with tears that possessed strength—looked at the hall, at the men who leered, and yet did not meet them. They found him instead, and something in those dark, brooding depths that he had long lived in reached into him, as if she had always known him, had always waited there.

Drax’s pulse caught in his chest, a slow, unfamiliar hammering that made the blood rush in places he did not know could burn. His hands clenched. The world narrowed. The clamour of soldiers, of Theysar’s harsh instructions, even the laughter of the King, all of it became distant, swallowed by the gravity of her presence.

This was something sharper, deeper, older than desire. It was as though the mere sight of her had carved a hollow in his chest and filled it with a quiet, searing fire. She was the first woman who had claimed him, without speaking, without touching, without knowing; she had simply existed in the world, and his personal world had shifted for it.

Somehow, he knew, right there and then, he would have crossed continents, rivers, and battlefields to protect her, to own her attention. To protect her. To have her keep those pools of emerald eyes locked on his

Drax’s chest tightened, a slow ache that was pleasure and agony combined. His eyes lingered on the curve of her trembling lips, the wet shine on her cheeks, the unsteady lift of her chin. He did not see the men, nor their crude murmurs, nor the King’s leering gaze. The room had vanished. There was only her, a living flame that threatened to consume the parts of him that had been cold, ruthless, unfeeling.

And for the first time in his twenty-five years of life, Drax knew something he had never allowed himself to imagine: that he could be taken, utterly, irrevocably, and that it would not break him but give him meaning at last.

He rose slightly in his seat, as though gravity had shifted toward her. His hands flexed, not in violence, not in conquest—though he could feel that too—but in awe, in hunger, in the beginning of something he had never been ready for, and yet had always been waiting for.

He barely noticed Barsarb striding forward. Heard nothing as Theysar confirmed his claim. Saw only when Barsarb seized Elisabeta’s hand and pressed a kiss to the lace.

Drax’s fists bled under his rings.

“Does anyone challenge?” Theysar asked, quick and certain. No one would expect a single man to oppose Barsarb. At the very least, Vlad, who to many was seen as his brother by status.

When Drax stood, his head high and firm, the room emitted a great gasp, whispers flooding every table. Everyone’s eyes, Elisabeta included, had their sights on him now, as he rose a bloody hand to the air. A different smile on his face.

“I challenge for the claim,” he said. His voice cut through the noise. “Or do you not wish to wake the Dragon?”

Chapter Text

All eyes locked on him, wide with awe. Partly because of the incredibly rare counterclaim, and partly because it was no ordinary man who had stepped forward. Drax, following in his brother’s footsteps, was different.

Barsarb’s eyes were the only ones masking the trepidation of those around him. He knew what Drax was; under the guise of a practised smile, the so-called “prince” Barsarb was a coward. 

“I accept,” the fake prince spoke, his voice steady.

Drax seemed to be the only one who noticed the poorly masked tremble in his tone. He was a coward, yes, but also bold—and stupid. Barsarb knew very well that he had no way of winning this duel.

Drax tore his gaze from Elisabeta’s amber eyes and watched Barsarb carefully. His posture was high and firm, but he was too calm for his age, too measured, confirming Drax’s suspicions. The wink from Barsarb to Theysar and his father confirmed it. They had been waiting for a chance like this. 

At the right of the room, the blacksmith boys, who thought they would only be dressing the general lords and soldiers later, began to hurriedly gather their tools and prepare the platform for early action.

“What the hell are you doing? Are you a fool, your brother—”

“I’m not my brother,” Drax interrupted, his voice cutting through the panic of Ponvelt.

“He’s drunk too much wine,” Lor spat, glancing at Drax’s half-empty cup. “Do you actually intend to fight?”

Drax looked coolly at Barsarb.

“They’re slippery creatures,” Mircea said, observing. “Let the Dragon fight.” He tapped his goblet against Drax’s unmanned cup. “I’m just glad to see you have some taste for the finer meat after all. Might even let us share if you—”

Mircea didn’t finish. For Drax, beyond his own comprehension, grabbed him by the thick of his pork-like neck, silencing him.

“You do not touch her!” Drax snapped. His voice was starting to show a red flush, anger giving way to control. He exhaled slowly, regaining composure.

Mircea, who had begun to turn a beetroot shade with the lack of air, dared to chuckle through a gasp: “Go get her, Dragon.”

Drax, releasing Mircea, stood and made his way toward the makeshift arena. His mind buzzed too heavily for coherent thought. All he knew was that he had to protect her. For some unknown reason, he felt he would die to do it. It seemed more fitting to die for a woman than by the hand of a soldier fighting a battle that had lost all meaning.

A nervous boy approached, dropping the armour in his outstretched hands, clearly flustered.

“Not needed, boy,” Drax said, holding a hand up before the man could suit him with metal.

“Barsarb, we should fight as God intended, should we not?” Drax asked, looking to his opponent.

Theysar shook his head, finding the suggestion absurd. But Drax suspected foul play.

Another boy offered Barsarb his own plates of golden silver. Drax was given the same gear a regular soldier might wear: old, worn, and unpolished. Barsarb’s set was pristine. Clearly, they had prepared well for a challenge to their champion. Any man would have considered it the same as battle-ready armour—but Drax was no ordinary soldier. He was a Dragon, and he knew steel when he saw it.

“Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself, Vlad,” Barsarb said loudly enough for the entire hall to hear.

Barsarb had hoped for a laugh. There was none. The room’s occupants were brutish, yet all feared the Dragon. Only a man fed on a silver spoon could not. And that silverware—that preparation—was all Barsarb knew.

“You will not be fighting the Prince,” Theysar warned, “you forget that each party may nominate a player of their choice. So long as the man is willing to fight, he can act for the challenger.” Barsarb, smirking, waved a steel-covered plate in his direction. No wonder he was so cocky.

“If you don’t plan to face me, why the armour?” Drax asked, allowing the boy to continue draping him in a rather shoddy layer.

“A Prince must look the part for his woman,” Barsarb said, glancing greedily at Elisabeta. The sight made Vlad grind his teeth until his jaw ached.

“Isn’t she a beauty? Imagine the offspring—” Barsarb continued.

“That’s enough,” Drax barked, shoving the boy aside so he could ready himself. “Who do I fight?” He glanced around for an obvious fighter. None of his men would fight against their real Prince, not by choice anyway, so, who?

“Don’t pretend you don’t know,” the fake Prince lulled, looking behind him. As he moved toward the exit, Drax glimpsed the infamous stumbling gait of a man who cared for nothing but money and blood: Jimboch.

His left foot had been hit severely injured in youth during a hunting accident, a family of wild pigs that had left half his foot maimed. But the giant man refused to limp.

Some would think a brute with such a deformity would be hampered in battle; quite the opposite in this case. His step, well known, struck fear in anyone who heard it.

A man like Jimboch should have brought terror to Drax, especially considering he was the butcher of men and, oddly, the brother of Radu's murderer (a brother Drax had killed himself to serve his own revenge). He had no code: children, women, the elderly; no one was safe. It was one thing to fight a cowardly Prince like Barsarb. It was another entirely to duel a ruthless brute like Jimboch.

Drax’s eyes met Elisabeta’s for the second time. Confusion and fear still lingered in those amber orbs. His fists drew tightly to his sides. In that instant, he knew he would risk his life to protect her. Three words drilled themselves into Drax’s mind as Jimboch stepped into the hall:

Bring it on.

“The young Dragon,” Jimboch growled, clutching his sword, placing all weight on his right foot. “It would be fitting for another Dragon to meet his end by our steel.”

Drax’s stance stayed firm as he paced the arena. The floor was covered in a light layer of imported sand, a surface for swift movement (something Jimboch was not capable of with his clubbed foot). The sand would soak up blood, too, which was handy. No one spoke of the danger of slipping on wet blood. Drax considered it an accidental blessing.

“You know the rules,” Theysar announced. “The one who yields first loses.”

Drax nodded. Jimboch gritted his teeth, a monster in every sense: educated, intelligent, and brutal. A fierce eye swept the hall as Drax broke from Elisabeta’s gaze. He lifted his sword, his control lacking, perhaps, but there was no doubt he would emerge victorious.

The two men—bullish and boar-like—met in the centre. Jimboch’s blonde hair was dark with sweat, and the smell of iron and exertion filled the air, the odour enough to bring any grown man to his knees.

With a clang of bronze, the fight was on.

Dracul was quick to parry the first lightning-fast swoop of Jimboch’s steel. The great beast made horrid noises and grunts and continued to exert himself in the fight. His method, it appeared, was sheer force. Stamina, Drax knew, had its limits. He would not be able to best him with strength; any idiot could realise that. But he was speedy on his toes and fought with the precision and measured blows of an artist.

His third dodge produced a great humph from Jimboch, telling Drax his theory was correct. All he had to do was tire the boar out, and he would drop without a touch.

Jimboch lunged forward with newfound fury. Drax managed to dodge to the left just in time with a pirouette, aiming for his back as he spun out. Somehow Jimboch managed to see it coming and ducked with an air of grace Drax didn’t know he was capable of. But it didn’t last long.

“Prince said I could have my own taste of that beauty if I win,” Jimboch smirked, spitting on the ground for good measure.

Their swords met in the middle as Drax caught his next blow with his rusted steel.

Breathing out of his mouth, to not catch the scent of the foul breath of his enemy, Drax answered with quiet fury: “You will never touch another woman again. Especially not her.”

With a mighty push, Drax forced Jimboch backwards. He stumbled, finding his footing on his bad leg. A howl of pain was enough time for Vlad to fly at him with the chance swipe he needed. His blade scraped through his side, close to his kidneys, and another yelp of pain was produced by Jimboch, who was painfully aware he was half-ruined.

The King, Barsarb, Theysar, his friends, the entire room—Elisabeta included—gasped, watching his victory unfold.

Drax paced the bleeding man, who was now on one knee, his mouth bubbling with blood, but his eyes were dangerous.

“You dare,” he managed, attempting to regain his strength.

“I do,” Drax chuckled, approaching him. “Call this justice for the many lives you took.”

“Ha!” Jimboch bellowed. “Says the Dragon. The known slayer of men on the battlefield.”

“Those men are there by choice,” he answered, holding his shoulder and plunging his old blade into the thick of his pockmarked neck. “You kill innocents.”

He was dead before Drax’s words could sink in. The great mound tipped to the side and produced a mighty bang as the dead weight of him bounced off the sand. The spray of the grains unmoved once his body had settled.

Drax flung his own rusty blade to his side and approached Barsarb coolly. He looked royally pissed off, and half terrified that Vlad would now challenge him. But he wouldn’t. He only wished to claim his prize.

“A fair battle,” Drax said. “You agree?” He turned to Theysar, who looked as if he could kill him with his eyes alone. He had no choice but to nod.

With that, Drax turned to the beauty he was fighting for. Only now, incredibly, did he feel nervous. His breath caught in his throat as he approached her. What would he say to such a beauty? “You’re welcome” seemed cocky. To his dismay, those perfectly shaped rose-bitten lips still trembled. He wanted her to feel safe, not scared.

At her feet, he did what seemed natural.

The dragon dropped to his knees.

“My lady,” he said quietly. Reaching for her trembling hands, he placed a gentle kiss on her soft pale skin. Even her hands were trembling.

Suddenly he felt awful.

This darling creature had just witnessed Drax when he was most brutal. Of course, she was terrified.

“I will never harm you,” he said. “That I promise to you.”

Theysar chuckled insidiously from behind.

“She doesn’t understand,” he muttered with pride. “Did we not say? She speaks only Hungarian.”

“You won the battle,” Barsarb suddenly chirped up. “But she has free will to marry. This is not the end, my skills were never on the battlefield.”

“My son is right,” the King spoke next. “Take her tonight Vlad, but do not forget who sits on the throne. You have your fill. But I decide who my son is to marry.”

“That is not how this works,” Drax said, his voice now shaking with fury. “She is mine. For now and all time.”

“Then ask her to marry you; she won’t understand anyway,” Theysar laughed, to which the King and Barsarb followed.

A few more loyal members of the audience also chuckled, but only a few. The rest had similar gazes of confusion or fury for their Prince being questioned again.

“In fact, I think it’s about time we get a preview of the good now. Feel free to take her to your bed, Vlad, but she is a piece of art, I think. And all good art deserves to be witnessed by all. Free for eyes, but not for touch, for tonight anyway…” the King cackled, wiggling the woman he had claimed on his lap.

Drax felt like the ground was eating him alive. His heart was heavy in his chest, his mind blazing. He wasn’t to slice their throats and drain their blood. To slam every skull against the harsh stone of the castle. But that, sadly, was treason. Tonight, she was free and by God he would keep her safe. A plan would form. A delicious loophole. The sooner he would rise to power the sooner he could stomp this effrontery and, now, most importantly, protect this woman he hardly knew.

“She’s coming with me. Elisabeta is not a show for you. A deal was made when I fought for her on that stage,” Drax pointed at the blood-stained arena. “I would gladly fight you, dear Prince, if that is the terms you wish to extend?”

Barsarb looked nervously to his father and Theysar.

The King, eventually, shook his head.

Drax peered at Elisabeta, who seemed confused, with the knot at her lovely brow. He reached his hand for her again, but she pulled away. A sharp pain at his heart shocked him. Rejection he could take. But this stung oddly.

“A pity, the prize does not want to be claimed. Well, we’ll just have to—”

Before the King could finish, Drax, already regretting his actions but feeling no choice in the matter, scooped up Elisabeta, carrying her carefully, with ease, in his arms out of the room.

She squeaked in surprise and began to shake very slightly. He dared not look down for fear his suspicions were correct and she was sobbing.

A grand applause filled the room, many men shouting vulgarities and cheering for his victory.

Any normal man would have felt a pang of satisfaction at that at least.

Not Drax.

For with every tremble that escaped his woman, he felt more dreadful.

Chapter Text

Now he had secured Elisabeta, Drax wasn’t quite sure what to do with her.

He was tempted to bring her to a room of her own, but feared that a more greedy nobleman, or possibly the prince himself, would try to capture her. He would free her, but again, he was scared for her safety.

Narrowing down the options in his head left him with only one choice: she was going to have to stay with him. It was the only sure way he could protect her from any challengers or thieves of the night.

Drax didn’t put her down until he reached the very peak of the castle, where his quarters were. The King himself had once challenged him for his place in the castle, but Drax protested that the room was smaller than the bedrooms below. Not a lie; so the King agreed.

At the foot of the heavy walnut door to his room, he released her.

Elisabeta was still frightened, but despite her shaking and obvious concern, she seemed oddly peaceful now, as if she had accepted whatever fate would meet her. A strong woman, no doubt, for her head was held high when he opened the door and pushed lightly at the arch of her supple back to guide her inside.

She peered around for a moment, purposefully turning away from him. He watched her scan the room, knowing full well what she was doing… looking for escape routes. He had done the same thing himself when he lived with the Ottomans.

It had been a peaceful stay at first, his brother even warmed to them, no longer fighting their mantra by the middle of their stay. But Drax was always the problem child, remaining firm that it was independence Transylvania needed, not a mother empire to look after them. A year in was when the beatings started, followed closely by imprisonment.

So Drax knew that careful scan Elisabeta now conducted all too well. To her, this was a prison.

The notion made his stomach churn.

As the great beauty walked around, silently observing, Drax pulled his most comfortable armchair from its position by the fire and held his palm open towards it. She didn’t notice, so he cleared his throat awkwardly.

When she finally turned, he was in awe all over again. Such subtle, untrained beauty. Such grace. He had heard stories of women so beautiful they stopped men dead in their tracks. He had heard tales of love at first sight, but never truly believed in it.

Not that he put a name to what he felt. But it must have been similar, no? A deep yearning to protect. He wanted to know her, to learn from her, to stand by her side. But above all, he just wanted to talk to her.

“Please,” he said softly, motioning to the chair again. “Sit.”

She looked from his eyes to the chair. He worried she didn’t understand until she moved, sitting stiffly in it.

Once she was seated, he bent to one knee, resting an arm casually over his leg.

“Do you understand me?” he asked hopefully.

No sound. No sign that she did, in fact, understand the tongue in which he spoke.

“You don’t speak Romanian?” he sighed, watching her cock her head.

“Little,” she finally spoke.

In twenty-five years, he had never heard a voice so darling. It was the sweetest tone his ears had ever heard; perfectly paced, beautifully paired with a thin accent, similar to his own but different enough to set them apart. He swelled at the realisation that she could understand something.

“Okay,” he said lightly, placing a hand on the bridge of the armchair. This only made her jolt, so he removed it, resting it on his knee again.

“I,” he said, “am not going to hurt you. Do you understand?”

He watched her eyes explore his face, no doubt searching for deceit.

“Not hurt?” she asked.

He nodded. “I will never hurt you. Never.”

She frowned. “But you…” she spoke a few foreign words. “You are… férfi vagy. A…man?” she said finally.

He nodded, furrowing his brows. What did she mean, a man? Unless…

“No. Not like them,” he said quickly, shaking his head for good measure. “I will not touch you. I only wish to protect you.”

“You… wish to bed?”

“Sorry?” he said, glancing from her to the four-poster bed, then back again. “Are you tired?”

“You… not want bed?”

“Want bed, I don’t?” He rifled through his brain, utterly confused.

Without warning, she stood. “To bed?” she said more firmly, pointing at the bed this time.

“I don’t understand?”

He watched, more confused than ever, as Elisabeta—with a confidence he was almost proud of—sat on the bed, drawing her petite body under the silk covers. She watched him with those stormy eyes that he knew would haunt his daydreams forevermore, then, she tapped beside her.

“To bed?” she repeated.

“Oh—bed,” he said, finally understanding. “No,” Drax said, shaking his head again. “You can sleep.” He mimed resting his hands in prayer beside his head. “You sleep there.”

He reached for two of the six pillows and threw them to the floor. “I sleep there,” he said, pointing to his makeshift bed.

Elisabeta nodded and stretched her legs out of the bed to sleep on the floor. 

“No, no,” he chuckled, realising what she thought he meant. “You stay,” he said, placing a hand on her knee to keep her put. He felt her shiver but didn’t remove it; the warmth beneath her thin dress felt too good against his rough palm. “You stay,” he said again. “Your bed. Understand?”

Peering up at him, she nodded, placing her legs back under the sheets.

With a sigh, Drax dimmed every candle but one, reached for a spare blanket, and laid on the floor.

It would be a miracle if sleep found him tonight, for his mind was buzzing with dangerous thoughts. How could he protect her without marrying her? Would he even be granted that? He didn’t want to force her into anything. He didn’t even want it. He just wanted to be near her and to keep her safe for now.

So what if her lips made an appearance in his thoughts every ten seconds? He was a gentleman. Besides, he was nothing but a captor to her; for now, anyway.

Tomorrow, he would work on a plan: to free her from this strange, untouchable status. To give her free will. To ensure no man could harm her. And, somehow, convince her to trust him.

Easy… right?

He sighed again into his pillow. This was going to be harder than any battle he had faced before.

As the hours bled on, Drax almost fell into a light sleep when a loud squeak awoke him.

He jumped to his feet, drawing his sword faster than he could breathe, and leapt to Elisabeta’s side of the bed. He found no intruder and felt around for whatever had frightened her. A nightmare, perhaps?

Twisting the lamp to add light to the room, he saw the cause.

Elisabeta, clutching the sheets up to her chin, pointed at the small brown creature in the centre of the bed—the same creature that now blinked, confused, at Drax.

“Oh,” he laughed. “She is a friend.”

“Mi ez?... What… what that thing?” she managed, twisting her body away from Ana, who now stretched her wings and flew to Drax. Landing on his shoulder, she nibbled affectionately at his neck, then shot a confused look toward Elisabeta; who only returned the favour, equally perplexed.

“Őlény ez. Állat ez. Szörny ez vaj?”

She paused. Blinking. “A… a monster?” she finished. 

“Not a monster,” Drax chuckled, reaching out a finger. Ana, seeing this, flew to his outstretched hand and hung from it upside-down.

“Friend,” he confirmed. “See?”

She continued to speak precariously in her foreign tongue. “Mily balgatag dolog ily lényt ide hozni. Bár kicsiny… foga vagyon és…”

Drax carried Ana to the wardrobe, muttering apologies to her. “She sleeps in here; she won’t hurt you,” he said, opening the door and hanging the bat on a hook. The bat threw him a rather offended look but seemed to understand.

“You… why you keep állat… animal?” Elisabeta asked, still timid.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Drax looked softly at the beauty in his silk sheets. “She needed protecting.”

“Pro-tect?” she queried. 

“Protect,” Drax said. “To look after.” He thought back to his days at the Ottomans. He spoke a little of their tongue, having lived with them for a few years. Perhaps, she would understand that. “Hifz kardan.” He said. If he was correct, it meant To Protect. 

Elisabeta seemed to understand this, lowering the sheets and nodding finally. “You protect the thing?” 

He nodded slowly. Glad they were able to communicate somewhat. 

“Like I need protect?” she whispered. 

Taken aback, Drax nodded silently. “Yes, Elisabeta. Like you.”

Chapter Text

“You don’t drink milk in your home country?” Drax asked, lifting his cup of fermented whey.

The morning mist hung over the Carpathian peaks. On the long oak table lay coarse bread, wedges of sharp brânză, and a bowl of steaming millet porridge glistening with honey.

Vlad sliced a strip of cold roast pork and passed it to her. She hesitated, the sharp scent of garlic and smoke thick in the air. “I… inkáb… er… bor.” Elisabeta, looking divinely beautiful in the cold morning light, thought for a moment. “Prefer wine,” she said with a slight smile.

Drax smiled. “So do I. But this keeps you warm in winter.”

“Like wine,” she countered.

Taken aback, he chuckled. “I can get you a glass of vin amestecat. Watered-down wine, would you like that, Elisabeta?”

She cocked her head as she so often did, not understanding. It appeared they were at another lost-in-translation impasse.

Drax had ordered for their breakfast to be taken in his quarters, choosing to stay away from the rest of the men for now. The King’s words still rang true, and quite frankly, he feared that seeing Elisabeta so soon would tempt them to act on their threats. He had every intention of keeping this beauty safe. He just wasn’t entirely sure how he would do that yet.

Instead of meddlesome thoughts, Vlad simply ate a simple breakfast with Elisabeta. She, unlike he, had managed to sleep, it appeared. Her eyes were round, awake, and full of curiosity. Though, sadly, fear still lingered.

Gently, he awoke her by clearing his voice that same morning. Those amber eyes burst open and darted around the room. Finding him, they only grew wider. He was quick to soothe her, pointing to the laid-out table of food.

And there they sat, mostly in silence, eating together.

Ponvelt entered shortly afterwards, greeting the two diners and standing stiffly by Vlad’s side.

“He’s a friend,” Drax said softly. “Dost,” he finished, remembering the Ottoman word for friend. She nodded at once, seeming to understand at last, and ate a few plums from the bowl in front of her.

“What do we know of her origins?” Drax asked carefully to Ponvelt.

“She’s… Hungarian. We think. By her tongue. Found her in one of the opposing villages, as you know. I think… we think, she grew up amongst the Ottomans. You know they’re our enemy, Prince. She will never truly trust you.”

Vlad chewed on his thoughts. He was right. Would he have trusted any soul when he lived with the Ottomans against his will? His brother Radu may have played his part well in accepting their hostage situation as more of an impromptu stay, but Drax never felt truly comfortable in the country of their enemy.

He watched as Elisabeta bit into another plum. A little of the purple juice traced a line down her chin. Reaching for a napkin, he moved towards her, wincing as she, by instinct, flinched away.

“Do not be frightened,” he whispered, gingerly blotting the soft linen to her pale skin.

She watched him like a timid deer would a wolf—ready to scurry off at any moment. With a sigh, he drew away, tucking the napkin between his palms.

“You’re right. I know you’re right. But… I cannot explain, Ponvelt. I have to protect her.”

“You are not obligated to—”

“It’s not an obligation,” Drax interrupted. “I have to, do you understand?”

Ponvelt shook his head, reaching for a glass of the watered wine Drax had supplied moments ago. “There’s another thing,” he muttered. “I saw Barsarab this morning. He was furious, to put it lightly. They plan to make a move for her. Learning her heritage, the King thinks they can play a clever card.”

“I don’t understand,” Drax said, leaning his arms on the wood of the table and rubbing his aching forehead.

“The Hungarians have long been undecided on where they stand. They make truces with the Ottomans to free up their Black Army for the other wars, then snatch it back, fighting them just as brutally as you have in the past, dear Prince.”

“I will make no truce. Understand me,” Drax said gravely. “The Ottomans captured me. Killed my father, my older brother. I was tortured by them under the guise of education and peace. I will never side with them. It is God’s will, is it not?”

Ponvelt nodded in agreement, clasping a hand on his shoulder. “I do not suggest a truce with them, but with Hungary. With the real King, not a fake one.”

Drax scoffed. He was right. Their King—their fake prince—was all pretend. The only recognised king was Matthias, who ruled Hungary, the country they were technically part of. Wallachia had always been caught between their two powerful neighbours: the Ottoman Empire to the south, expanding into the Balkans and pressing northward into Europe, and the Kingdom of Hungary (which included them) to the west, who had for an age been trying to hold back Ottoman advances. Their great Wallachia was a principality, not a kingdom, sadly. Drax was proud of their semi-independent state, though it was infamously known as a buffer state between Islam and Christianity.

For years, his friends and closest allies (of which he had few) had suggested a truce between Hungary and them. Even their false royalty was warming to the idea now that the Ottomans had been fighting back more brutally to their advances. A truce with Hungary would mean more manpower, but it would inevitably mean intermittent truces with the Ottomans—something Vlad never thought he would be capable of doing.

“Too many lives have been lost to consider a truce with our enemy, Ponvelt. You cannot think I will consider something like this for Transylvania.”

“Maybe not for us,” Ponvelt said. “But for her, perhaps.” He looked to Elisabeta, who, with the air of confusion Drax had already learned to find endearing, was watching them both.

“It’s not the Ottomans I worry about for her,” Drax admitted quietly, hoping for once she could not understand. “It’s our own house that irks me.”

“The King and his son are not stupid. They are all words and puffing their chests for the supporters they know they do not have. If you say she is yours, they will listen.”

“I’ll have to marry her,” Drax said. “It’s the only claim they will honour.”

In their time, an unwed woman was fair game. And a recently captured untouchable was certainly open to any hands she might stumble into. It had happened in the past, and it would happen again. Untouchables were married occasionally, but for the most part, once the prince or nobleman had his fill, she would be heartlessly passed around until finally, used and likely void of any hope or feeling, she would find herself in a brothel until her body inevitably gave out on her.

“You need to wed anyway, Prince. The moment you do, the position is yours. They know that, you know that. You like her,” Ponvelt mumbled, moving closer to Drax. He could smell the watered wine on his breath. “So why not marry the girl? Make a truce and claim her. Then… just maybe, you’ll get a good night’s sleep.”

Drax moved out of his clasp, shooting daggers at his friend. “What do you know of my nocturnal activities?”

“You can lie to the others, but not to me. We’re practically brothers. Not by blood, but a bond is there nonetheless.”

Drax grunted, knowing what he spoke was true. He looked back to Elisabeta, who was now pulling a cotton thread from the tablecloth, looking dreamily out of the window to the grounds of the castle.

“She deserves a choice,” Drax said. “Not now. But in time, perhaps, I’ll ask her. But I don’t expect a yes.”

“Who could say no to the Dragon?” Ponvelt laughed, reaching for a leg of pork and ripping the flesh away with his teeth.

*

Ponvelt had been gone for fifteen minutes. Elisabeta and Drax had been silent for ten.

After a delivery from one of his more trustworthy servants, he placed a pile of clean clothes on the bed and left the drawing room in his quarters to give her some privacy.

She had yawned somewhere between her final drink of wine at the table, so he intended to let her sleep. Drax, still not wishing to leave her completely alone, decided to practice his swordsmanship to pass the time and think more on a plan.

Grasping the sword that had never let him down, he weaved the blade by each side a few times, watching as the steel glistened in the morning light. As he mocked a fight, working on his stance and precision, he thought on Ponvelt’s words.

A truce. Such a suggestion he would have spat at just a week ago, but now. after years of bloody battles and losing almost every soul he cared about, it seemed somewhat attractive. But Ponvelt had left out one crucial detail. Hungary was regularly at war with other countries. While defending against the Ottomans, King Matthias also had to deal with the Holy Roman Emperor Frederick III and the Kingdom of Bohemia, where Matthias launched long, costly campaigns. He also often battled internal noble revolts. In the past, to handle those, Matthias sometimes turned his attention westward away from the Ottomans, which meant pausing conflict in the south. If Drax sided with Hungary, he would, in turn, have an eventual truce with the Ottomans—something he had promised he would never do again.

Feigning a blow with his sword, he spun the blade in his hand, mulling over other options to keep Elisabeta safe. He could just keep her here, he considered. His quarters were large: a huge bedroom, a study, a bathroom, and a small spare room that currently housed all the gold, weapons, and trophies he had collected carelessly in his rampages of war. He could move those away, make room for a bed. Perhaps that could be her room. Would she like that? Or would she, like him once, be a prisoner all over again?

He aimed another hit at the stone wall, but caught the hilt with his hand, pulling away and holding his breath. For where he had aimed, Elisabeta now stood. Dressed in a baby-blue and silver cotton gown, she rubbed her arm nervously.

“Elisabeta,” he said softly, backing away and placing his sword on one of the many wooden racks that held weapons.

“Fight… well,” she said coolly, nodding to the steel.

“I am a soldier by trade, prince by blood.”

She nodded, but he knew she didn’t understand. It was killing him softly not to be able to communicate properly with the beauty before him.

Then, like a dormant light bulb, he had an idea.

He lifted his hand and waved it toward her, signalling her to follow. He wasn’t sure at first that she would, but to his surprise she did; all the way to the many rows of magnificent bookshelves he kept in his study. Reaching for three books he hoped would help, Drax sat, cross-legged on the floor, his black leathers creaking as they gave way to the position.

Elisabeta stood, peering down at him. She looked divine in powder blue. The dress, though simple and made of cotton, traced her hourglass curves perfectly. Her amber eyes blazed even brighter against the colour.

He patted the paisley crimson rug beneath him and delighted inwardly as she sat beside him, awkwardly and at a distance. Still, she sat.

Drax, now determined, rifled through the leather-bound books before them. In front of him he laid out a hand-painted picture book he had been given by his dearly departed mother as a child. It had multiple characters, knights, animals, trees, and places and could serve as a literal pointing tool. Next to it was a Hungarian dictionary, messy, indeed. Like all their books, it was handwritten. This book was a product of their scribes, who only recorded words they thought handy to know. Conquer, knife, king, food and such were more common than words for feelings. Finally, the third book was his own history: the Dracul line, from his grandfather, who with King Sigismund of Hungary founded the house of the dragon—a proud order of Christian knights sworn to defend Europe against the Ottoman Empire—down to him: Vlad III, Prince Dracul.

She slowly looked through the third book without prodding from Drax, and he let her, watching with gentle eyes as she took in information via drawings. Halfway into the book, she rubbed a finger delicately over a painting he hated.

Him, captured by the Ottomans as part of his father’s truce deal.

Elisabeta slowly raised her head; her eyes met his. There was less fear in them now. What remained there, he could not say. Reaching between them, she prodded a finger at his chest. Through the thin black cotton of his shirt, he could feel the warmth of her touch. He almost closed his eyes in bliss at the sensation yet fought to stay present and appropriate.

“Me, yes,” he said.

She looked back to the painting, her brow furrowing as she saw chains on his feet.

“I was a prisoner for a while,” he said, narrowing his eyes when he sensed she still did not understand. 

Instead, he reached for the middle book, scanning until he found the word he was looking for. Drax turned a few pages back of the history book and pointed at a face he now found repellent: Ottoman Sultan Murad II, leader of the Ottomans at the time. He pointed back at the dictionary, and looking down carefully she looked between Murad and the word he highlighted.

“Fogvatart,” Elisabeta said quietly. Her word for prisoner.

He nodded, skimming through the book again. He tapped the place he wished her to read: hűségbizonyítvány, meaning proof of loyalty.

She made a tutting noise, showing she understood and seeming to show annoyance. Was that directed at him, or a sympathetic tut, he wondered.

One question he had wondered for a while he wished to settle. He knew she spoke the tongue of the Ottomans. He needed to know if her loyalties were to them.

Drax looked through the dictionary again; rather than point at individual words, he looked to find a few and speak them aloud. Easier and faster than doing things manually.

“Who is your God?” he said at last in Hungarian, passing her the book so she could answer. To his surprise she shook her head and pushed the dictionary back to Drax.

“God,” she repeated.

“Not Allah?” he questioned. She frowned in response.

“God,” she said again.

He breathed out a breath of relief. She was truly Hungarian. She spoke the Ottoman tongue because of the numerous truces that had been made and then retracted. They likely all spoke a little. Drax recalled she had been found in a village in Transylvania, Brașov, which by right was part of Hungary but situated in the middle of Transylvania. It was close to their castle, near the Carpathian mountains. What a Hungarian was doing there was beyond him.

“Why Brașov?” he queried, hoping she understood at least that.

Elisabeta thought for a moment, then gingerly took the book from his lap—not the dictionary, but the picture book no one had touched. She riffled through until she found an illustration of a carriage. She pointed at it with determined eyes and, when Drax nodded, continued to look through the pages.

He was concentrating, certainly. But something else was clouding his thoughts. In her attempt to communicate, she had inadvertently inched closer to him. The skirts of her dress had moved very slightly to the side, revealing a peppering of pale, untouched skin on her ankle. That, however, wasn’t what caused Drax to clench his teeth. The scent of her hair as she threw it behind her shoulder had him in a choke hold. Sweet like ripe strawberries, yet deep with a spice he found intoxicating. Drax had always had sharp senses; it was what made him such a good soldier. He could smell his opponents through a forest before he heard them. In the air, he could smell every note of the scent of Elisabeta’s skin, and it made his mouth water: calming chamomile, rose petals adding a rich and elegant layer to a woody nutmeg base and… was that ambergris?

He pulled back, admiring the beautiful creature before him. Cursing himself for looking at her the same way the men of the previous evening had gawked at her greedily. He reminded himself she was not a piece of meat. She was a woman in his care, not a prisoner, not his. She was free to live as she wished and to wear perfumes with ambergris, apparently. He locked that thought away for another day. The situation was already perplexing enough. He didn’t wish to bother his busy brain with the question of why a captive, poor, untouchable had access to an ingredient only the most affluent nobles and royalty could procure.

Elisabeta tapped again at the book, pulling him back to reality. He looked down and saw before him a painting of a scholar teaching. He looked at her again, narrowing his eyes. So she had been in Brașov for education? But to learn what?

“Why you… here?” she asked next.

With a chuckle at her curiosity, he guided her through his history book, showing his stay with the Ottomans  that his father had agreed to as part of his infamous truce. How his brother Radu had been charmed by them but ultimately left after their father Vlad II was killed. He quickly skimmed over his temporary rule of Transylvania and finished with where he was now: an almost-prince, fighting the Ottomans for God and independace.

“For God?” she queried, her words echoing what he thought.

He nodded as she reached to delicately touch the crucifix drawn on the page.

“You harc… erm,” she grabbed the dictionary and checked it. “Fight—you fight for God?”

“Yes.”

“You fight… for… protect?”

“I do,” he nodded.

She made a noise of approval and lifted the children’s book for him to observe, tapping hard at the painting of the scholars. “Me,” she said firmly.

“You want me to teach you?” he asked.

She nodded.

Looking through the dictionary again, he answered in her tongue: “Nem vagyok tanító,” meaning, I am not a teacher.

Elisabeta huffed, reaching around Drax for the history book. She pointed at an illustration of him in battle and met his eyes. “You fight.”

“Yes, but soldiers do not teach.”

“I fight.”

“You wish to fight?”

Elisabeta raised her dainty head and wearily nodded.

“Who do you wish to fight?” he asked, rubbing the side of his cheek in confusion.

Rather than speak, she pointed to the picture of the man on the page—Ottoman Sultan Murad II.

“The Ottomans?” he smiled. “You wish to fight them?”

Without warning she shook a hand at him, thinking deeply. “No,” she said. She tapped again, then pointed to Drax. “Men.”

“Men? Like me?” he said slowly. He could understand that.

“No, not, no you,” she muttered, grabbing the dictionary more desperately and pointing at a word. Rossz. Bad.

Bad men.

She was talking about bad men.

“I will always protect you from rossz men,” Dracul said sternly, not taking his gaze off hers.

“I fight,” she said again, pointing to his swords. “You… teach?”

“You wish me to teach you?” he chuckled. He stopped laughing once it became apparent how serious she was.

What he had found humorous he now found endearing. He wished to protect her—what better way than training her to look after herself when he wasn’t there? He couldn’t watch her every minute of the day.

“Okay, Elisabeta,” Drax said at last. “I will teach you to fight.”

He hoped she would never discover he was, it could be argued, a bad man too. But never to her.

Never to Elisabeta. 

Chapter Text

The weeks that followed were the happiest days of Drax’s life to date. It seemed in Elisabeta’s company, away from bloodshed and politics, he could be less brooding and more… carefree. An impossible feat, he had always presumed.

Being around Elisabeta affected him in ways he never could have predicted. Not only was he clearly happier, but he had begun to enjoy this silly thing they called life, tenfold. To him, being alive was a job. The reason he fought so well in past battles was because, quite frankly, he cared not if he lived or died. It was God’s will to fight, therefore, he did.

But was it not God’s will to love? Was Elisabeta – this beautiful, almost omniscient creature – God’s way of repaying his years of service in bloody wars and gruesome battles?

He started to see her that way. A gift. Something to be forever thankful for.

And, as much as he yearned for her touch – to be whole with her – he didn’t see it as entirely necessary. To be together with her was a treat he could take or leave. He never expected such a divine woman to see him as anything but a friend, if he was lucky.

Elisabeta was sunlight and marigolds and silk and fair-scented roses. She was the tether between the dew and the sunlight in the morning. The smell of ocean salt on warm skin.

Dracul was only darkness. The cold spot in the corner that caused a shiver to appear on the back of people’s necks. If she was light and love, he was the bits that got left behind.

Forgetting his innate desires to hold her and love her, he didn’t think himself worthy of her. Therefore, he just watched her. Her company was enough to satisfy the dragon.

Over the week, he had watched her wake each morning. The same confused but oddly comfortable glare in her eyes that relaxed with each passing day.

They would dine on a simple breakfast at dawn, read picture books shortly after, dress privately and then, at midday, walk the grounds of the garden.

Elisabeta had requested this by pointing out the window and speaking, “Go.”

Despite his anxieties of what the other men might be tempted to do if they saw such a beauty before them, he didn’t have the heart to keep her cooped up in the castle. A bird must have space to stretch its wings, he told himself. To be kept is to be captured, and he wished for her to feel at home in the castle. To feel at peace with her setting and perhaps, learn to love it.

Their usual walks were silent, with a few words thrown in as commentary. Some Elisabeta understood, some she did not. Her nose always twitched a little in an involuntary way when she was perplexed.

Somewhere between the third bridge by the stream that circled the outskirts of the west gardens, Elisabeta spoke. Well, rather, pointed.

To a willow tree.

Drax hummed and nodded with appreciation. It was indeed a beautiful tree. It had been there since before he was born. Older than his grandfather, some speculated. With thick, sturdy roots and gnarled knots on its trunk, it felt like an old friend that had watched him grow.

She pointed again, her lips curling into a rare smile. One he had grown to adore in their short time together.

“A tree, yes,” Drax said.

“No,” she said. “We… erm,” she stopped, walking to the tree and gesturing upwards.

“You wish to climb it?” he laughed, watching her nose twitch.

He mimed with his arms and hands climbing and she clapped, delighted.

“It’s not safe,” he chuckled, carefully touching the small of her back to guide her away. She didn’t budge when he attempted to move her. Not wishing to actually push her, he tried to communicate his point more.

“You could fall,” he said. “It’s slippery in winter.” He looked to the snow. Another twitch of the nose. “Dangerous?” he tried again. Drax pretended to climb the tree and then, with a dramatic flair even he was impressed with, he fell to the ground. “See,” he said, brushing snow off his black leathers. “Dangerous.”

“I under-sand,” she huffed. “Still I go.”

“No,” he said softly. “Dangerous.”

“Fun,” she replied, grabbing one of the larger knots that protruded from the tree’s bark. Throwing her long auburn hair behind her back, she looked to him over her shoulder. It almost appeared cheeky. This was new. And Drax liked it. He liked it so much, he didn’t stop her, only assisted.

“Fine,” he laughed, grabbing the knot beside hers and hoisting himself up at great speed to sit on the lowest of the sturdy branches. “Come on then,” he shouted down, reaching a hand to her. “Where you go, I follow,” he said, flexing his hand that she still had not grabbed.

Elisabeta hesitated for a moment, staring at his hand for what seemed like an eternity. She took it after some deliberating and at once, he pulled her up to join him.

For a while they sat together. Drax with his legs wrapped around the thick branch, Elisabeta side saddle beside him. In their silence they admired the wintery landscape. The castle looked foreboding in the winter. With rich Gothic architecture and pointed spires, how could it not? Still, something about it made Dracula feel warm. The colder it became the more comfortable he was. He was certainly a man made for a lifestyle such as this. The Ottomans’ home country was warm and humid, sweaty and spicy. He found it repellent quickly, missing the icy burrows of his castle and grounds. Elisabeta, who still housed a smile on her face, seemed to find beauty in what she saw.

“Do you like it?” he asked timidly. A loaded question in many ways.

Her eyes traced the lake, the fir tree and settled on the monstrous castle. “Yes,” she said. “Beautiful.”

“So beautiful,” he agreed, only looking at her.

“Go more?” Elisabeta, with some effort, stood up on the branch, reaching for the one higher. That, unlike the one they sat on, was covered in a thick layer of fluffy snow. The branch Drax still sat on had been shielded from the fall by what was above it, acting as a roof almost.

“Elisabeta, the snow will be wet and slippery,” he almost immediately cursed to himself knowing she would not understand.

With admirable determination, she wobbled for a moment then, to Drax’s horror, she jumped. Acting on instinct, he reached for her, holding her petite body at the dip of her hips to steady her. He half expected her to shove him away, but she seemed to appreciate the support.

“More,” she shouted, attempting to pull herself up on the branch. Drax, grumbling to himself, did as she asked, hoisting her higher with little effort. He didn’t like to boast, but practising with heavy steel and wearing armour that could weigh down a ship as an anchor had made him frightfully strong.

Elisabeta, seeming overjoyed at the height she was given, held onto the branch and lifted a knee to yank herself upwards. She slipped a little, but clamped her hands around the branch, holding the trunk for dear life. His heart skipped a beat, and he positioned himself underneath her, still holding the air above in case she were to fall.

Incredibly, she felt no fear. Standing tall, keeping somehow steady on such a slippery surface. The untouchable reached her hands wide like she was ready to fly and expand her wings and then, she laughed.

It was the most bewitching sound he had heard. With the perfect pitch. A sort of untamed joy that he had never had the delight of indulging in. It was charming and light but real. A full-on giggle from a woman he had feared would always be scared. To laugh in his company was all the confirmation he needed that whatever she felt, it was good. Drax couldn’t help but chuckle with her. Watching her with starrey eyes as she sucked in a deep inhale of cold air.

“Beautiful,” she said again. Elisabeta peered down at him watching her, and winked at him, reaching again higher for the thinner branch before her.

“Okay, too far,” Drax warned, pouncing from where he stood to the branch she still remained on. Just as he pulled himself straight to standing, he found Elisabeta, still laughing shyly, to be swinging.

Actually swinging. Her face broken with such purity, his heart caved in. It actually hurt. It was painful to watch her. To see a woman so beautiful, so innocent. So bloody pure.

With a mighty grunt, she pulled herself closer to the branch above that she swung from.

He didn’t stop her, knowing she didn’t have the strength to pull her body weight upwards, but didn’t want to interrupt her fun. It ended with a prompt snap and “oop.”

In a flash of billowing linens, Elisabeta flew to the ground. Had Drax not plunged towards her like he was diving into the ocean, she would have met the dirt first. A harsh slap to the face and perhaps a broken bone.

Vlad was hardy. Covered in robust leathers that acted like a chitin or exoskeleton. Compared to the blows he had met in battle, this was nothing. A tap to the back. Mid-fall, he managed to grip and spin her body so he was placed below. With the nature of their position, Elisabeta fell, protected, into his arms.

He grunted into the ground, lifting his hands from her body and clicking his joints that were still recovering from the impact. She could have scurried away immediately, horrified that she was touching who she could have seen as her captor. A bad man – as established.

She didn’t move away, only peered at him carefully, her hands on his chest as she lifted herself up, but not off him.

Then, once again, she laughed. Turning to admire the height they fell from, she looked back to him and tapped his chest twice. “Hurt,” she said, cocking her head.

He shook his head roughly, moving a stray lock of dark hair from his eyes that were rudely blocking his view of her.

“Thank,” she said, getting to her feet and reaching down to lace her fingers between his hands. She pulled him up. It wasn’t something she could have managed if he were not willing. He was assuredly a hefty weight. He complied, of course, moving with her to standing.

Elisabeta patted the snow from her dress as Dracul did the same, brushing his leathers that were now wet to touch. She watched him curiously, twitching her nose. Leaning in, she prodded his chest with her index finger.

“Protect,” she said.

“Yes,” he answered, now scanning her for any possible injury. He found none, but lingered on a lonely fleck of snow on her cheek. Hesitating for a moment, he found strength to brush it away with a gentle hand. Miraculously she allowed for that. In that moment, her hair messy from the fall and snow, her grey and white dress in patchworks of dark where the wetness was seeping in – she had never looked more exquisite.

He was just working the courage up to call her beautiful when she promptly turned on her heel, walking towards the castle with great tenacity. Drax, as if pulled by a string, followed closely behind.

Where she went, he would always follow, it seemed.

Chapter Text

“Hūn?” 

Drax watched Elisabeta as she observed with innocent curiosity, as Ana, his dear bat, licked at her bowl of Pig’s blood on the top of his dresser. 

What she spoke, ḫūn, was the Ottoman’s word for blood. He certainly knew that word. Having heard it an awful lot when imprisoned. 

“Yes,” he said. Ana mid-slurp, lifted her small furry head to stare at Elisabeta. She looked at Drax next, with beady eyes that told him what she was thinking. Is she here to stay? 

He nodded at the small creature, and, with what could have been a huff, she went back to her drinking, omitting a slight squeak as her reply. 

How did he get here? Trying to communicate with two women, both human and animal, who did not speak his language. 

He would be a master of mime soon. 

Elisabeta wore a light white dress of cotton most of their time together. It was essentially a nightdress. But she rarely left their quarters. When they did walk around the castle - usually in the dead of night or for their daily midday stroll of the grounds, she changed into one of the colourful dresses Drax’s servants provided. 

Today was the nineteenth day she had been with him. Eighteen days without blood (unless you count the pigs blood Ana greedily drank). He once thought violence and bloodshed was all he was good for. Being around Elisabeta had proved otherwise. It turned out he was rather good at a lot of things. He had made a list in his head of reasons to live that were not so gruesome: 

1. She liked it when he played piano. He was good at piano. 
2. The way he made her tea was preferential to the way the servants did. They always added too much cream. He added just the right amount. 
3. He rarely slipped on ice. Elisabeta did so a lot. Therefore, he was good at saving her before she fell. 
4. Some books were on the top shelf of the great library in the castle. He could reach the top shelf. She couldn’t (without a stool).
5. He could make her laugh sometimes. 
6. She made a lovely noise when eating fruit she liked. He had made a point to always keep their quarters stocked with Pink Lady apples. They were her favourite, he thought. 
7. He tied her laces on her shoes well. They never came undone when he had knotted them. Which meant for less slipping. (See point 3 again).
8. Learning Hungarian was easier than other languages. He was a natural, it appeared. 
9. Elisabeta liked it when he spoke her tongue. She smiled a special smile when he spoke it. Therefore, he tried to speak it a lot. 
10. With instruction to his servants, he had filled her new room with books, a soft bed, blankets (which she enjoyed wrapping herself in) and lots of apples. She liked her room - but still chose to spend most of her time in his. He didn’t mind that. 
11. She liked to wear  the white jasmine he picked in her hair. This also brought him great joy. 
12. Evenings by the fire were becoming his favourite time of day. She liked to watch the flame. He liked to watch her, watching the flames.

And there they sat, her eyes now locked on the cracking fireplace, while he watched. The glow of the flame added an amber hue to her skin - which made it even more perfect. In time he had noticed freckles on her face. Sometimes he counted them. Yesterday he tallied thirty-four, today he totalled thirty-five. Either he had missed a freckle yesterday, or a new one had appeared. He would make a point tomorrow to count them again, for educational purposes of course. 

In five minutes he had to meet the king and his good-for-nothing son in the hall for their weekly meeting. He wished not to go. Drax could think of nothing more splendid than continuing his evening with his precious woman. Though they rarely talked, he felt calm in her presence. That was a serenity that would soon leave him the moment he walked out of their chamber. Sadly, his obligation was something he took seriously. And it was for her benefit anyway. Drax, since his conversation with Ponvelt, had taken the idea of a truce with Hungary more seriously. For the first time in his life, he had a future without bloodshed. And he rather liked it. 

*

“You must be enjoying your time with the untouchable, we have hardly seen you around the castle,” the King spoke dryly, watching Drax with thin eyes. 

Drax kept silent. Not wishing to speak of Elisabeta at all, if he could help it. 

“I don’t recall seeing you at breakfast or dinner, in fact,” Barsarb said, drinking wine from his gold cup. “You need to eat to keep your strength up.” 

The fake prince watched as Drax picked at the corner of the wooden table. 

“Or are you eating a different kind of meal in your quarters, one more… ripe, shall we say.” 

A splinter ripped beneath Drax’s fingers. He let it drop to the floor, fighting the idea of wielding it like a miniature sword and plunging it into the Prince’s neck, hitting an important nerve and letting him bleed out. 

Five minutes away from Elisabeta and he had already reverted to thoughts of violence. 

“Your silence speaks louder than words,” the King chuckled. “Enjoy her while you can.”

“What does that mean?” Drax spoke finally. 

The King stretched in his wide-birth chair, knotting a finger in his beard and twisting it. “Nothing, nothing. We are here to speak of the truce, are we not?” 

Drax nodded suspiciously. “Yes. So let us get to the point.”

“The Hungarian king, Matthias, will be joining us two moons from now. We need to settle on an agreement.” 

“He will want a tribute,” Barsarb said. “Something to prove our loyalty.”

“We have gold, do we not,” Drax said, looking at the gold cup the Prince drank from. 

“We do,” The King admitted. “But they will want something more worth their while. Gold they have plenty of. But men to fight, they are lacking.” 

Drax sighed, of course. “You wish for me to fight for them.”

“Our army are loyal to you,” King Răsabel said, looking at his son with disappointment. While his son officially led them, he knew more than most where their loyalties were. With the real Prince, if you please. “Our country of Hungary is in a state of perpetual war. Not just with the Ottomans but others too. Even when a truce is active - which it currently is with the Turks - they will require our help with other matters.” 

“We are stopping one war, one of actual merit, to fight another?” Drax asked, dipping his finger in his cup of wine and curling it in his mouth. 

“Don’t think of it like that,” Răsabel said, fluffing his hands at Drax. “The Hungarians will bring an element of protection to us. The Ottomans would be at our door in a week without them, and I can't imagine your woman would be left alone. Such a beauty would be taken in-” 

“I would never let them take her,” Drax growled, daring to interrupt the King. 

“Of course,” Răsabel chuckled. “I just mean to say, if you wish to protect Transylvania, and her, a truce is your best option.” 

“And what of her? You can cut the bullshit,” Drax snapped. “What do you have planned?”

“Well,” Răsabel hesitated. “You know our dear Barsarb is to be married to cement his place as Prince. Since you seem unfit to take a wife, it is only natural for us to act. I am only a stop-gap, I know this.” 

At least he was self-aware, Drax supposed. He was quite literally acting in the Prince’s place. The people would assume Dracul would take his place. But his son was always the plan Răsabel’s head. They were all of the same blood, so technically it was valid for his son to take the place as proper Prince. It was that stupid marriage clause. It would be the death of Drax. 

Yes, he could have married easily. Every fair maiden in Transylvania would have jumped at the chance to be his bride. To bear his children. Nonetheless, the dark poet inside him didn’t wish to marry for politics. Of all the blood and gore and misery in his life, the only thing he yearned to do was marry for the right reasons. For love. Of course Elisabeta was the obvious choice. But there was nothing romantic between them, for now, and he would not - absolutely would not - rush into anything. Nor force any bond with her. She was just starting to settle. A marriage proposal out of the blue would ruin everything. Besides, Drax had made peace with a life without love. He was a soldier, not a husband. 

“Do you wish to marry?” The King asked slowly, trepidation appearing in his face. 

Drax mulled on the thought, but still settled on the same point. He had no interest in any woman aside from Elisabeta. And since he could not have her, he would marry no other. 

“No,” he answered. 

“Then there we have it,” Răsabel clapped. “One of you boys needs to be wed, and since you cannot seem to find a bride. We have no choice but to marry my son. The people need a real Prince, Dracul, you have a choice. I am not a tyrant.” 

“Who do you marry,” Drax asked Barsarb, ignoring the tyrannical king. 

“You’ll like her,” Barsarb teased. “We wed in three days.” 

“So she has agreed?” Drax asked. 

Barsarb chuckled into his cup, “of course. She is very excited. As am I.” 

Two weeks ago, Drax would have found the prospect of his claim to the kingdom a personal insult. This was a position he was practically born into. It was his, and they both knew it. They also knew, under the crimson stain of dried blood and all his brooding, he was a romantic at heart. And now, they were using it against him. It was clever. Drax wasn't stupid. King Răsabel wanted power, and he saw it in his son. With Barsarb as Prince, he could continue to lead (for Barsarb was an idiot and would require guidance) he could also have a fine selection of untouchables, gold and be blessed daily in the prayers of the people. Drax could put a stop to this with one word and a wife, but… somehow… impossibly, he didn’t care. 

If life as it had been for the nineteen days with Elisabeta could continue as it was, he was at peace. He would fight for her. He would apparently reject his life-long claim as prince, for her. For Drax realised something in that moment. If he were Prince - really the Prince. His life would be a mess. The line of fire would be forever aimed at him. He would have to travel constantly, fight constantly. Any assassination attempts would be directed at him, and likely, the woman he loved the most. Without his title of Prince, he would be safer. She would be safer. 

“Be the Prince,” Drax said coolly. “I don’t wish for the title any more.” 

Both Barsarb and the King looked gormless, until a smirk crept over their faces. 

“Really? Just like that?” Răsabel teased. 

“Really.”  

“She must be quite something,” Barsarb chuckled. “Shame I didn’t win her.” 

“You may be Prince soon,” Drax said calmly, standing and walking with a sinister elegance towards the man he once called brother. “But do not forget who the real Dragon is.” He leaned into Barsarb’s ear. He could smell the perspiration on his skin. “I could end you effortlessly, do not forget that.” 

Barsarb gulped, his eyes meeting his father’s. “Ha-ha,” he laughed nervously. “You will be a fine second-in-command.” 

“Hmm,” Drax replied, pulling away. “All I request is to be left in peace,” he looked to both his King and Prince. “When not fighting their wars, I am to be undisturbed. Agreed?” Silence. “And Elisabeta, is to be forgotten about in your minds. She is mine. Understand?” 

“You wish to marry her in time?” The King said, his eyes now wide. 

“What I wish for is irrelevant. You do not touch her. Ever.” He banged the table with his first, fermenting his foreboding position. “Understand?” 

They nodded in time. 

“God save the Prince,” Drax spat, leaving the room.

Chapter Text

It was dusk the next day. Elisabeta, god bless her, had been writing at great speed for almost an hour. Her nimble fingers turning the pages of the Hungarian/Transylvanian dictionary fast. She would take note of some words, jot them down, then continue the process. 

Drax read in the corner of the room, as he so often did these days. He would look at her every time he turned a page, checking to see what she was doing. She seemed hell-bent on whatever task she was acting upon. 

Four pages later, she cleared her voice, carrying her notes to his large four-poster bed and siting on it comfortably, her legs folded beneath her. She patted the side of the bed - a rare invitation to join her. 

Calmly folding the page of his book, he did so. Sitting awkwardly by the foot of the bed.

“I ask,” she said, her head high, waving the papers in her hands at him. 

“Okay,” he laughed, watching his beautiful creature pull the first page of three and clear her voice. In her other hand, she had the dictionary. He supposed she wished to check his answers if they were not clear. 

“They yes… or no,” she continued. 

Drax nodded, admiring the flush to her cheeks. 

“Okay, I go,” Elisabeta said. “You are old?” 

“I’m old?” Drax chuckled. “Yes, I suppose.” 

“No,” she shook her head quickly. “Erm, how old?”

“My age?” Drax realised. “I am twenty-five.” 

“Twenty-five,” she repeated, checking through her dictionary, she made an approving tone and put her palm to her chest. “I, twenty.” 

“I know,” Drax said, remembering what Theysar had said when they announced her the day they met. 

“Okay,” she huffed, looking back to her notes. “Married?” 

“No,” Drax said. “Are you?”

“Me?” she frowned. “No.” 

“Good.” 

“Why… good?”

“It matters not.” 

Her nose twitched. 

“Folytatni,” he said. Her word for ‘continue’. It was one of the words he had learnt recently. Seeing as he needed to say it a lot to her. Her nose twitch turned into a smile. 

“How long I stay here?” 

Drax chewed on his bottom lip. He was worried about this. Technically, he wished her to be free. Equally, freedom to leave would have brought danger to her. He was at an impasse.

“Do you feel like a prisoner here, Elisabeta?” 

She grabbed her dictionary and riffled through. “Feel?” she clarified. Drax nodded and she continued looking. “Ah, érezni. I… do not feel like prisoner. You voltál kind.” 

“Kind. Good. You are not a prisoner. You understand though, that it is dangerous out there? That if you were to leave, you would be in danger,” Drax sighed watching the twitch. “You are free,” he stopped, trying to remember the words he had learned an evening ago in his studies. “Zabad wag. De wezéles.” Quite literally: you are free, but it is dangerous. 

She bit at her bottom lip. An action that caused the Dragon to stir. He pushed the feelings of yearning back where they had been buried at the pit of his stomach, and looked at her papers so he could remain unclouded by feelings of lust. 

“I must stay?” she asked. 

“Yes,” he said. He hated himself for it. Hoped she would understand. 

“I under-sand,” she said. “I speak now, you not.” Elisabeta watched him carefully. 

“I under-sand,” he said with a smile. 

“I was study. Bad men took me to here. I thought i would be hurt. I thought prisoner. I thought i would be abused or worse. I see you and I fear. You kill the man and fight well. I think you be bad. You look bad. But here, you kind. You sometimes fun. We laugh. You make tea… erm… jól. Well?” 

Drax nodded. 

“Make tea well,” she nodded. “I think you try to with me. Under-sand?”

He thought he did. Try with me… he guessed that was her way of saying she assumed he would make advances at her. 

“You not like me?” 

“No,” Drax said fast. “Not that.” 

“Not that,” she repeated. “I happy you not. You… not bad man,” she said, exhaling, checking her papers for her translation. “I think you good man. I stay here for some time. You protect. But what future? What is my future?” 

She placed her notes down, and held her hands in her lap, watching him now with wide, determined eyes. 

“Your future is what you make of it,” Drax said. She scrunched her nose and he exhaled with frustration. This was torture. An idea leapt at him. Leaving the bed, he held his hands out gently to Elisabeta. “Come. Bízz bennem.” Trust me. 

She looked down to her clothing, and nodded, but pointed at the wardrobe. He had learned that meant she wished to change. 

“Of course, I will wait outside the door,” he pointed at the exit. 

A few moments later, she emerged attired in an emerald green cotton dress. It was simple but splendid on her. 

“Ready?”

She scrunched her nose, but nodded, following him out of their quarters and to the castle below. 

Chapter Text

As they walked, Drax couldn’t help but watch her admire his home. The castle, with all its gloominess, was quite something. Stone walls that stood strong over the years, grand paintings, ornate rugs, gold painted doors. It was opulence in rock. 

Leading onwards, he only hoped he would not regret this decision. He had grown weary of not being able to communicate with her. And quite frankly, feared that something would be lost in translation. Just one wrong word could be catastrophic. 

Plan B was behind the thick wooden door they now paused at. Drax turned to Elisabeta, who seemed rightly wary. 

“Bízz bennem,” he said again to soothe her. 

Opening the door, he guided her inside the quarters his most trusted men usually occupied. He wasn’t there for them, he was there for one. Ponvelt. He realised, far too late, that Ponvelt spoke Hungarian fluently - having been born in their capital. He was usually  the interrupter when any Hungarians wished to speak to him. The King and Prince annoyingly spoke it well. Drax cursed his lack of caring for other cultures in his youth. Living with the Ottomans, he had been forced to learn some of their language. But he purposely took little in. Only learning enough to say some simple words in reply. These usually were: That hurts. Stop hitting me. And, water. 

Inside the circular room, dark aside from the fireplace that provided a dim light, he found no men to be occupying the armchairs. Only one. The wrong one. 

Mircea grinned, noticing Elisabeta, and jumped from his seated position, approaching them both with a cockiness Drax loathed. Mircea had been handsome before the scars and alcohol dependence, but he still acted as if he was God's gift. His half-ruined nose and massacred cheek said otherwise.   

“Finally, you treat us with her presence,” Mircea said, tugging at his blonde beard. “Had your fill?” 

“Shut up,” Drax spat. “Where is Ponvelt?” 

“Off hunting for a few days with the rest of the boys, you would have been invited yourself if you weren't so… busy,” he winked, running lusty eyes over his Elisabeta. Drax wanted to gorge them out with his fingers. 

“Fuck,” Drax muttered, running his hands through his shoulder length hair. 

“Why do you need him?” Mircea asked “Something I can help with, perhaps?”

“Not unless you speak Hungarian,” he tutted, touching the dip of Elisabeta’s back, he meant to guide her back to their quarters. Away from Mircea’s repellent company. 

“I do. As a matter of fact.” 

Drax stopped in his tracks, holding Elisabeta’s wrist with his finger and his thumb. “You speak her language?” 

Mircea chuckled, “very well in fact. Bedded enough whores in my time to communicate with them. What do you wish to say? Get on your knees or stop whining? I can help you there.” 

In a flash, Drax met his man with fingers wrapped around his throat. He backed him ruthlessly into the cold stone wall behind them and fought not to squeeze the life out of him. “You say one more thing in front of her, I will cut your tongue out.” Slamming Mircea’s head against the wall for good measure, he ignored the grip at his arm, trying to remove his fingers. “Do you understand me?” 

Mircea nodded, the jest and twinkle in his eye leaving him. 

“You will translate,” Drax said coolly, releasing him and approaching Elisabeta, guiding her to sit in one of the armchairs. “And you will do it well, every single word. You change nothing.” He sat in a chair beside Elisabeta, gesturing for Mircea to join them. 

Planting himself in the only unoccupied chair, he nodded dumbly. “What do you wish to say?” 

“This stays between us,” Drax warned. “Every word is between us. If I find out you spilled one word, i’ll…” 

“Gut me like a fish and feed my entrails to the dogs, I get it,” Mircea said. “What do you want to say, Dragon.”

With a steady exhale, he peered at Elisabeta, who seemed far less calm and more anxious. The same anxiety he had seen on her in the early days. He shouldn’t have attacked Mircea. He shouldn’t have taken her here. This was all a stupid choice so he could selfishly talk to a woman he longed for. 

“Tell her… she’s safe with me. That she can leave whenever she wishes. That she is not a prisoner. But, warn her that outside of the castle. There is a war. That there are men who will hurt her.” 

Mircea raised his brows and turned to Elisabata. He spoke Hungarian well, effortlessly it appeared. She watched him with wide eyes, eating his words like they were food. 

With a nod, her eyes darted to Drax, then back to Mircea. “Mikor mehetek el?”

“When can I leave,” Mircea clarified to Drax. 

“Whenever she wishes to.” 

Mircea said something to her, hopefully the translation. Elisbeta seemed to understand, her nose not wrinkling once. 

“Úgy döntök, hogy maradok. Egyelőre. Mert ő kedvességet mutatott, és megvédett attól, hogy kihulljak a fáról.”

Mircea looked to Drax. “She says: I choose to stay. For now. For he has offered me kindness and protects me from falling out of trees.” He chuckled at the last part. “Been climbing trees now, have we?”

“Shut up,” Drax said. “Tell her thank you. And I will work to make things safer for her. So when she wishes to leave, she can, without fear.” 

Mircea translated quickly. To his surprise, Elisbeta’s face morphed into a new emotion. It almost looked like sadness until she smiled gently. She looked at Drax as she spoke. 

“Mond meg az jóképü férfinek, hog köszönöm a vendegszerezetet et es gondoskodásat. Es mond meg néki, hog az denewér aranyos. Nem egy szörnyeteg.”

“Tell the handsome man, I thank him for his hospitality and care,” Mircea translated with narrow eyes. “And tell him… denevér?” he asked. She nodded. “Tell him that his bat is sweet. Not a monster.” Mircea stretched his arms out, looking between the two. “You’re funny, you know,” he said. “I don’t know what this is… but it’s cute.” 

“You’re a pig,” Drax said. “But thank you for your services.” With that he rose from the chair, offering his hand to Elisabeta. She took it without hesitation for the first time. The act made his heart swell. He had to remind himself this was all temporary. She would, without a doubt, leave at some point. Clearly she wanted to. But took her safety seriously, which was smart. She was smart. 

Chapter Text

Spinning the wooden sword at either side, Drax watched as Elisabeta held her own light weapon close to her face. She looked behind her to the rack of steel and then to him, raising a brow.

Drax laughed softly. He was starting to understand her meaning and thoughts by expression alone. What they lacked in words, they made up for with movements: a particular stare, lift of the brow, tick of the nose. Miraculously it meant for better communication than language. The sarcastic look Elisabeta directed now meant she was unimpressed by the wood. She thought herself able to fight with steel, it seemed.

“Wood for now, Elisabeta,” Drax said, holding his up to touch at the blunt point. “Fewer casualties.”

“You, who be afraid,” Elisabeta jested, aiming her sword close to his neck. He reached for the body of the weapon, holding it tight and pulling her carefully close, admiring the smile that now grew on her perfect, rose-bitten lips.

“Would you call me overly fond or wanton if I said I would not stop you if you decided to plunge a real sword of steel through my chest?” He had taken to speaking his thoughts out loud, knowing there was safety in their language barrier. A scrunch of her nose proved his suspicions. “Now, my beauty,” Drax chuckled, letting go of the wooden sword she grasped and stepping three feet back. “Let us begin.”

Elisabeta stood motionless for a moment, watching him for movement.

Raising a palm toward her, he beckoned her to act first.

Confidently, she strode forward, swinging her sword to slash at his chest. He blocked it effortlessly, holding the swords together with his hand. He raised a brow in mock challenge and stepped back. “Try again.”

Now huffing, she threw her strawberry-blonde waves behind her back, rocking back and forth on her heels and observing his body for the perfect place to attack. Then she leapt, pulling the weapon of wood behind her and plunging it forward.

With a simple step to the side, he dodged it, watching as she humorously stumbled into thin air.

“You need to hide your methods,” Drax purred, daring to approach her from behind and guiding her sword down to the side of her body. he tried to ignore the way her waist felt, so right between his fingers as he showed her how to move. Pushing her forward, hand on waist, he moved his right hand to guide her wrist movements. Creeping forward with the sword low and then, lightning-fast, slashing it at the bust of his grandfather that he had cautiously covered in cushions to protect the marble.

“See,” he whispered in her ear, biting his bottom lip hard to suppress a thousand daydreams that were caused by the sweet scent of her skin.

She nodded, not pushing him away but holding a hand over his on her waist. Electricity flowed through him at once. But he fought it, as he always did with her. Stepping back, he bowed in invitation for an attack.

With a fervent nod, she approached him coolly, then sliced again. He blocked it just in time but nodded. It was better. She was learning fast. “Good,” he said deeply. “Next time, be faster. You have to pretend your opponent has the upper hand, then when he’s not expecting it”—he approached her side, aiming the wood close to her cotton-covered stomach. He mocked a slash there with gentle wood. “You attack.”

A light noise of understanding left Elisabeta, and she moved away, grasping her sword hard and waiting for another cue.

“Go,” he said, watching her proudly.

She walked with an elegance that bewitched him, biting her lip as she drew close. His eyes were so fastened on her pout, he hardly noticed her move her sword behind her back. Closer now, she leaned up to his ear, blowing cool air on his skin. A delicious shiver waved through his body, and it took all the strength of a Dragon not to throw his sword to the floor and devour her right there and then.

“Aren’t you going to attack, Elisabeta?” he managed, gulping down his feverish yearning for the woman who now circled him.

At his back, she drew her sword to his neck, squeaking when he caught it between two hands in a clap, looking back at her in tease.

“Close,” he said.

She moved to the front again, but as she did, tripped on her skirts. Before she could meet the harsh wooden floor, on instinct, Drax reached for her, catching her and holding her in a dip that would be mistaken by any onlooker as a moment in dance.

“You good,” she said, admiring his panic-stricken face. The cool of the wooden sword met his chest. “I better.” With a wide smile, she admired his own mistake.

Looking down at the great beauty in his arms, his thoughts pushed him to kiss her. Now seemed to be the perfect moment. She seemed eager… willing. As if their attraction was somehow mutual. The soft swell of her breasts enticed him, her pillow lips, those burning amber eyes. He drilled in the memories of battle and blood and forced a reminder that he was the darkness and she the light. She was pure and he was not. 

With a ragged exhale, Drax brought her to her feet and paced the room. “Well done,” he said finally, bowing to her. “Perhaps you can practise on the bust” he pointed to his marble carved grandfather. “Excuse me.” 

Dipping out the room before he could change his mind, he b-lined for the baths. Wishing to dip in freezing cold water to fumigate the dangerous thoughts that swirled in his subconscious. 

*

Five-minutes later, in an icy cold stone tub, Drax submerged himself fully. Shaking his head violently in the water to vanish his wishes. 

Opening his eyes, he could only see the grey swirls of the stone through the liquid in the bath. Somehow, her amber eyes blazed through. This time, there was more…

The peak of her chest breathing in and out as he held her. The clove and rose scent to her skin. 

Vlad groaned and broke out of the water, gasping for air where he sat. Reaching down, he felt the evidence of the Dragon’s arousal. Hard as the stone of the bath he relaxed in. 

Resting his head to the cool ledge behind, he considered relieving himself. Perhaps it would help. One release and he could move on. 

He had, thus far, not allowed for any moments of pleasure. In a silly way, he felt it would dirty her purity to act on such compulsions. But the heaving of her chest and rosy cheeks had grown too much for him to handle. Biting his lip so hard he felt the metallic tang of blood fill his mouth, he cursed, grasping himself finally. 

He pictured what it would be to kiss those lips that had polluted his dreams for twenty nights. To touch the bare skin on her stomach with his calloused fingers. Drax thought about what she would feel like… As soft as the inside of freshly baked bread and as warm too. 

With a growl, he sped up his hand movements. He could feel his heart rocking against his chest, a release growing achingly close already with lack of attention for so long. His muscular thighs trembled beneath the water as he stroked, closing his eyes and allowing himself to fully imagine what it would be like to bed such a beauty. 

Would she make the sweet noises that escaped her in her sleep with him? A high moan, a clench from within. Another growl escaped his trembling lips. The Dragon beneath pulsing, desperate for release. Aching for the touch of another. 

Drax imagined the soft curves of her body above him, moving in time with him. He pictured grasping her neck and kissing her cheeks, her chin, her petite nose, diving his tongue inside that sweet, foreign mouth as he moved inside her, driving her full of every pent up emotion that had built for so long. 

Vibrations from his body built as he pounded his fist under the water. He was close. Achingly close. 

His mind caught on ten minutes prior again. When she bit her lip approaching him. His free hand clenched at his side. Not enough, he reached for the side of the stone, holding tight, riding out the oncoming storm of his climax that was growing so near. One long pump and he was done for. Bucking his hips and riding out the release he had craved. A single word escaped his lips with a deep, animalistic growl.

“Elisabeta.”

Chapter Text

For the first time in three weeks, Drax found himself in the courtyard of the castle, soldiers by his side, duelling. Practising for the aid that would almost certainly be called upon them by the Hungarians.

The truce was in motion. King and soon-to-be prince had lazily laid out the foundations, which Drax finessed. The prospect of peace was something Drax had been warming to with every day that passed with Elisabeta. As a Hungarian herself, she would be offered some deal of protection, far more than the Ottomans could offer. And the truce would, in effect, be passed over to them anyway. The Hungarians’ own truce with the Ottomans was still standing. Yes, there would be some local conflicts and small wars that would need to be fought, but it would not be as bloody or cruel.

It was these very mini battles that Drax now prepared for with his team.

To his right, Mircea duelled roughly with a frazzled Lor. Drax’s partner, Ponvelt, wiped sweat from his brow as he recovered from the ongoing storm the Dragon had just thrown his way.

“I thought you would be out of practice, my friend,” he muttered, glugging from his leather pouch of water.

With a chuckle of his own, Drax spun his steel sword between his fingers. “No rest for the wicked.”

Beckoning him forward, Ponvelt swished his long black hair behind him, readying himself. With a measured pace, he walked forward, assessing Drax’s posture for where best to hit. He aimed at his gut, then, with a dancer’s flair, parried out to redirect the swish at his knees. Drax, seeing it coming, leapt out of the way effortlessly, blocked the attack, and with the heel of his boot at Ponvelt’s chest, pushed him away roughly. A normal-sized man would have tumbled to the floor, but Ponvelt was a sturdy and beefy lad. With a quick stumble, he regained his composure.

“Enough. We know you’ll always best me in a duel. Give me a breather,” he panted, placing his own sword back in the weapons rack and kneeling to the floor.

Drax joined him, chuckling at his weariness. “Good thing we’re not facing the Ottomans. It’s you who appears to be out of practice.”

Ponvelt laughed, rubbing his sweaty hands together. “Forget the war, it’s the wedding I’m cautious about.”

“Ah,” Drax said, joining him on the floor with his own kneel, his leathers groaning under the strain of his large thighs. “And this mystery bride?”

“Said to be the King’s untouchable,” Ponvelt tutted. “A little odd if you ask me. The King gets bored of bedding the woman, so passes her to his son.” He watched Drax pull a face of repulsion. “Exactly. Feels a little incesty to me.”

“Imagine a day where royals marry for love. Wouldn’t that be something.”

“Speaking of...” Ponvelt watched Drax more seriously. “How are things going with your Elisabeta?”

“Well,” Drax breathed, “she’s not mine, exactly.”

“But you feel for her?” he asked cautiously.

Dracul simply nodded.

“Be careful with your heart, Dragon. Some of the most brutal wars have been caused by love, not religion or power.”

“We fight because we love God, do we not?”

“And if you had to choose between God or your woman, who would you choose?”

Drax stayed poignantly mute, knowing his answer was best not spoken aloud.

“Hmm,” Ponvelt chuckled. “You can fool your men and yourself, but I have known you all your life, Dragon. Just... be cautious. Have you told her?”

“What?” Drax yawned, feeling a wave of weariness wash over him suddenly.

“You know,” Ponvelt shrugged. “Of your feelings.”

“No,” Drax replied sharply. “And it’ll stay that way.”

“The Hungarians visit tomorrow. It’s not too late to make your claim as Prince, you know.”

“I’ve rejected the claim. In all honesty, I would rather wash my hands of politics at this point.”

“You should tell her before. Chances are we’ll be pushed off to fight some meaningless war with the Hungarians the moment the truce is signed. Would you not rather know?”

Drax glared at him, wishing this conversation to end.

“Tell her, Dragon. I wish I did.”

A familiar wash of sadness clouded over Ponvelt’s face. Drax knew only too well why. In their youth, he had fallen for a fair maiden of the castle, a chambermaid who served Drax’s own mother before her death. Their love was fast, intense, and over far too soon. She had taken ill with a fever and never recovered. Ponvelt had every intention of asking for her hand, but always planned for her health to return. He was waiting for that day to offer a ring. Sadly, the day never came.

Instead, Drax stood by his side, his arm around the man who may as well have been his blood brother, watching his hand that held the very ring he had wished to offer shake above the fresh grave of the woman he loved more than life itself.

With a loud sniff and a shake of his body, Ponvelt wiped away the emotions that were too painful to linger on a moment more. Clasping Drax’s knee firmly, he glared into his eyes.

“Tell her, for fuck’s sake.”

*

Upstairs, Drax had expected to find Elisabeta, nose in a book as per usual. Oddly, she was nowhere to be found in his chambers. Nor hers. Worry crept up quickly and he resorted to searching around the castle for her. When he could find her nowhere, an odd sickness he had never felt before began to gnaw away at his insides. She could not be gone. Not now. Not when he was finally about to bare his soul to her.

Drax was seconds away from calling his men to assist his search when he spotted her in the gardens, taking their usual mid-afternoon stroll alone. Only she was not walking, but standing.

Approaching the dark lake that was solid with the icy remains of winter, he stood by her side. Silently, unsure what to say. Following her gaze, he realised she was staring in the direction of her hometown, towards the centre of the hills of Hungary. Watching her now, he noticed, to his utter dismay, that she had been quietly crying.

“Elisabeta,” he spoke gently, reaching his hand out to touch the small of her back in comfort, then drawing it back to his side, unsure if she would want to be touched in a time of anguish.

With a sweet sniff and a forced smile, she spun to him, drying her tears as if she were embarrassed. “I... I sorry.”

“No,” Drax uttered, reaching to catch the last tear that had fallen to her cheek with his thumb. “Do not apologise. What, if you don’t mind me asking, is wrong?”

“Wrong?” she asked. “I... I think home. It make tears.”

Drax nodded, feeling a brutal stab at his heart. How could he have been so foolish to think she wanted to stay here with him. She was a prisoner—or at least, that’s how she felt. Elisabeta only remained here because, as it was, she had no place to go. But that would all change soon, if Drax could help it.

“Shall I leave you with your thoughts? Or do you wish for me to stay?”

To his surprise, she reached a hand out to grip his. Her fingers were icy cold to the touch. On instinct, he squeezed her hand, drawing his own warmth to her.

“I fine,” she said, a painful smile still on her lips.

With that, he bowed on exit, leaving his beauty to look at the home she felt so far from.

*

On the path back to his quarters, the King met him, pulling him aside for a preparatory meeting before the Hungarians joined them in the morning.

Between the second and third glass of wine, Drax began to grow impatient.

“We have gone through this a hundred times, it’s simple. They arrive, we shake their hands and do their bidding. What else do you possibly need to plan?” Drax sighed, downing the last of his cup.

“Just ensuring we are on the same page,” Răsabel said coolly, ripping a slice of pork from the bone and chewing.

“You mean checking I have not changed my mind,” Drax spat, rising from his chair and walking to leave. Răsabel jumped up, blocking his exit, a fake smile he had learned to loathe on his face.

“We have much to go over: succession. I think, perhaps, it is best you sign an agreement that you will not challenge my son.”

“I’m tired,” Drax said sternly. “Let’s deal with the Hungarians first, then we can speak more of your son and his reign.”

“I would rather do it now, if you don’t mind. What with the wedding being two moons from now.”

Pressing two fingers to his brow, Drax watched as Răsabel’s eyebrow twitched.

“Fine,” he said, walking back to the round table and planting himself in the chair he had just left. “I’ll sign whatever you want. I just wish to be left alone. Elisabeta and I are to be kept out of your politics; that is all I ask.”

The King watched the fire crackle for a moment before turning his sights to Dracul. For a royal, he certainly had time for nonsense. “You talk about this Elisabeta as if you own her, but I have seen no ring on her finger.”

“She’s under my protection. She stays with me, or leaves whenever she wishes to. No one is to go near her, do you understand?”

“The girl can make up her own mind. We’ll see in due course.”

“We will see NOTHING,” Drax shouted, slamming both fists on the hard wood of the table.

To his fury, the King chuckled. “You’re the one who advocates for women to have a say. Let my son approach her with his offer, and if she says no, she’s yours.”

“He won’t get a chance to speak to her,” Drax growled, his hands vibrating in the fists they held.

“Well... I suppose—”

“You’ve been buying time.” With a growl of rage, Drax pounced to his feet, gripping Răsabel by the scruff of his collar and hoisting him up. He held him at eye level, which for Drax meant lifting him into the air, his feet dangling beneath.

“You dare... get your hands off me—”

With another fervent grunt, Drax pulled the King’s back to lay on the table, planted a knee into his ribs to keep him steady, and reached menacingly close. Still, somehow, the King chuckled like a madman.

“You think it wise to poke a dragon, do you?” Drax teased, twisting the cotton of the tunic he held, restraining Răsabel’s neck and making breathing more of a problem.

“You—you wouldn’t fucking leave her for one... one minute. He’s just talking to her,” Răsabel screeched. 

“Where is she?” Drax yelled furiously into his face. He felt the King shiver beneath him. At least he still feared him.

“If she says no, we’ll leave her be. If she...” Răsabel gulped, his eyes rolling to the side. His face began to turn the same shade of purple as the beetroot that grew in the castle grounds.

“I should kill you now for daring... I warned you she was mine. Did I not?”

The King nodded desperately, bringing his hands up to try and rip Drax away. But his grip only tightened. “She... my son... he needs a Hungarian to make a good tr-tr-truce.”

“Then choose anyone else,” Drax said, banging his head against the wood for good measure. “Where are they?”

“I don’t know,” Răsabel breathed. “Why do you... c-c-care so much? She’s just a w—”

“A what?” Drax snarled, bringing himself so close to the old man’s face that he felt the whiskers of his beard tickle his cheeks. “Say those words if you dare.”

With a snort, Răsabel smirked. “Whor—”

He didn’t finish. In a second, Drax gripped the side of his head and twisted it until it snapped. It was as easy as breaking a biscuit. Răsabel was a placeholder. There was no danger in killing him. His son, however, that came with consequences. The wedding was planned, his reign announced.

Dropping the dead weight of the King, Drax made for the exit.

He would welcome the repercussions.

Chapter Text

“ELISABETA!”

His search of the grounds and his own quarters was in vain. The castle stretched endlessly before him, every corridor a throat he could not breathe through. For ten minutes—perhaps longer, time had become elastic—Drax sprinted across the dark walls and echoing halls, his boots hammering against the stone like a heart that had lost its rhythm. With every turn, every empty room, the air thickened, pressing down on him until even his breath felt borrowed.

The sick feeling in his chest grew claws. It scraped at his ribs, whispering every terrible possibility. He saw her face in every shadow, her absence like a wound he could not cauterise. The world was narrowing to the sound of his own pulse, as if his body knew what his mind refused to name. He had to find her. He had to protect her. And he would tear down the castle stone by stone if that was what it took.

“What are you—” Ponvelt appeared from their soldiers' quarters. Mircea and Lor were close behind, confusion, and in Mircea’s case jest, painted on their faces.

“I can’t find her,” Drax breathed, pressing his palm to the cold stone wall to steady himself. So this was what anxiety felt like—raw, unrelenting, a creature gnawing from the inside. His lungs felt trapped in a fist that kept tightening. The air seemed thinner here, the walls too close. He had the dreadful sense that the castle itself was watching, waiting. He had to find her, or the pulse in his chest might stop trying altogether.

“What, who?” Mircea said, looking from Drax to Ponvelt, an annoying smirk still planted on his face.

“Elisabeta,” Ponvelt answered for him. “We’ll help you, Dragon. Where have you looked?”

“The tower,” Drax muttered. “The grounds. She’s with him, Ponvelt. If he touches her, I’ll…”

“Calm yourself,” Ponvelt said more gently, placing a hand on his leather-bound shoulder. “We have time. Mircea, search the kitchens. Lor, the barracks. I’ll stay with you, Drax.”

Vlad nodded, swallowing down his fears and gathering himself to continue their scan of the castle.

No luck on the first or second floor. Drax was becoming more desperate. His mind clouded with thoughts of his woman at the hands of the monstrous Prince. On the third floor they passed the spare bedrooms meant for guests, and there was movement inside one room. Without a heartbeat’s hesitation, Drax threw his weight against the thick wooden door. It refused him.

“Here!” he roared to Ponvelt, whose boots thundered down the hall. “Help me!”

Together they pressed shoulder to wood, the grain biting into armour, the air tight with panic.

“On three,” Ponvelt barked, his voice rough with urgency. “One, two… three!”

They charged. The impact cracked the silence wide open. With a groan and a shattering bang, the door gave way.

The sight beyond it emptied the world of sound.

Elisabeta—thank God, clothed—pinned to the four-poster bed, her eyes wide with terror. Barsarb crouched between her legs, a hand claiming what was never his to touch.

And then Drax saw red. The kind of red that swallows thought. The kind that turns men into monsters.

At great speed, he pulled the fake Prince off his woman, pushing him towards Ponvelt so violently he tumbled to the floor. 

He would deal with him in a moment. For now, he needed to tend to her. Check she was okay.

Trembling, Elisabeta reached for him. Without a thought, Drax could only hold her, gripping her head to his chest frantically and kissing the crown where her soft red hair was dishevelled. She started to sob as he clutched her harder. 

Pulling her back ever so slightly, he checked her over once. No cuts, no bruises, she was dressed, as was the Prince. So nothing had happened. Yet… 

If he hadn’t found her, what would he have done? Something hard between his chest interrupted his thoughts. Looking down to her middle, he spotted that Elisabeta was clutching a small, sharp dagger. The point was laden with a sheen of crimson. But there were no injuries on her, not that he could see.

“Did he hurt you?” Drax growled, moving her dress aside gently in case the injury was hidden.

Elisabeta shook her head, pointing behind them. “No, I hurt.”

Ponvelt had pinned Barsarb to the wall, and there, clear as day, was a jagged cut on his cheek. Drax couldn’t help but smirk. She had fought him, tried her hardest. He thanked God that he had chosen to train her, given her his own dagger.

“You did well,” Drax purred, kissing the side of Elisabeta’s cheek. “Give me a moment.” He left her side briefly, approaching the quivering Barsarb with a measured ease he didn’t know he was capable of.

“I… I was just talking to her,” he choked, terrified eyes watching as Drax unsheathed his sword from his side. “Don’t hurt me… you can’t. I’m the—”

“The Prince?” Drax chuckled, aiming the point at his neck and gesturing for Ponvelt to move aside. “Check her again, will you?”

With a loyal nod, Ponvelt moved to Elisabeta, delicately asking her again if she was hurt.

“You call yourself a Prince,” Drax drawled, reaching to hold Barsarb’s scrawny neck. “It’s funny. If you had just kept to yourselves, I would have gladly let you have it.”

“You turned down the crown! What do you— she’s not yours. You did not claim her!” Barsarb now sobbed, his body shaking in response to the steel at the side of his neck.

“I did. I made it very clear that she was not to be touched. Besides, you shouldn’t have to claim a woman to assume she will not be attacked. You…” Drax smiled, “are a coward. Only a rat like you would force himself on a woman. I assume she said no?”

“She doesn’t speak our tongue… she—”

Drax squeezed harder at his throat. “You speak Hungarian. Don’t give me that.” Running a hand to Barsarb’s sweaty hands, he broke a finger as easily as snapping a twig. 

Drax tutted at his cry of agony. “You know… I’m half tempted to keep you alive. It would be a greater punishment to watch the kingdom you want so desperately be led under my hand, to see your face at your father’s funeral.”

“WHAT?” Barsarb choked. “You… you can’t kill a King? Are you insane, for a woman?”

Drax laughed deeply, punching him in the gut and watching with delight as he doubled over in pain. He gripped at his throat again, watching a bubble of blood trickle from the corner of his lips. “I would defy God himself for her. Any man who touches her is mine to end.”

“She’s… you’ve not asked for her hand…”

“No,” Drax said, curving his blade to his side. “I don’t need to.”

“You’re a monster,” the Prince gasped. “You… were Prince once. You had your time. The girl is Hungarian. To marry her would only strengthen our truce. We can have peace…”

“You will never have peace.” Drax turned to view Elisabeta, whose sobs had quieted. Ponvelt nodded silently to Drax. She was unharmed. “You dared to touch what I claimed. Men have killed others over less. Your father lied to me, so… he shan’t be joining us for the rest of his life.”

“You…” Barsarb gulped. “You plan to kill me then?”

“I plan to watch you suffer first.” With that he plunged his fist into his side. Barsarb tried to fall to the floor, but Drax gripped his tunic, bringing him straight, and aimed another punch right into his handsome face. His nose crunched under his hand, blood spurting out of both nostrils. It wasn't enough. Drax couldn’t rid the memory of his body over Elisabeta’s. The way she trembled. Her tear-stained cheek. With a mighty grunt, he offered another hit Barsarb’s way. This time he did fall. 

On the ground, Drax kicked, then kneed, breaking his cheekbones with his third impact.

Elisabeta made a high pitched squeal. Dracul looked to her, then to Ponvelt as he gripped his sword in hand. “Cover her eyes.”

Barsarb was a mess on the floor, battered and bruised. But it wasn’t enough. He wouldn't kill him, no. He would make him watch him rule, banish him to servants' work. For every second he had laid a hand on Elisabeta would be a year of slavery under his harsh rule. He would make it so.

Still, a greater injury was needed, something that wouldn’t heal. Meeting him on ground level, Drax pulled at the back of his hair. The Prince screamed in pain. “Stop… I’ll do anything. Take the crown… the girl… I only spoke to her. We were… talking… please,” he broke into whimpers. “I’m sorry!”

With a stoic air of indifference, Drax plunged his thumb into his right eye, pushing it until it popped. The scream of agony was something Dracul had heard on the battlefield. In the past it did nothing for him, even produced feelings of guilt. This was different. The feeling was gratifying. Revenge was a dish best served by the thumb.

Pulling away to observe his handwork, Drax grunted in approval. Half of the Prince’s face was covered in dark blood, his right eye laying bloody on the floor, a wave of scarlet gushing from the socket that once held it.

“You dare to look at her again, I’ll take your left eye too.”

*

For someone who was almost assaulted, Elisabeta was recovering well. 

She was quieter than usual as she sat in the leather armchair in Drax’s bedroom, gently stroking Ana, who had recently taken to her. Drax watched his bat happily sat on her chest, gripping onto her light silk nightgown with the sharp points of her wings.

“Can I get you anything?” Drax asked, sitting quietly opposite her.

“No thank,” Elisabeta said, scratching the side of Ana’s fuzzy hair with her finger. She squeaked in appreciation and nuzzled her little face closer to her skin. Bearing her teeth, she went to nibble at her skin.

“Ana,” Drax warned. The little creature shot her beady eyes to him, then, with a huff, withdrew her fangs.

Elisabeta laughed lightly, her eyes still locked on the flames before them.

Though the setting looked to be calm, Drax’s thoughts couldn’t have been more convoluted and busy. News that the King was dead had spread like wildfire across the castle. It wouldn’t be long before all of Transylvania knew of his rage. And now, the Hungarians were on their way to strike a deal with the very man he had ruthlessly killed hours ago. Barsarb  was close to death, recovering in the slaves’ quarters. In less than half an hour, everything had changed. Drax would be Prince again. And with that came responsibilities. Little time for walks across the grounds with Elisabeta, training sessions, and fun. This pained him but wasn’t what drew most of his confliction. Most of all, Drax worried about her future.

She tried to hide it, but Drax saw the sadness in her eyes as she stared into the flames. As much as he wished for her to feel at home in his castle, it wasn’t where she belonged. He had to take a bride now. It was essential for his heir to the throne. Without the King and Barsarb, it could only go to him. Without Drax, the people would revolt. They needed a leader of Dracul blood. Elisabeta would be a fitting princess. A beautiful one. The people would have loved her. And in a twisted way, the King and Prince had a point. A Hungarian princess would be the perfect deal binder for the truce.

Elisabeta reached for her cup of tea, sipping at it silently. Drax would never get used to her beauty and grace. Those pillowy rose lips. Her strawberry blonde hair that curled like fire around her head and body. The dainty curves of her waist. Snow-soft skin. She was a goddess in human form. Looking at her was like looking directly at the sun. It was divine, it was beautiful. It also hurt. Deeply.

With a low exhale, Drax dipped his head to rest on the back of the chair. Tonight would bring no sleep. A plan was forming. 

He only hoped Elisabeta would forgive him.

Chapter Text

“Plums?”

Breaking out of his daydream, Drax looked up to find Elisabeta offering a bowl of ruby-red,  juicy plums his way. He raised a hand to decline, squeezing a smile out. 

“What today?” she asked, nibbling away at her own bowl of fruit. It was all she ate in the mornings, he noticed. Fruit and, if she was feeling particularly ravenous, a little bread. She always drank watered wine in the morning. Something he had taken to recently. 

Amongst other things. 

“Your people are visiting,” Drax said, pushing his bowl of bread and salted pork  away. His appetite had left him. 

“Itt yewen Magyar Orzág?”

Drax nodded, recognising her word for her home country ‘Magyar’. 

Dropping her fork to the metal plate, she cupped her check, watching Drax closely. She lifted with no warning, returning after a few seconds with the Hungarian/Romanian dictionary she so often referenced. 

After checking for several minutes, she lifted her head high. “Am I be a bargaining tool?”

“A what?” Drax spluttered, losing half the water he was drinking to the floor and his lap. He tutted, mopping it up with a napkin. “No. You can do what you want. Stay, leave. The choice is yours.”

Elisabeta referred to her pages, then watched him carefully again. “You wish I go?”

“No,” Drax said softly. “Do you want to stay?”

“I…” she pushed the book away, wishing to trust her own memory it seemed. “Home is where I… erm…” she thought again. “Yearn for.” 

Drax closed his eyes, praying emotions would not take over him. Dragons did not shed tears. “You wish to go home?”

“Home, yes.” 

“Then I shall not stop you bu-” A knock at the door interrupted his next sentence. 

“My Prince, they are here!” Ponvelt yelled from behind the wood. 

“A moment!” Drax shouted back, rubbing his head with a long finger. Elisabeta rose from her chair, opening the wardrobe to tickle Ana’s stomach and find a suitable dress for the day. Drax wished to remember her as she was now. Covered in soft white linens, her hair messy from sleep, her freckled face beautiful and bare. He approached her cautiously, holding his hands out for her to hold. She looked down at them for a moment, before gingerly taking them. They were warm and soft and everything he wasn’t. 

This was going to hurt. 

“Elisabeta,” Drax breathed. “I have enjoyed our time together greatly.” 

She smiled, her nose twitching. Like she understood most of it, but not all. 

He tried again. 

“You gave me reason to live.” 

Nose scrunch. 

“Speak Ottoman?” she asked. 

Drax growled. “No.” He refused to speak these words he had mulled over in the tongue of his enemy. He bit at his bottom lip watching as Elisabeta looked at him with innocent bewilderment. With a heavy exhale, he leaned close, and then, something took over him. They had always spoken better with actions not words. It was one thing they were close to perfecting in the three weeks they had spent together. It seemed only fitting for him to speak not with words but touch. 

Holding the back of her head gently, he dipped her towards him, kissing her forehead. He breathed heavily against the blissful smell from her wavy locks. Strawberries and spice and everything in the world that was nice. Withdrawing very slightly, he cupped at her face, scanning her expression for fear or anxiety. He found none. 

This was it. 

His last chance to check. 

He didn’t want to do what he had already started planning. To have the chance to not go through with the fine line of the truce that he had to fulfil would be a blessing. 

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Drax spoke softly. Nose scrunch, but she was smiling. There was only one way he would know. He would be slow. Give her a chance to pull away. 

Holding his breath, he dipped in, tracing his hand carefully around her waist and holding tight at the peak of her middle. Seconds before his lips collided with hers, he felt her body jitter. Her breath hitch, and she pulled away. It was an instinctual flinch. Not an insult. But a warning. 

He respected it at once, drawing away, releasing her side and bowing before her. “Sorry,” he said fervently. “Forgive me.” He drew tall, straightening his black leather doublet. “Ponvelt will escort you to the hall in a moment. Fear not. You will not be forced to do anything. You are, from this moment, free.” 

“Prince,” she muttered, grabbing his arm as he turned to leave. His chest missed a beat at the sound of his title on her lips. She had never called him that before. Never called him Drax, Dracul or Vlad in fact. He had, until this moment, hated being called Prince. Yet, on her tongue, it was bewitching. 

Drax watched her desperately, hoping she would correct his mistake. That she did, in fact, wish to stay. 

“I take,” she shook her head in frustration, then ran off to the room to the right. Her room. 

Peering inside, he watched as she messily searched the bookshelves, gasping as she drew the book he could only assume she wanted from the shelf. 

She hurried back. “This,” she thrust it into his arms but did not let go. “I take?” she asked again. 

It was the history of his family. The Dracul line. Why she wanted that out of all the marvellous collections his home held, was beyond him. “It’s yours,” he said, pushing it tenderly back to her. 

“Prince!” Ponvelt yelled. 

“I’m coming,” Drax shouted, rolling his eyes. He looked back to Elisabeta once more. 

“Forgive me.” 

And with that, he left her; book in hand, her nose stuck in a permanent scrunch.

Chapter Text

King Matthias Corvinus of Hungary was, in his defence, a good man.

He loved his country and had proven time and time again that he would do anything to defend it. And if that meant truces with the dreaded Ottomans, so be it.

And there Matthias stood, in all his glory. Age had not done him a disservice. In his early thirties, the fine lines that folded out on his forehead only added to his famously handsome face. Dressed in surprisingly modest robes, he greeted Drax warmly with a hug and, with his fellow nobleman of Hungary, sat at the long table laden with enough food to feed a small village.

Drax reached for his wine and the King plucked a single cherry from the pile before him.

“Good to see you, my old friend,” Matthias said once he had discarded the cherry seed from his mouth, placing it politely on the plate in front of him.

To Drax’s left, Mircea spat a plum seed from his mouth to the floor. 

Vlad sighed, trying to regain his composure through his meddlesome thoughts. “We’re honoured to have you here.”

“Let’s not beat around the bush,” Matthias chuckled, “your placeholder of a King and his son wrote to me with news of a truce.” He glanced around the room. “I was expecting them to be here. Will they be joining us?”

“No,” Drax said. “They are… indisposed, shall we say.”

Matthias’s brow crumpled. He knew Drax well, having fought side by side for half a decade. “Right. So, who is the Prince that will sign the deal?”

“You’re looking at him,” Drax smirked.

“Well,” Theysar, who had regrettably joined them, ran his beady eyes over Drax, then turned to the King. “Technically, Vlad is not wed, so cannot sign a truce.”

“Old laws,” Drax sighed. “Are we not above all of this?”

“These laws were written by your grandfather and his,” Theysar tutted. “If you do not plan to wed, then we appear to be at an impasse.”

Before anyone could argue, the grand doors of the hall opened, and a wash of women and nobles were announced. Instead of sitting, they stood around the walls of the hall, simply watching as the dozen men at the table dined. Drax spotted Elisabeta immediately. Dressed in a delightful periwinkle and gold gown. On her head, a crown of snow-white jasmine. She was more captivating now than she had ever been.

He tried to ignore the stab at his heart and turned his sights to Theysar instead. 

“Who said I was not due to be wed?” Drax said dryly. “You can approach now.”

Half of the table that knew Drax well shot their eyes to Elisabeta. But it was not her who approached. Instead, a tall, slim, blonde woman moved from the throng.

Ruxandra. One of the five women the Priest had selected for him weeks ago. Ruxandra was malicious, devious and materialistic; she was also the only woman Drax could select at this time. The others he was in some way related to or found so repulsive the thought of one night together brought bile to his throat. Ruxandra stirred feelings of self-loathing in him, but he had little choice. He had to wed. And he refused to make Elisabeta into the bargaining tool she feared becoming. Ruxandra was his only option for peace. A peace that would still benefit Elisabeta.

“My Prince,” Ruxandra drawled, kissing the side of his cheek with icy, harsh lips.

Drax simply nodded in greeting, his hand loose in her grasp as she reached for it, sitting beside him.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed a shift in Elisabeta. Her amber eyes glued to their intertwined hands.

“Who are you, my dear?”

“Your future princess,” Ruxandra dared to chuckle to the real king of their country. “Drax was so romantic with his proposal last night. When I heard a knock at my door, I never expected it to be him.”

Matthias looked at Drax, confused. His grasp of their language was good, but Ruxandra spoke fast. She had been too eager to tell the story of their betrothal. It wasn’t particularly interesting. Once Elisabeta was sound asleep in her room, Drax had begrudgingly approached Ruxandra’s chamber, his grandmother’s ring in hand. He stoically asked for her hand and left without a kiss or word. He practically slammed the door in her face.

“Say it again, my dear,” Matthias squinted.

With a roll of her eyes, Ruxandra spoke in his tongue instead. She was an educated woman. It was, on paper, a wise marriage indeed. What Drax lacked in conversational skills was picked up by her. She was well connected with Hungary and the surrounding countries. Of noble blood too. It was perfectly imperfect.

Once Ruxandra had spoken for three minutes with no interruptions, the King held his palm towards her. “Very good, you both sound incredibly happy. My congratulations to you both.”

A tapping of heels behind caused Drax to look to the wall of the room. And there, with a face so pale, was Elisabeta. She looked to Drax, her rosy lips opening to speak, then closing promptly. “I…” she stopped again when her eyes met the King. From where she stood before, she could not see him. The room was busy, her eyeline blocked.

“Matthias,” she gasped.

“Elisabeta!”

The King, to everyone’s shock, jumped up from his seat and sprinted to her side, lifting her up and spinning her in the air, glee pouring out of him. A wide smile broke across her face as she leaned into the hand that held her cheek.

And just like that, Drax’s heart broke.

He had been beaten with an iron pole till his bones sang like cracked bells, tortured for years by the Ottomans, those maestros of suffering. In ten years, every bone in his body had learned the sound of breaking; his flesh had kissed a thousand blades on the battlefield. Drax had tasted every pain a man could name, and several that had no name at all. Or so he believed, until this moment, when he discovered that agony, like an old friend, always had one more surprise in store.

For the sight of Elisabeta in the arms of the handsome King was like a rusty knife in the gut.

The hand that grasped Ruxandra began to shake so violently he had no choice but to release her and tuck it into his lap, hidden by the table.

When Matthias turned back to him, he expected the joy to continue. But a different emotion showed.

Fury.

“You,” he spat, approaching Drax, dragging Elisabeta by the hand along with him. “You dare hold our princess captive. What did you do to her?!”

“Princess?”

Drax’s mouth had opened to ask the same question, but he was not the one who spoke. To his right, Mircea’s mouth was ajar. Of course, how could he be so stupid. The ambergris in her perfume. Only the rich could afford such an ingredient.

“Yes, you fool,” Matthias snarled. “My sister. I… I thought she was dead. We heard about the raids of the towns. She was travelling home by carriage. We thought… we had a funeral for her!”

With no warning, the King lunged for Drax. He prepared himself for a brawl, but Matthias never met his touch.

Elisabeta had pulled him back with impressive strength, shouting at him in her own tongue. Her cheeks were wet with a mixture of woeful and elated tears. She pointed at Drax, her lips trembling, then Theysar, finally the rest of the men at the table. Drax didn’t know what she said, but whatever it was, it was desperate. He knew the tone of her voice well. The pitch only dialled high when she was experiencing strong emotions.

Finished, Elisabeta grasped his hand to her chest, seeming to plead with him.

With a sigh, Matthias turned to Drax and then extended a hand for him to shake.

Drax watched it for a moment, wondering if this was a trick.

“Please,” Matthias said sharply. “I apologise.”

Drax didn’t leave him hanging and grasped his hand firmly. “I did not harm her.”

“I know,” Matthias said, clasping his shoulder in a friendly embrace. “She told me you treated her with nothing but respect. That you were, in her own words, a perfect gentleman.”

Drax could only bow his head. Partly in respect, but selfishly, to escape Elisabeta’s burning stare.

“I would never dream of harming her.”

“She also said that other men tried to hurt her, some came close. But you,” Matthias waggled a leather-bound finger towards him, “stopped them.”

Pulling Elisabeta along with him, he approached his men, who quickly leapt to their feet. “The truce is agreeable. Not for the men you promised us in war, but for her. You showed her kindness, therefore showed me that same courtesy. Ask for what you want, Dracul, it is yours.”

“I just wish for her to be safe,” Drax said. “And for peace.”

“We will have it,” Matthias nodded. “Now come,” he nodded to his men to follow, “my mother will be beyond herself with joy to see her daughter alive and well. You have done me a great service here, Drax. I will not forget it.”

With one last look blazing from Elisabeta, Drax breathed out all the frustrations that bubbled from within. She was safe, he told himself. With her family.

She was going home.

This was good. This was all he hoped for.

So why did he feel like he was dying?

Chapter Text

PART TWO

ELISABETA

Two hundred and thirty-three days had passed since Elisabeta left Bran Castle in Transylvania.

Whilst the landscape in Buda, the capital of the Kingdom of Hungary—her official home—was beautiful, it didn’t measure up to the charming mountains and gothic splendour of the Prince’s home.

Rubbing the delicate white jasmine petals that the Prince had once gifted her on a dry winter day, she tried not to linger on what could have been.

Languages had never been her forte. From the first moment the Prince had opened his mouth, she regretted not paying more attention in her classes. To not be able to communicate with a man who had shown her such kindness was torturous.

Sitting on her soft bed, she checked that the door was closed behind her before reaching for the book she had taken before she left the Prince. She had memorised the pages so well, she hardly needed to look at them. Still, she found herself tracing a finger over the Prince’s portrait.

She had seen all sides of him at the castle. Watched with fear as the infamous Dragon was unleashed—seeing him kill the brute of a man who fought for the King’s son’s claim. And then again, when she was attacked by the same man who had tried to take her from the start.

With a shudder, she recalled how her Prince had beaten Barsarb to a pulp. Her eyes were shielded by Ponvelt, so she had missed the act of removing his right eye. But she had heard it. The screams of pain, the plop as the bloody ball hit the wood of the floor.

It should have turned her stomach. It should have made her run from the Prince. But the feeling that stirred was different.

It didn’t make her turn away.

It turned her on.

Elisabeta had never been defended so beautifully, so purely, by a man. The black of his pupils when he found her on the bed was magnificent.

He didn’t care for her in that way—she knew that. If his feelings had matched hers, he would never have taken a wife. A memory that still pained her to this day. She wouldn’t let herself think of him taking that tall, beautiful blonde to bed.

Instead, she chose to live in her memories.

The Prince’s light, shoulder-length hair when it was damp with exertion after exercising. The worry on his face when she fell from the tree. The feel of his hard, calloused fingers in her palm. The blue of his eyes when he was relaxed—like the lake in Buda on a calm day. His eyes were always pleasing. Blue, she loved them. Black, she yearned for them.

Closing her eyes, she dared to dip back into their last encounter. How he had almost kissed her before his better judgement took over. Running a hand to her waist, she remembered his hand there. He had gripped where that awful man had pinned her down with his knee. It was still tender to the touch. When she had winced, he pulled away. Seeing her for the weak woman she was.

No man could love a woman so helpless.

The Prince was a Dragon. A man meant for mass destruction. He was not someone who would willingly choose to be with a plain lady like her—a woman who could hardly hold her sword, who fell out of trees and slipped on ice. No, he was destined for a great woman. It would never be her.

Seeing him grasp the hand of his fiancée had been torturous. But it made sense. It was horribly painful, but logical. That blonde woman was strong, tall, and noble. Elisabeta was messy and scrawny. It was never meant to be.

Life back home had been dull, as it always was. The life of a princess was one of privilege, of course. She felt lucky to have fine clothing, to never miss a meal. Having been captured by the Prince’s men for two weeks before the castle, she had learned to be thankful for things she had once taken for granted.

Still, happiness was hard to find.

Walks around their grounds and city were not the same alone. Even with friends and desperate male suitors, she found herself looking to the horizon, scanning for the Carpathian mountains that she had adored in the past.

The books she once took solace in were no help either. The fictional tales of love and yearning only brought her pain. She had once kicked her feet together at the prospect of a tall, brooding man to sweep her off her feet. But these stories all ended in a kiss, and she never got hers.

Happy endings were not realistic, she had learned. So, she took refuge in her daydreams.

Imagination was a wonderful thing. In her dreams, she skipped through the fields blanketed with snow in Transylvania. Felt the stone of the castle beneath her toes. Stroked the soft fur of her dear bat as she sat by the fire, watching the flames lick the firewood.

She was never far from her Prince in her memories. Oftentimes, she found herself closing her eyes in tiresome meetings, lunches, and parties.

Dancing with short, stiff nobles of her city, she could escape for a dance with her Prince—imagining the skinny arms that gripped her were his of iron, that the scent of wine and sweat was really leather and oud.

Elisabeta was bound for a life without him, but she allowed herself these small pleasures.

Opening her eyes and cursing the grey colour of her room, she looked to the three dresses her handmaid had selected for her to choose from—a decision she usually cared little about. But tonight was the night. The first time in months that she would see her Prince again.

Through her brother, she had heard that Drax had been sent away to fight for them in local wars. She assumed he was married before he left. Good for him, she lied to herself.

Talk of his speed and brutality had made it to their palace. Matthias was happy with the truce, happy with her Prince’s work. The war with Austria had been won. Their men were on their way back to the kingdom, and with them was her Prince.

Her brother had personally invited him to stay with them—to celebrate their victory and toast future conquests. The visit would also coincide with the scheduled meeting with the Ottomans—their truce still active. But, in typical Turk style, they required a tribute. Gold, usually.

Matthias had prepared a good amount, surplus from the war with Austria. Drax, she heard, had agreed to accompany him; to meet the Ottomans for the first time since his capture.

“Are you decent?”

Quickly hiding the book in its place under her pillow, Elisabeta straightened herself in her nightgown, shouting that they could enter.

Judit practically fell through the door, a cheeky look on their face. Elisabeta knew why. Judit was the only person she trusted to confide in. Like her, they were of noble blood, but unlike her, they had done something useful with their privilege.

For Judit was a soldier. And a bloody good one.

Judit was only nineteen, and their father had refused to let them join the battles before they reached twenty (they all knew it was in hope that they would change their mind and submit to a life of popping out a few babies and wallowing in self-pity).

Not only was Judit beautiful—with curves that had many men drooling instead of speaking to them—they were loyal. Since they were toddlers, Judit had never shared a single one of her secrets. Therefore, Elisabeta confided in them, and only them.

Judit was the only person alive who knew of her feelings towards the dark Prince. And they revelled in the information.

“Tonight’s the night, my gorgeous little mushroom!” Judit yelled, spreading their arms wide and falling dramatically onto the bed. They reached to drag Elisabeta down with them, holding her face and kissing her cheeks. “You need to look gorgeous tonight. Make that Prince question why he took the hand of that tart!”

“She is not a tart, I think,” Elisabeta mumbled. “I don’t actually know her.”

“Consider yourself lucky,” Judit huffed.

They had told her of this so-called Ruxandra many times. A few of the men Judit had duelled with had spoken of her in not such pleasant terms—said that in their journeys to Transylvania, she had been quick to bed any man who gave her attention.

But Elisabeta was not one to judge. She certainly wasn’t going to take the words of soldiers as gospel. She had heard rumours about her own nightly activities, which was quite impossible, considering the closest she had come to the great deed was a quick fiddle in the barn with one of the stablehands—and that was four years ago.

Since then, no man had taken her fancy. And the thought of someone else’s fingers jabbing at her delicate parts like they were trying to stir a nest of angry ants had put her off trying.

“What will you do if he shows interest?” Judit chuckled, watching her greedily. She wasn’t sure who was more excited for the Prince’s arrival—her or Judit.

“He won’t be…”

“Pffft,” Judit muttered, climbing on top of her and pinning her to the bed with their annoyingly strong thighs. “Such a beauty he will not be able to resist, especially now you’ve done your homework.”

Judit messily moved the black hair that had fallen into their eyes. “Can’t wait to chop this bloody mop off.”

With a smile, they began to jokingly grind their hips against their friend. “Oh, Elisabeta! I have YEARNED for this moment for months! Every night at battle, it was your lips and hips that I felt for instead of my blade. OH, LIZZY!”

Elisabeta snorted, pushing them off to fall onto the bed with the overdramatic acting you could only find at their theatre. “You are so vulgar!” she cackled, poking Judit in the ribs with her finger.

“The Dragon roars for you,” Judit growled, jumping up onto all fours and preparing to pounce. “A man of steel, with arms that could break a skull in two—but with fingers so gentle.”

“Shhhh,” Elisabeta gasped, laughing so much her sides began to burn.

“Oh, Lizzy!” Judit yelled, catching their friend in a mighty embrace and burying their head into her neck, pretending to kiss and ravage her. “That blonde bint has nothing on you, my Lizzy! ONLY YOU CAN MAKE THE DRAGON ROAR!”

Rolling off her, the two friends collapsed into more laughter.

Finally recovering, Judit sprung to their feet and pulled at the second dress hanging from the wardrobe. “I like this one.”

“You do?”

“It’s black. Think of the vibes, my love. I think the Dragon will like it more, no?”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Elisabeta sighed, clutching at her stomach, which was already knotting with anxiety.

“It also makes your tits look wonderful.”

Throwing a cushion towards Judit, Elisabeta gasped. “You have been spending too much time with those soldiers in the palace. You’re a lady… sort of.”

Judit rolled their eyes, flapping their hands at her. “If I had it my way, I would have been born like them. These things,” they grasped their breasts through their tunic, “I would rip off in a second if I could.”

“Fine, I shall call you Jason henceforth.”

“I rather like that,” Judit bowed. “Now, if only you weren’t so into those men with their dangly manhoods, we would make quite the pair.”

“You’d be a wonderful father to our spawn,” Elisabeta nodded.

“If this whole malarkey with the Dragon doesn’t work out, you should really try it. Not with me,” Judit said, pulling a face of repulse.

“Oh, I am offended,” Elisabeta huffed.

“You’re beautiful, love, but basically my sister at this point. No, no, I’m talking about the other women of the castle. With puffy lips and gooey centres.”

“Hmm,” Elisabeta chuckled. “I’ll save them for you to enjoy.”

Judit winked. “You don’t know what you’re missing. That Dragon better live up to the stories.”

“He’s a nice man.”

“He’s gorgeous, are you kidding me?” Judit laughed, strolling to the locket that lay closed on her bedside table. Only Judit knew where she hid her most personal things. Popping it open, they showed Elisabeta the small painting inside.

The Prince, in all his glory. She had ripped it from the very book under her pillow. The last page had been a beautiful family tree of his. She hated to ruin it, but after a particularly teary night—one that lined up with her bleed—she had carefully cut his face from the pages and planted it in the locket she always wore.

Behind the portrait that was there to please anyone who asked what was inside, was a small painting of lost love.

With a smirk, Judit plucked the small image out and, turning to Elisabeta, reminded her of what a splendid-looking man the Prince was.

“Judit,” Elisabeta muttered, feeling shy all of a sudden. “You know he’s married. Is this even wise?”

Judit sat beside her, lacing their fingers between hers. “He’s engaged. We do not know he’s wed. In your… delicate situation, it may be best to keep it platonic anyway. Besides, you said you wished to thank him. If all tonight brings is a little coherent communication, that is a win, is it not?”

“You’re right. I should go into this with no expectations,” Elisabeta nodded firmly, ignoring the hollow feeling growing in the pit of her stomach. “What if Ruxandra joins him?”

“Then we’ll have to make sure you look more splendid than her,” Judit said, pulling Elisabeta to her feet. “Call the handmaids—we have to ready you for the Dragon! Have you oiled your skin?”

“I’m just about to bathe,” Elisabeta said, frowning when Judit began to smirk.

“Oil everywhere.”

“Judit!”

“It’s Jason now, remember,” they lamented, holding their long hair back to appear short and throwing Elisabeta their best smoulder.

Chapter Text

“Breathe,” Jason muttered, tapping her hip as they posed perfectly in the grand hall of the Hungarian palace for their visitors.

“This is too much,” Elisabeta breathed, clutching her stomach. “I… this is a bad idea.”

Her eyes washed over the crowd. Her brother, the King, sat beside the wife he had long since tired of, Elizabeth (Erzsébet) of Celje. Beside them, the regrettable Prince of Bohemia, László. Her cousin, István. Antal, the King's advisor, and a plethora of other nobles she cared not to think about.

László caught her eye, and with a not-so-subtle nod, gestured for her to come over to him. She shook her head with a scowl. She had no time for this tonight.

“You look fucking great,” Jason said close to her ear. “Just try and relax.”

A large bang of wood made most of the audience in the room jump out of their skin. And then, the double doors to the hall flew open.

In walked four dozen men, most smirking through bruised and battered faces; many, it seemed, did not think to change out of their soldiers' uniforms. Elisabeta watched as Jason looked to them greedily, lusting after the day they too could boldly walk through the hall with the same pride of country.

At least thirty men passed before she spotted him.

Walking with the confidence only a Dragon could hold, he looked to the front of the room, his gaze fervent. Her entire body flushed. She could feel her chest moving erratically as her breathing changed pace; she tried to calm it, reminded herself that they were in public. People could very well be watching.

But how could she not stare?

This was the man who had haunted her daydreams for close to a year. The man who saved her. She dreaded to think what fate would have brought her had he not been there to claim her that fateful day.

“Fuck me,” Jason muttered. “You were right.”

“Told you.”

“I don’t even like men and I’m getting fluttery.”

“Shh,” Elisabeta hissed, eyeing the noble men and women around the long table which they stood beside. People had begun to stare at their murmurings.

With a subtle exhale of tension, she looked back to the new arrivals, watching as Dracul approached the King first, his men halting behind him. There, he dropped to his knee and bowed.

Her brother found royal acts and protocol rather embarrassing and rose from his chair immediately to pull him to his feet, embracing him warmly as a friend.

“It is good to have you back,” she heard him say.

“Thank you for your hospitality this week.” The Prince turned to his men with a smirk. “The lads have not known a bath for days; they will be glad to rest in soft beds, as opposed to the hard ground.”

Hungarian. He was speaking her tongue… when? How?

“Of course,” Matthias said, “you must eat, drink, relax, and take in all the praise you deserve. Tonight is for celebration.”

With her brother’s guidance, the great Prince sat in the seat beside him at the head of the table. Matthias’ wife moved one seat to the right with a grimace. Elisabeta would have felt sorry for her, but she was a dull woman. And since her affair with a blacksmith in town, sympathy was lost on her.

If he didn’t have to keep up appearances, Matthias would have divorced her in a second.

All in good time, she hoped.

Elisabeta was so lost in her stare, she hardly realised those around her were beginning to move, finding a seat to dine and drink in the feast-laden hall. She also did not realise László gestured to her for the second time, until Jason nudged her in the side.

“What’s the…”

“Lover boy wants you to sit with him,” Jason said, grabbing a glass of Tokaj—the sweet wine of Hungary Elisabeta despised. The drink in Dracul’s home was far nicer. Richer, drier, not as sickly.

Oh, how she missed drinking that watery wine with the Prince in the mornings.

“Oh Jesus,” Elisabeta muttered, resting a hand on the table. “Should I go?”

“It’ll make the Prince notice you at least,” Jason winked. “This room’s so bloody busy, he’ll never spot you.”

Elisabeta looked back to the table, but found herself caught in the glare of the dark Prince himself. His expression was stoic. He was an immeasurably hard man to read at the best of times, but now more than ever.

“I’ll go.”

Jason tapped on her back. “Eat them alive.”

*

Gently, Elisabeta moved to the table, making a point not to look at the Prince. Instead, she smiled at Matthias, who raised his glass to her, and sat beside the seat László tapped. The moment her bottom hit the wood of the chair, he planted a wet kiss on her cheek. It took all the restraint she possessed not to wipe at the place where his lips met her skin.

László was a handsome man, but she had never found him to be attractive. He was nice, not rude, but boring.

So bloody dull.

He never laughed, never smiled; all he did was hunt and complain. And for that reason, she found him repellent. It didn’t matter that he possessed high cheekbones and wavy blonde hair, or that he had pleasing green eyes and a rich, thick beard. The women of the kingdom lusted after him, and they could continue to do so. She only hoped one of the maids would tempt him astray and get her off the hook.

From where she sat, she could see the Prince clearly, the curve of the long table going in her favour. There, she allowed herself a quick drink of his features. His hair, which was usually soft and brushed, had more volume to it—it was hair after walking in the rain. Lightly messed, but still, in her noble opinion, lovely.

He looked healthy, which was a relief. War could be cruel, she knew. He also appeared unharmed, save for the fresh cut on his brow. It didn’t look too deep, but she was sitting four people away, so couldn’t say for sure.

He was exactly as she remembered him. Covered in dark leathers, moody, and unthinkably divine.

She had to force her eyes away to save the whispers.

“You look nice tonight,” László said as he reached for a chicken thigh.

“As do you,” she lied.

“It must be strange,” László tutted, biting into the flesh of the meat. A little chicken grease dripped onto his white doublet. She stared at the forming stain, stifling a wince.

“Strange?”

“To be in the presence of the very men who captured you?”

“Oh,” Elisabeta said, deciding against bringing chicken to her plate after watching László, and settling with a more agreeable bowl of fruit. Plums were in season now, and were divinely juicy. “It was only the first few weeks. I was treated well at the castle.”

“But you were still a prisoner, were you not?” László sucked the meat from the bones with a repulsive slurp and threw the discarded carcass on his plate.

“Of sorts, but I had freedoms.”

“I see you still enjoy plums, Elisabeta.”

A familiar voice purred from the table. She didn’t have to look up to see who it was. That was the very voice that had repeated in her head for two hundred and thirty-three days.

“She’s always loved them,” Matthias chuckled, watching Elisabeta warmly. “All of her lighter dresses as a child were stained pink where she would spill the juices.”

“How delightful,” Dracul said, lacing his hands together and resting his chin coolly on them.

“How…” Elisabeta coughed; her voice was embarrassingly squeaky. “How are you, Prince?”

“Well,” Drax nodded. “And you?”

“Well,” she copied. “Was the war difficult?”

“Difficult?” The man on the left of Drax chuckled. She thought she recalled his name—Mirce… or Mircea?

“No one can best our Dragon,” he lamented, punching the Prince’s shoulder in jest. “Shame you weren’t there, my dear, your knees would have grown weak.”

Both the Prince and Matthias shot Mircea a foul look.

“Mircea, do not be so vulgar in front of the women,” the Prince bit back.

Why did he have to defend her so beautifully?

“Glad to hear all went well,” Elisabeta said, catching his warm eyes again. “I prayed for you.”

Dracul still seemed void of emotion, but he softened at the sentiment. His dark eyes growing a lighter shade of blue. “As did I,” he said lightly, dipping a finger in his glass of wine and drawing it to his lips.

Swallowing the butterflies fighting to escape her in a breath of longing, she chose to clear her voice instead, smiling weakly and drinking a glug of the sickly sweet wine that she loathed.

Matthias occupied most of the Prince’s attention as they ate—if not him, it was his men, muttering incoherent words and bellowing hearty cackles. Through the loudness of the feast, she couldn’t make out any words. The only person who spoke to her was László, asking her boring questions that she would rather not answer.

How is the food? The weather is growing more pleasant. Have you thought any more on a date?

Dull, dull, dull!

Finally, the hall was cleared of the leftover food and tables, making room for a dance floor to open. A small band shuffled in, lute and flutes in hand, and thus, the evening began. The crowd was already nicely merry and jumped at the opportunity to sway on the floor.

László was the first to rise, opening his hand to Elisabeta to dance.

She glanced at the Prince, whose eyes were locked on László’s open palm. She had little choice but to take it, and quietly, was guided to the dance floor.

Gripping her waist stiffly, he made for a robotic dance. Elisabeta tried to focus on her footing. This was not her dance of choice. In her room, and with a few women who took painting classes with her bi-monthly, they swayed to their own pretend dance. It was one of Elisabeta’s own making, more of an expression of movement than a dance, one could argue.

She had learnt it by perusing textbooks about other countries—reading that they would move to music like a feather in the wind. But her chosen moves had no place for this dance floor. She was bound to dance like the others.

Like cattle, they stepped in time, changing their hands and gripping waists or necks. László was not a bad dancer. Nor was he good. He was average.

That summed him up perfectly. Mr. Average.

“You prayed for him,” László said, a plain expression on his face. “How odd.”

“Is it?” Elisabeta challenged. “He did save me, after all.”

“You could argue that I was the one who did the saving. I never gave up hope.”

Two steps to the side, László guided her to an awkward dip, bringing her straight in an instant.

“You never thought to bring a few men into Transylvania to check?”

“You know I care for you,” László said, running a cold finger down her arm.

“I do,” Elisabeta replied, her eyes catching on Jason, who was charming a curvaceous noblewoman by the bar.

“So, the date… have we decided on summer?”

“I…” Elisabeta watched as Jason scanned the room, nodded, and then skipped over towards them. “Jason?”

Jason, who approached with a weak curtsey, smiled teasingly at her friend, then to László. “I would love to dance with the Prince of Bohemia. Do you mind awfully, Elisabeta?”

“Not at all!” Elisabeta stepped back, opening her palm in invitation for Jason—God bless them—to step in.

László seemed perturbed. “I cannot leave the lady alone on the dance floor, another time, perhaps.” He waved his hand at Jason rudely, producing a scowl from Jason’s pretty face.

“No need to fret,” Jason said, pulling someone's arm from the crowd. A black leather arm, with more tone and muscle than any other bicep in the room.

Of course.

The dark Prince drew into the centre of them, confused until he spotted Elisabeta. There, he dipped his head, apologising to them for the intrusion.

“Do I know you?” he asked Jason.

“You will, Prince, one day,” they smirked. “Elisabeta needs a dance partner. Will you be so kind?”

“I would be honoured,” he purred, reaching for her hand which she took in a heartbeat. The hard callouses on his palm were familiar, warm, and… right.

She had missed his touch more than she realised.

“We won’t be long,” László spluttered, his forehead scrunching.

With a wink behind her back, Jason took László’s arm roughly and pushed him into a dance. Leading the way, of course. Jason never allowed a man to lead them.

With gentle precision, Drax kept a hand loose on her waist, clasping the hand he still held to his chest. And then, they moved.

Well, rather, soared.

Dancing with Dracul was as easy as breathing. He was remarkably light and elegant on his feet, something a stranger would never predict for such a tall and powerful man.

But not Elisabeta.

She already knew he would dance well, for she had seen him fight. He duelled like he danced—gracefully, sharply, fluidly. He danced like the swifts flew around the grounds of his castle.

“Is this okay?” Drax asked hesitantly, his eyes travelling to her waist, where his hand lay.

She nodded, biting her lip to suppress a thousand words she might regret. She had to remember her place. The people of Hungary knew of László, and stepping over the line so publicly would have been awful for their truce with Bohemia.

“How have you been?” he asked again in her tongue. He spoke it so well, like he was suddenly fluent.

“When did you learn to speak Hungarian?”

He nodded. “War is for the day. I had many nights to practise.”

“Why?” she asked, letting herself be led into a graceful spin.

“So I could talk to you,” Drax said simply.

“You… you learnt a language, for me?”

“I admit it was something I should have learnt long ago. But yes, to speak to you.”

“God damn you,” she muttered. “I…” She gathered herself. She wanted to surprise him first, but he already had the upper hand. “I learnt your tongue too. I found myself… inspired.”

Drax stopped in his step for a moment, watching her carefully as she spoke perfectly in his language. “You learned Transylvanian?”

She nodded shyly, damning her stomach for knotting in her chest. His hand was warm on her side; she could feel it through the silk of her dress. “Do I speak it well?”

“My tongue has never sounded so sweet.”

The song changed to a slower beat. Dracul brought her closer, his eyes briefly glossing over the room before returning to her.

“Who is he?” he asked, nodding subtly to László, who was complaining loudly that Jason was moving too fast.

“László,” Elisabeta muttered. “Prince of Bohemia.”

“Ah, another prince. Who is he to you?” Drax asked instead, his eyes somehow darkening. How did they do that? Morph from an ocean blue to a darker navy. It was magical. It was… odd. It was also bloody beautiful, and she wished he would close his eyes so she didn’t keep gawking.

“You wish to know?” she said. “He’s my fiancé.”

It was Drax’s turn to stumble. He recovered quickly, of course; no onlooker would know. But she knew the pace of his dance, and it had shifted for a moment.

“I see,” he said sharply.

“How is married life for you?”

“I went straight to war, I had no time to wed.”

“Is Ruxandra well?” she prodded, keeping her head high. Two could play this game.

He took a fiancée first. Hers was only situational. The tensions between Bohemia and Hungary were growing, and Matthias suggested a marriage between them for peace. She had relented—for a while. But on the one hundred and fifth day away from the dark Prince, she gave in, realising her own brother would be sent to a second war if she did not.

Hungary did not have the money nor the men for more war. It was a horrible but necessary decision.

“I wish you all the happiness in the world,” Drax said, lifting her hand to kiss.

“Why did you send me away?” Elisabeta asked, deciding if this was how it was going to be, she may as well get it all out.

“Send you away?”

“You… I thought you enjoyed our time together. I was…” Elisabeta’s voice broke off. This was dangerous territory. She could not admit her feelings. The shame of a second rejection was too much for her to bear. “I’m not complaining, just curious.”

“You speak my tongue so well,” Drax purred, holding her waist tighter.

“Stop changing the subject.”

“You were the one who missed home. You wished to go home. Nothing would have made me happier than to have you stay. I only did what you requested.”

“What?” Elisabeta gasped, her heel slipping on the polished floor. He caught her quickly, with no fuss, but people already turned to stare. Not at her almost-fall, but her outburst.

“This is not the place,” Drax muttered, continuing their dance. “We need to talk.”

“It seems so,” she huffed. László was making no secret of staring at them now.

“Although,” Drax watched her, his brow furrowing, “is it wise? With your fiancé?”

“And yours.”

“Hmmm.” The Prince spun her once more, letting her dip close to the floor. He muttered in her ear, “I’ll find you later.”

“I can’t,” she breathed, her chest heaving below in the dress that hardly kept them hidden. She noticed his eyes fall to her breasts, then quickly back to her face. Enclosing his bottom lip with his teeth, he pulled her up, keeping to their pose from before.

“You are a temptation I cannot bear, Elisabeta. Perhaps this is not so wise.”

“Why ever so?” she muttered, leaning close to his chest as he guided them into a few elegant curves and sways.

“Because…” Drax watched over her, his pupils almost black. “Alone, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“Pray tell.”

“It was divine torture being around you before. I don’t know if I can repeat that again. Especially if you are someone else’s.”

“You say it like you are not also taken?” she mumbled, breathing in the intoxicating smell she had dreamt of every night. Leather, oud, spices, and his musk. It was enough to make her legs weak.

“Enough,” the Prince exhaled deeply; she felt his warm, wine-sweet breath on her face. “People are staring.”

“Wha—” Turning to the crowd, she found he was indeed correct. Every face was stuck on their dance, various mutters and chuckles proving this was not wise. She hated to admit it, but he was right.

Now was not the time.

She watched him nod to László, who practically sprinted back to Elisabeta. Ever courteous, Drax bowed low, then drew in close for a peck on the cheek.

“I’ll find you at midnight.”

Drax spoke to László for a moment, his dark stare on her body still. László shook his hand and asked him how the war was, to which Drax replied, “Full of death and gore, so pleasant as always.”

By Elisabeta’s side, Jason tapped her hip. “Quickly,” they said. “To the bar, now.”

Giving her no time to ask why, Jason took her hand and dragged her to the corner of the room.

“What—what did he say? That was… Jesus Christ, Lizzy, I’m rosy-cheeked just watching you two.”

“Was it obvious?” Elisabeta said, reaching for a glass of strong spirit and downing it in one to settle her nerves.

“Obvious?” Jason gasped. “I thought he was going to ask for your hand or fuck you.” They cackled. “What the hell are you gonna do, Missy?”

“I need another favour,” she whispered. “Can you make sure László is busy at midnight?”

“Oh, you tart, I am loving this,” Jason clapped. “I will endeavour to get that man as drunk as humanly possible. He was quite handsy on me, Lizzy, I have to say. I wouldn’t feel too guilty about riding that handsome dragon tonight.”

Elisabeta slapped at Jason’s side playfully. “I shall do no such thing. We just need to talk.”

“Sure, sure,” Jason winked. “And if I hear moans of pleasure coming from your room, then what do I say? Oh no, László, there’s another Dragon and woman called Elisabeta here? That roar of pleasure? Just the wind, dear.”

“Stop,” Elisabeta chuckled. “There’s another thing…” She watched as Jason rolled their eyes.

“What is it?”

“I need your room.”

“If you get stains on the sheets—”

“We will not be… you know.”

“You can’t even say it,” Jason winked. “Can you?”

“Just cover for me. I’ll pay you back, whatever you want.”

“If this means you don’t have to wed that skinny bastard,” Jason nodded to László, who was awkwardly conversing with Drax still, “then consider it my pleasure.”

“Thank you, my love,” Elisabeta smiled, hugging them with one arm to the side.

“Now, if your body shivers and jolts when he’s lying with you, that’s called an orga—”

“Shut up!”

Chapter Text

Ten minutes past midnight, Elisabeta was beginning to doubt he would come.

Arriving half an hour before the designated time, Elisabeta had taken to sitting on Jason’s bed. Second-guessing herself, she moved to the chair by the fire—she wouldn’t want it to seem like an invitation straight away.

A few minutes into sitting, Elisabeta rose to instead pace the room, her nerves growing. This was just an innocent catch-up. Just talking. They could do that. They had before. Though, she supposed, before they had little to speak about, what with the language barrier.

He spoke her tongue so bloody well. The thought of him spending his evenings learning her language caused her stomach to flip. Why did he have to be this way? It would have been so much easier if he were the cruel Dragon the stories made him out to be. But he was nothing of the sort in private.

When twenty minutes passed, Elisabeta considered leaving Jason’s room to retreat to her own bedroom. Before she could act, however, a light knock sounded at the door. Practically sprinting over, she paused with her hand on the handle, giving herself a few seconds to steady her nerves.

This was just a chat. Nothing more. Get a hold of yourself, woman!

Opening the door, she met green eyes instead of blue, black hair instead of light… this was not her Prince.

This was his friend.

“Ponvelt, Your Highness,” he bowed.

“Yes, I remember,” Elisabeta muttered, lifting onto her toes to check that the Prince was not close behind. “Where is—”

“Shh,” Ponvelt interrupted, checking over his shoulder for company.

“Drax regrets to inform you that he was… occupied.”

“Oh,” Elisabeta said. “I understand.”

This was a silly idea anyway. It was for the best to keep apart, she supposed.

“He still wishes to meet you, Elisabeta,” Ponvelt said in a hushed tone. “Can you… are you able to leave without being watched?”

Technically, yes. But László was regrettably protective. Despite respecting her very believable lie of ‘no sex before marriage,’ he watched her like a hawk. After tonight’s events on the dance floor, she had no doubt that he would have a few men on the lookout.

She had been able to sneak off earlier, as Jason had spiked him with a sprinkle of the herbs the soldiers took to relax after battle—it helped them to sleep. Combined with the many wines he had drunk, he was out like a light by half past ten. But his men were coherent and would be lurking around the castle.

“It may be difficult,” she muttered, racking her brain for a possible meeting place. “Where is he now?”

“In his quarters.”

“Then take me there.”

“Not a good idea, Princess.”

“I have waited many moons to speak to your Prince. You are here for how long?”

“Three days,” Ponvelt said, scratching his brow. “If you are caught…”

“It is known that we are friends.”

“There are whispers, Elisabeta. Our people know you stayed with him for many weeks. They do not know that your time together was innocent. Half the kingdom believes he bedded you. It would be unwise to prod the rumours.”

With a mighty sigh, Elisabeta began to pace again. “Three days,” she asked. Ponvelt nodded. “So little time.”

“Does the Prince still go on his morning runs?” she asked suddenly, an idea forming.

“Yes,” Ponvelt replied, watching her carefully.

“I too have taken to walks around our grounds at dawn.” She walked carefully to the window, gesturing him inside. Ponvelt hesitated, glancing behind him.

“Oh, just come in, for goodness’ sake.”

He nodded, entering cautiously. At the vast window that showed the grounds well under the moonlight, she pointed to the right of the fields that stretched out toward the surrounding villages of the city.

“There, past the fields with the honeysuckle, there’s a cabin. There was a groundskeeper who lived there, but he passed two moons ago. It’s empty—for now. Have him meet me there when the sun rises.”

“Out in the open?”

“Inside,” Elisabeta nodded. “He never locked the door,” she confirmed, remembering in her youth when she would join the kind old man who looked after the grounds as he dried herbs on his wooden counter for cooking. She would help him press the rosemary and sage. “Have him meet me there.”

“If you think it is wise,” Ponvelt said. “I’ll tell him.” With a light bow, he moved to leave.

Opening the door, Ponvelt almost collided head-on with a person waiting there.

Elisabeta’s heart lurched before she realised it was only Jason.

“Easy there,” Jason chuckled.

Elisabeta watched as Ponvelt stumbled over his words. Jason had that power over men; which only made the situation more hilarious. A person that all men lusted after, but none could have.

“I was… only talking to the Princess,” Ponvelt sputtered, patting his dishevelled hair neat.

“No need to explain to me,” Jason chuckled, tapping him hard on the shoulder. Ponvelt jumped out of his skin, not expecting their grip to be so strong. Jason had the strength of any of the male soldiers. They always delighted in watching strangers meet them for the first time.

“Very well,” Ponvelt glanced to Elisabeta. “I’ll leave you be.”

“Goodnight!” Jason shouted, ignoring Elisabeta’s shushes.

“Well?” they asked once the door was closed. “No dragon?”

“No,” Elisabeta said. “It was harder than we thought.”

“That’s what he said,” Jason winked.

“Will you—” Elisabeta bit her lip to stop her laugh. “We’re meeting at dawn. In the groundskeeper’s cabin.”

“Not very romantic, Lizzy,” Jason said, stripping off their tunic and unrolling the layers of linen they had wrapped around their chest to flatten their magnificent breasts.

“It’s the only place we’ll have privacy.”

“Forget the call of the rooster. All the kingdom will be awoken by the roar of the dragon.”

“We’re just talking,” Elisabeta corrected.

“Sure, sure,” Jason said, falling onto the bed and tucking under the furs. “You keep telling yourself that.”

*

The morning was crisp when the sun began to peek over the horizon of the city.

A light mist surrounded the fields of honeysuckle as she strolled quickly to the cabin—a twenty-minute walk from the palace. She could feel the wet dew hovering in the air, laying a thin blanket of dampness on her clothes. Spring was here. The blooming flowers and light nectar of floral perfume proved it.

The cabin was, thankfully, abandoned. Someone had come to clean it after the death of the dear groundskeeper, so it was simpler than she remembered. The stove was free of boiling pots and pans, and the pantry that was usually well stocked with bulbs and vegetables was bare. It was almost sad to see it so plain. But it would do for a place to talk.

This time, she was not kept waiting. Before she had time to settle at the small kitchen table, her Prince entered.

The soft morning dew had also clung to his clothing, but unlike Elisabeta’s thick woollen dress, which hid it well and absorbed the wetness subtly, it stuck to his shirt. So much so that the light black cotton he wore atop his chest clung to him, outlining his toned, muscular frame. The pattern of his carved abs showed clearly, defined by the dampness of the morning. She reminded herself to thank Mother Nature for this kindness.

Moving a stray damp lock from his face, he set his eyes on her, entering coolly and closing the light wooden door behind him.

“Good morning,” he said, standing with the awkward grace only he was capable of.

“Morning,” Elisabeta nodded. “I would offer you tea, but it appears it’s been cleaned out.”

“Not wine?” Drax teased, joining her. He sat on the table rather than the empty chair opposite, adjusting himself and pulling a dagger from his side to place it on the table.

“No one will attack you here,” she said, glancing at the silver-handled steel that now lay before her.

“One can never be too careful,” he chuckled, watching her warmly.

“Where do we start?”

“That is a good question.”

“How much time do we have?” Elisabeta asked, looking cautiously toward the window that showed the sun rising in the distance.

“Your fiancé invited me to hunt with them after breakfast,” Drax said. “Before he mysteriously passed out.”

“Ah.”

“Your doing?”

“Jason’s.”

“Who?”

“You met them... the one who pulled you from the crowd to dance with me.”

“Oh, yes. Jason?”

Elisabeta nodded.

“I rather like them,” Dracul chuckled. “Would make an excellent addition to my army. They practically commanded the room last night. That’s what you want from a second-in-command.”

“Jason would be giddy at the prospect. Don’t tell them that.”

They laughed quietly, then fell promptly silent. Simply watching each other, neither quite believing they were finally together again. Alone. And talking clearly.

“Why did you have me leave?” Elisabeta asked quietly, drawing her eyes away from his magnetic stare.

“You wished to?” Drax said, his brows furrowing. “Did you not?”

“No. Why did you think that?”

“You said,” Drax began, now standing and pacing in a similar way to her, “when I found you by the lake, looking beyond to the mountains of Hungary, you said…”

“What did I say?” Elisabeta thought back to that moment—one of the few times in her life she had felt truly happy. Why he thought she was alluding to going back to Hungary was beyond her.

“You said, ‘home.’”

“What did I say, exactly?”

Drax sighed, pulling the chair from the table and dragging it close to her. There, he sat, his knees almost touching hers. She could smell leather and oud all over again, mixed with the moss and perfume from the flowers in the air.

“You said, ‘I think of home. It makes me cry.’ You were crying, Elisabeta. Do you not remember?”

“I do!” Elisabeta gasped. “But not… goddammit,” she muttered, shaking her head. “If only we had a translator between us then.”

She watched his brows curve in confusion.

“I was happy, Prince. I was crying because, for the first time, I felt at home. I was looking at those stupidly beautiful mountains of yours and thinking of how lucky I was to be there.”

“Fucking hell,” Drax muttered, passing a hand through his soft waves. “And that last evening, when I spoke to you—you said: ‘Home is where I yearn for.’ I asked you, Elisabeta, if you wished to go home. You said… ‘Home, yes.’”

Hiding her face in her hands, Elisabeta couldn’t help but groan into them. She thought they had communicated well. She was so very wrong.

“I was trying to say that I had yearned for a home like this. I thought you asked, ‘Are you home?’ I said yes, Prince. I was…” She broke off suddenly, mortified that her eyes were starting to blur with tears.

“What?” Drax asked, drawing closer to her. She felt his hand gently touch her knee as he leaned in. That scent was growing stronger—as was her need for him.

“I did not want to leave.”

“If I knew…” Drax breathed. “Why…” He stopped leaning in, pausing, his gaze fixed on her. His eyes flickered from her lips back to her eyes.

“Before you left, I went to kiss you. Do you remember?”

“Yes,” she said softly.

“Why did you pull away?”

“You…” Elisabeta almost screamed in frustration at the memory. “You reached for my hip—where that brute held me to the bed. I was bruised. It was… I wanted to kiss you. It just shocked me. I…”

“You wanted to?” Drax asked slowly, his hand now clasping her wool-covered knee.

“Yes… but I—”

She didn’t finish.

Before she could utter another incoherent word, the Prince’s lips silenced her.

When she imagined what their first embrace would be. It was gentle, tender… like the fairy tales she read at night. 

This was not that. 

This was need personified. 

For a split second he was soft. His lips warm against hers. But as he breathed out a deep exhale,  sweet breath hitting her cheeks, something sparked. His hands travelled to her cheek, cupping it and pulling her deeper to his mouth. 

Enveloping her bottom lip, he dipped his tongue between her lips, testing that it was okay, before letting all his control go. And then, they were dancing all over again. 

The deprivation was strong, they were starving. The need was practically pulsing off one another. Almost a year of pent up feelings broke free, running wild. The Prince lifted slightly into their embrace and pulled her off the chair and into his leather bound lap. 

They kissed feverishly as she greedily wrapped her legs around his toned waist, gasping as his hand found her neck and squeezed. He swallowed the noise she made, plunging his tongue back into the warmth of her mouth and exploring it. 

As they tasted each other , Drax seemed suddenly animalistic. His hands couldn’t settle on one place of her body; drawing from the delicate skin on her neck to her dipped waist, then her stomach, through her wavy hair and her soft thighs. They made home on her back down her spine and side, drawing her in, pressing their bodies closer and closer. The chill of the morning had departed, replaced with brutal heat. 

“Elisabeta,” Drax grumbled into her mouth, pressing her waist against him and growling like a beast. “Are you a goddess sent to test me?” 

Elisbeta hummed, rolling her eyes to the back of her head as he laid hot kisses on her neck. When he licked a path to her ear, she couldn’t hold back her arousal. An embarrassingly loud moan escaped her open mouth. And Drax, well, Drax took that as an invitation to intensify whatever this was. He captured her lips again, tracing the curves of her waist and cupping her breasts. She gasped again, no man had laid her hands where his were now gently squeezing, tenderly tracing where her nipple was hardening under the thick wool of her dress.

 This was new to her. 

She had long worried that when the time came to act on passion, she would be awkward and unknowing. But this seemed to be an innate knowledge from within. She knew how to grind her hips to meet his. Their kissing seemed rehearsed, natural and powerful. Like they had been doing this all of their adult life together. Like sea turtles knew how to plunder towards the ocean, Elisabeta knew naturally how to swish her hips and fold her lips against the softness of his. 

“Tell me to stop,” he muttered back at her neck, reaching for the hem of her skirt and pausing before he lifted it.

“Don’t you dare stop,” she managed. 

Drax answered with a low grumble, reaching down to trace her bare legs all the way up to her thighs. There he made a noise of approval of his own. She felt something, a large dagger perhaps, against the apex of her thighs under her dress. As he massaged the soft skin by her hips, she tested her theory, moving on his hips to feel for the sharpness. But whatever it was pulsed beneath her. She realised then, this was no weapon. Well, it was, but one of the Dragon’s own making. 

For the first time, fear fluttered to her stomach. From the hardness beneath her, she knew he was monstrous. And she was mortifyingly inexperienced. 

“Where are you?” he asked, drawing away and placing a tender kiss to her forehead.

“I’m,” she lost her words. Embarrassed to say what she knew she was. 

“We don’t have to do anything,” he said lightly, drawing his hands away from her skin. 

No. That was not on the agenda. She reached to stop him retreating and swallowed his lips with hers. No thinking. No fear. She decided in that moment to let herself act on her most primal desires. 

“I want to,” she said, pulling away to bite at his earlobe. He made a guttural sound of arousal himself. These were not butterflies in her stomach now, this was a full on stampede. She could feel herself dampen below. Something that only happened when she allowed herself to play in her daydreams of the Prince late at night. The real thing was much more satisfactory. 

“Oh my dear,” he chuckled, drawing a long finger to trace her cheekbones. He caught her bottom teeth with it and dipped his finger into her mouth, watching greedily as she sucked it. “You’re going to kill me if you don’t stop.”

“Mm,” she breathed, feeling another twitch from beneath her. “Make me.”

“We can’t,” he continued, dipping his head back and groaning as she circled her hips again against the hardness trapped in leather below. She was learning fast. “You are betrothed,” he growled, his pupils switching to black so fast she almost screamed. 

“Are you not,” she combatted, adding another grind of her hips for good measure.

He gripped harder at her naked legs, flicking her skirts up and effortlessly lifted her so her bare flesh was pressed against his clothed hips. 

She watched him, bewildered as he held her hips still, kissing her again. “Does he make you feel this way?” he asked, his fury making itself known for the first time. 

“He…”

“Does he produce those sweet noises from your lips,” Drax continued, reaching to surround her backside with his huge hands. He squeezed hard, causing Elisabeta to instinctively jolt on his lap. He kissed her before she could let out another moan, eating up her noises of frustration. “I can feel the warmth of you,” he muttered at her lips. “Has he touched you?” 

Breaking free of the moment, she watched him carefully. “Does she?”

“Answer me,” he said softly, knotting his hand in the crown of her head. 

“No,” she said, closing her eyes so she didn’t have to see such a beautiful sight before her. 

“Neither has she,” Drax said. 

That was all the confirmation she needed. Her fears, her jealousy, all of it, was gone. Yes, by word they were at the hands of others, but their bodies were their own. 

“You did not take her to bed?” she asked cautiously, wishing to clarify. They did, as they learned, have a problem with communication. 

“The only woman to sleep in my bed this year has been you, Elisabeta.”

“Only me?”

“It’s always been you, you fool,” he chuckled, stroking her head gently. 

She couldn’t hide her joy. The concept of this divine Prince wanting her was so far beyond her. He would likely come to his better senses in time; but for now, she had him. He wanted her in this moment, and she wanted him. This was the best she could have hoped for. 

When they kissed again, it was tender. Building up, like an incoming wave. His hips rolled with hers, their lips stuck together, moving in time, dancing and licking and sucking. Dracul was wild with his movements, his breath heavy against her skin as he reached between her skirts, tracing his hand up. She jolted her hips needily against his length beneath, smiling when she heard his growl vibrate against the skin on her neck. 

Fuck waiting for this. She wanted him now. 

“Take me,” she muttered. 

Drax laughed, pausing his fingers before they could meet the burning hot area between her own legs. “I have been waiting for you my whole life,” he said, tracing a teasing circle with his long fingers. “I plan to stretch this out for as long as humanly possible, my love.” 

“Oh, you bastard,” she muttered, choking on a new moan as she felt the flat of his thumb press lightly against the bud of nerves at the apex of her thighs. 

“Jesus,” he grunted, biting her neck hard. The act made her hips move involuntarily, but he kept his hand on her, cupping her with his palm. “You’re so wet,” he breathed, his teeth teasing the skin on her neck again. “Move for me, darling.”

She did as she was told, guided by his other hand on her hip under her dress. The feeling was beyond anything she had experienced before. Her entire body trembled at the friction of his hard - but somehow soft - calloused hand beneath her. 

“You are divine, Elisabeta,” he said, drawing back to watch her, moving her hips for her, his thumb pressed to her. “Don’t close your eyes.”

“Wha-” she flickered her eyes open. She hadn’t realised they were closed under the thrawl of passion. 

“I want to watch you,” he said. “I have fantasised about this moment. Every night, in battle, it was the only thing keeping me alive.” 

“Go on,” she breathed, grinding against his palm. 

“I dreamed about you,” he purred, sitting back a little to better his view. “What you would taste like. How you would feel. If you made the same sweet noises you make in your sleep. But most of all,” he stopped, a dull groan escaping him as she moved. “I thought of watching you like this. Your cheeks flushed, those lips…” 

His hand moved a little beneath her, causing her to stop moving in anticipation. The tip of his finger stopped at her entrance. She tried to move, thrust her hips so she could feel him deep inside her. 

In that moment, she felt oddly empty. A need to be filled rising. 

She needed him like she needed oxygen in her lungs. Like a fire needed kindling to burn. 

“Drax,” she winced, her face scrunching with the agony of anticipation. 

“Yes darling,” he muttered, keeping his finger steady at her entrance. “Use your words. Speak my tongue.”

“I will bite your tongue off if you do not do something soon.” 

Dark eyes watching over her, he slipped a finger inside her slowly. She felt muscles she wasn’t even aware of tighten around his digit. Her body started to vibrate with pleasure as he curled his finger, his thumb moving over her bud and pressing tenderly. “Gods, Elisabeta,” he breathed, biting his lip as he watched her lick her lips at the feeling. 

“Drax…” she was interrupted by a sharp inhale of her own as he slipped another long finger deep within her. His right hand gripped so hard at her hip, she was sure she would later bruise. It was a mark she would cherish. His imprint on her only increased the heat being produced from within, and now, somehow, she trembled internally. 

With slow precision, Vlad began to guide her hips forward so she was riding his long fingers that pulsed deliciously inside, teasing at a spot of pleasure she had never found before. If that wasn’t enough to drive her wild, his thumb began to rub in circles over her bud. 

This feeling… was new. It was as if a knot from within her was drawing tight, all while a wave seemed to be building. Growing inside as she thrusted on his palm. Elisabeta was close to panting at this point, watching him watching her proved too intense. She was building too close to something she did not understand. 

“Don’t fight it,” he lulled, dropping his eyes down to her heaving chest. Seeing where he was focused on, she realised her own hands were free. They were pressed to his chest, feeling his heartbeat fastening under her touch. Drawing them away from the cotton of his damp shirt, she tugged at the buttons that fastened the corset of her dress. This proved harder than she intended. As she fumbled with the buttons, her fingers slipped, it was too much to concentrate on when her knees were buckling under the intensity of this feeling. 

“I’ll rip them off with teeth in a moment,” Drax growled, moving his hands from her hip to her chest. With an expert flick of his fingers, her corset popped open. Exposing her heaving breasts to him. Pupils wide and dark, he moved forward planting a light kiss on each breast. Teasing her nipple with his teeth.

And that was what ended Elisabeta. 

The feeling of pain, coupled with the grinding on his palm, his long fingers squeezing beneath, his thumb tracing cruel measured circles on her bud. She tried to swallow the moans escaping her mouth, but it was too much. It was like trying to keep a wild rabbit from escaping the clutches of a fox’s jaw. 

For a moment, Drax pulled back, eying the window beyond. “My darling,” he purred, moving the hand that cupped her breast to her neck, pulling her close to him and capturing her mouth with his. “As much as these sounds are music to my ear, someone may hear.”

She nodded, biting her lip hard to keep them stifled. He slowed his pace, bringing his hand back to her hip, rocking her harder onto his fingers. “If I could capture this moment in a painting. Look at you,” he purred, watching as she dipped her head back, grinding freely against his palm, fighting the release that had been teasing her since she had sat on his leather bound lap. 

“I want to feel you,” she managed, shooting her sights back to Drax greedily, reaching under her to feel for the Dragon that stirred. He was stone beneath her, but pushed her away, moving her hand to his toned chest and bending to kiss it.

“Another time, my dear,” he said. “Allow me the pleasure of watching you today.”

Elisabeta would have fought harder. But the Dragon knew her body better than she did. And rather than allowing her to argue, he bucked his hips in time to her movements, forcing her to grind harder and faster above him. His fingers plunged somehow deeper, and Elisabeta clenched her muscles. The feeling made Drax wilder, and he pushed and pulled her hips against his palm, relishing in watching Elisabeta grind mercilessly on his powerful fingers. Until… until….

“I… I ca-”

“Shh,” Drax purred. “Let go, Elisabeta.” 

“I can’t mm-” she caught the moan in a deep hum. Embarrassed that she was unable to keep the noises from escaping her. Drax chuckled, moving his hand that guided her thrusts to her neck.

“You want to scream,” he clasped a huge hand around her mouth, closing his eyes for a moment as she bucked hard against him. “Who am I to stop you.” His pace on her nub of desire quickened. Ruthlessly circling faster and faster. It was like he had turned a dial. Now it was her turn to dive into her most primal instinct. 

Breathing into his palm, she rode his hand more erratically as her climax built. Drax cursed low, a growl reverberating around them, his manhood painful against the leather of his trousers. 

Drax watched her like a man dying of thirst looking to an oasis. His fingers pulsed beneath as he pressed the flat of his thumb hard against her. Her body convulsed deliciously atop him, riding out the wave of her orgasm that toppled any and every feeling of pleasure she had ever experienced. Dracul captured the guttural moans and screams that escaped her with his right palm pressed firmly to her open mouth, while his left gently pushed her through her finish. 

Her chest heaved as she leaned back, her hips still twitching through the last of her climax. It was only when her bud stopped pulsing, that she looked to him. 

She almost came again at the sheer sight of him. Pupils huge and dark as night, hair tousled around his beautiful sharp cheekbones. He looked at her like she was a creature of beauty, and for the first time in her life, she felt like it. 

Exhausted by the eruption of pleasure that came over her, she hung her shoulders loose, allowing him to pull her into a close embrace, her breathing still ragged, in time to his slow thudding heartbeat. He removed his hand slowly, and, carefully, drew a single glossed finger to her lips, staring as she sucked on the sweet honey dew taste. Pulling his digit from her mouth, he bit his own fingers, closing his eyes and pushing her forehead roughly to meet his. Exhaling deeply against her face, he kissed her once. She could taste herself on his mouth and involuntarily moved her hips against him again. 

“Fuck,” Drax muttered, looking beneath them at his own painful, covered erection. “I cannot work out if you’re an angel or devil.” 

Elisabeta felt a new fire light within and ground her hips against his length again; pouting as he moved his hands around her hips, halting her mid-thrust. 

“This is dangerous territory, even for you,” he smirked, kissing her lips, then biting on her bottom lip hard, but not enough to draw blood. 

“Why not,” Elisabeta said, brazenly trying to move her hips. It was all in vain. His grip was vice-like. 

“Because, my love,” he said, “I will not take you when you are claimed by another. When I fuck you, you will be mine.” 

“Such a foul mouth,” Elisabeta blushed, as if she wasn’t trying to grind shamelessly against his hips. “I thought you a courteous man.” 

“You met the man,” Drax smiled, playing with her hair that lay long down her back. “You’re meeting the Dragon.” 

“I can feel him now,” she sulked, wiggling atop his lap with all her might. 

“He can wait,” Drax laughed deeply, pulling her dress back over her legs. “It’s morning now, we have to leave before your Prince spots us.” 

Gently, he guided her up. She was thankful for the assistance as her legs were still trembling. 

“And what of our situation?” Elisabeta asked, watching him graciously button her corset. 

He stopped on the last loop. “I’ll speak to the King if I have to.” 

“It’s not the King I’m worried about. It’s László. He’s… well, let’s just say he’s protective of what he owns.”

The button that Drax held snapped off in his grip. He looked to her, muttering an apology. He did not like the idea of someone else owning her, it appeared. “He has not seen protective,” he said finally, running a hand through his messed hair. 

Reaching for her one last time, he held her cheeks high, making sure she looked into his eyes. “I will find a way. We have three more days until my men leave. Play nice, for now.”

“Drax,” Elisabeta muttered, watching him with guilty eyes. “He is a powerful man. He had been kind so far, but I have seen how he treats those who betray him. This could start a war.”

Vlad laughed at that. “He has not seen war. Bohemia is child's play.” He glared as Elisabeta did not seem convinced. “Do you trust me?” he asked, knotting his fingers between hers. 

“Always.” 

“We have waited many moons, we can wait three more.”

“I need to see you,” Elisabeta whispered. “After this…”

He pressed a finger to her lips, silencing her. He replaced his finger with his lips. “You will. I’ll find you tonight.”

“Tonight,” Elisabeta gasped. “There is a dinner, is there not?” 

“An intimate one, yes.” 

“The king, his wife and László and I join our side, who joins you?”

“Ponvelt and…” Drax paused. 

“What?”

“Ruxandra.” 

“She’s here?” Elisabeta gasped. 

“Not now, I don't believe. But by night, she will.”

“I…” Elisbeta chewed on her words. Thinking them unwise. 

“You have nothing to worry about, I do not care for her.”

“But she cares for you,” she said. “Watching her fuss over you, I couldn’t bear it before. And after this-”

“I am not one for public affection, you have nothing to fear.”

Elisabeta nodded, breathing into his warm embrace as he hugged her tightly. 

“Not long. I will take care of this and you, I promise.”

“Okay,” she muttered into his chest, allowing herself one last moment in his arms before he drew away. 

“I’ll run back, you follow in a few moments,” he nodded, turning to leave. 

His hand clasped the rusty door handle. He paused, looking back to her for moment. And then, like a man feverish with feeling, he ran back to her, kissing her so deeply she thought she would melt away. 

When she dared open her eyes again, he was gone. The smell of leather and oud still rich in the crisp morning air.

Chapter Text

“He did what?!”

A sharp arrow pinged through the air with a whoosh. It stuck into the side of a mead barrel, narrowly missing one of the soldiers also practising in the barracks.

“JUDIT!”

“Sorry!” Jason winced, shrugging at Elisabeta and pulling her close, realising what she had just revealed all over again. “Tell me everything. Details.”

Cheeks still rosy from the morning, Elisabeta waved her hand at her friend, who caught it and shook it more erratically.

“Don’t give me the shy girl routine now!” they whined, casting a serious glare her way. “Little Lizzy,” their face softened. “Now a woman.”

“Well, not quite,” she whispered. “We didn’t… you know.”

“Hold on, what?” Jason howled, slapping their knee and placing their bow to the side of the hay barrel beside them. “He didn’t take you?”

Elisabeta shook her head shyly, checking there were no eavesdroppers.

Jason rested their elbow on the hay, sighing dreamily. “Do you know how rare that is? Most men don’t even know we’re capable of climax. And the ones that do pretend they don’t. If he attended to you, and not himself, well…” they laughed more heartily, seeming in awe. “Good boy, Dragon.”

“It was,” Elisabeta choked on her own voice. “L-lovely.”

“Let me see your hands,” Jason muttered, grabbing one and holding it flat close to their face. There, clear as day, was a slight tremble in her fingertips. “Oh fucking hell.”

“What?” Elisabeta laughed, pulling out of their hold.

Jason watched her warily. “I don’t want to say.”

“What?” Elisabeta repeated, more sternly this time.

“I’m no expert, but it looks like you’re in love.”

“I’m not.”

“Tell that to your body,” Jason sighed.

“Even if I were… is that such a bad thing?” Elisabeta rolled her eyes at Jason’s unchanged stance. “Okay, there are complications. But he promised all would be resolved.”

“I believe him,” Jason said, plucking a blade of dry hay from the stack and twisting it between their finger and thumb. “Love is dangerous, Lizzy. Not for the weak-hearted. It can ruin even the best of us.” They watched as Elisabeta shuffled. Throwing the piece of hay to the ground, they squeezed Elisabeta’s wrist. “I’m not saying it’s a bad thing, only… be careful, Lizzy. I can’t lose you again.”

They didn’t talk about this.

When Elisabeta went missing, Jason was beside themselves with worry. They didn’t detail it, but they didn’t have to. Elisabeta was told by half the palace how Jason marched straight to the King demanding a search party. He complied, of course, having already started to gather one. Jason was forbidden to go with them, claiming they were a lady and ladies did not join soldiers — you know, that old sexist chestnut. Typically, Jason did not listen, sneaking away at dawn with the lads, hiding their long locks in a helmet.

All Elisabeta knew was they rampaged through villages towards the Ottoman Empire (assuming it was them and not their own Transylvanian allies who captured her, thinking she was part of the pro-Ottoman village they had plundered).

Jason, who was of noble blood after all, had missed their eighteenth birthday for her. Missed every exam where they schooled. Sold their best dress (which, let’s be honest, was not a burden but a blessing) and jewellery to afford hardy armour and weapons to take with them.

When news spread that Elisabeta was alive, they flew back to Buda on horseback.

It was the only time she had seen Jason sob.

And since that day, they didn’t speak of it. It pained Elisabeta greatly to know the worry her best friend felt for her — she hoped that news had spread of her capture in Transylvania and that she was well looked after, not imprisoned there. It had not. Her friends and family were, regrettably, ruined at the assumption of her death. Elisabeta tried to push back the guilt, knowing she would have done the same thing as Jason if they were ever taken from her. But seeing Jason’s clouding eyes now, it all came back to her — the shame of troubling those who loved her.

“You won’t lose me again,” Elisabeta said, twisting her arm where Jason held her wrist so she could weave her fingers through theirs.

Jason made a humph sound, blinking back the emotions they found all too embarrassing, and picked up the heavy wooden bow from the floor. Shoving it into Elisabeta’s hands, they guided them again on the correct posture for archery — a sport Elisabeta had insisted on learning, having excelled in her one-on-one combat sessions with Jason more recently. Once, she successfully tripped Jason. It was an accident (though she didn’t admit it to them). Elisabeta had tried to duck from an incoming blow and slipped to the floor dramatically. One of her legs folded out clumsily, catching Jason’s knee and causing them to also trip. Seeing Jason on the ground, she frantically stumbled on top of them, pressing the wooden blade to their neck and smirking. Only then did Jason agree to move on to a bow.

“Good,” Jason said, “I think you’re ready for a real arrow now. YOU BOYS BETTER LEAVE!” they bellowed to the soldiers, who, seeing Elisabeta with a bow in hand, scurried away, fearing for the health of their limbs.

Jason snickered as they noticed Elisabeta’s scowl. “Love you, Lizzy, but with those uncoordinated hands, it’s better to practise in a clear room.”

Chapter Text

“You look splendid, Elisabeta.”

“Thank you, Prince.”

He was, regrettably, the wrong Prince. László had decided to pick her up from her quarters ahead of the dinner tonight.

Anyone else would say he looked rather dashing; but he was too skinny for her liking, like someone had stretched a small, tubby man up and up until he resembled a stick insect. László’s limbs were long and gangly and, to her utter displeasure, he had hardly any bottom at all. Not that she had seen it bare. But it was scarcely noticeable as she glanced to it when he walked ahead of her now to the hall where dinner would be held.

Her thoughts fell to Drax, as they so often did. He had a lovely bottom. Toned, muscular and very much there. When he wore his leather breeches it was even more delightful. She had no doubt it would be magnificent undressed.

“Elisabeta?” László turned to look behind his shoulder at his fiancée. She only realised then that she had completely dissociated and was in a dreamlike state, drifting as she walked.

“Hmm?” she asked, focusing on his boringly handsome face.

“I asked how your day has been?”

“Oh,” she mumbled. “Quite good.”

“Any more details?” László laughed. “It’s like getting blood out of a stone with you.”

Elisabeta tried her hardest not to shoot him a dirty look. It appeared anyway.

“A joke,” he puffed. “Dry any flowers today?”

He was referring to the only hobby he recalled of hers. Aside from reading, writing, horseback riding, walking, dancing and, when she found the kitchens quiet, baking, pressing flowers was the only thing he remembered about her personally.

“I did in fact,” she nodded. “Michaelmas daisies are in bloom.”

“Ah yes,” László tutted like he knew what she was talking about. He had no idea.

It mattered not, as they approached the wide doors of the hall, and there, waiting courteously, was her real Prince. Bound in dark leathers, a famously stoic expression on his face. Beside him stood a breathtakingly beautiful woman, dressed in a dazzling yellow dress that left very little to the imagination. Her blonde curls were pinned perfectly to her crown; she looped a curl between two fingers. And there, clear as day, was the ring her Prince had given her. A round-cut, kelp-coloured emerald. Even from the distance away, she could see the glistening of the diamonds that bordered the rare gem. Elisabeta’s heart sank lower as she watched Ruxandra look greedily over Drax, smirking before setting her eyes upon her.

“László, Prince of Bohemia,” László said, bowing deeply and holding her hand to kiss. She made a strange squeak that Elisabeta could only assume translated to “good to meet you.”

“And you must be the plaything,” Ruxandra drawled, her eyes burning into Elisabeta still.

“Elisabeta, Ruxandra, you know her name,” Drax jumped in sternly, casting Elisabeta an apologetic look. “I would not say such things in front of the King. He is quite fond of his sister.”

“Oh yes,” Ruxandra sniggered. “Sister, royal. And we had her locked in our castle, what an outrage.”

Drax rolled his eyes at her, placing a hand at her back and ushering her inside. Elisabeta and László followed, approaching the round table that sat oddly in the centre of the usually crowded hall.

With no hesitation, Drax pulled a chair out for Elisabeta and sat beside her. László sat to her left, Ruxandra to the right of Dracul. Two empty chairs remained. Her brother was notorious for being late.

“So,” László said sharply, nodding to a waiter who approached to pour him a good glug of wine. “How are you enjoying Buda so far?” He directed his question to Drax, but it was Ruxandra who answered.

“Rather dull in comparison to my home, I must say. No mountains, flat land. Awfully odd, don’t you agree darling?” She turned to Drax, who gave no indication he even heard her. His eye was focused on Elisabeta’s hand that lay relaxed on the gold-painted wood of the table.

She looked down, frowning. Her longest two fingers were slightly pink from where they had pulled the bow strings earlier with Jason. Was that what he looked at? When she looked back, his attention was on László, his eyes darker. He said nothing.

“Well,” László clapped his hands together awkwardly. “How did you two meet?”

Ruxandra smiled widely, showing her sharp, dazzling white and rather large teeth. “It’s a fabulous story.”

“It’s really not,” Drax said.

“Oh, pish posh,” she muttered, fanning her hands at him. “We were children Little Drax wandered into a corner of the nursery all of the young ones would play in during the day, book in hand, crying.”

“Crying?” Elisabeta frowned.

“Poor thing,” Ruxandra lamented. “The boys would always pick on him for not wanting to play their rough games. Our Dragon, who’d have thought it? Quite different as a child, weren’t you? Always had your nose in a book, or you’d bring in some god-awful creature and hide it in your pockets. What was it that day?” she giggled, nudging Drax when he didn’t offer an answer.

“A shrew.”

“A shrew, how marvellous!” Ruxandra belted to the group who could hear her quite well. “The boys bullied him, and our teacher pulled it from his pockets and threw it out of the window. Made you cry awfully, didn’t it?”

“That’s horrible,” Elisabeta breathed. “I’m sorry,” she added, watching over her Prince with empathy. To a stranger, talk of the Dragon caring for small animals would have seemed obscene, but she had met his Ana, seen how he cared for her. It was perfectly plausible to her that he was a sensitive and kind child.

“It’s a funny story,” Ruxandra frowned. “The Dragon before he was turned.”

“How old were you when they took you to the Ottomans?” László asked.

“Eleven,” Drax said.

“How is Ana?” Elisabeta asked, feeling the Prince’s discomfort growing and wishing to steer the conversation away. 

He smiled for the first time that evening. “She flew away,” he said. “I think perhaps to find you.”

“Oh,” Elisabeta mumbled, blinking quickly to rid the tears that threatened to escape her eyes. She had grown so fond of the small bat he kept. The little purrs she would make when she slept on her chest. If someone had told her, when she left the Hungarian town she had visited to further her education on prose and poetry, that she would find herself sleeping in the bed of the Dragon, a vampire bat snoozing happily on their chest, she would have called them insane.

“Who’s Ana?” Ruxandra asked suddenly, her deathly thin, scarlet-painted lips cracking into a thin line with her unmasked jealousy.

Drax turned to her. “My pet bat.”

“Bat?” Ruxandra squealed. “They carry a plethora of diseases.”

“She was quite clean,” Elisabeta said, regretting her words at once when the blonde femme fatale shot her a look that could have cracked a mirror.

“You met this bat?” she spat. Her long-nailed finger tapped at the wood of the table. She gathered herself, forcing a smile with a long exhale, and looked to Dracul. “Well, you’ll simply need to ensure your bed is deep cleaned before I sleep in it.”

“You haven’t…” László stopped, looking to Elisabeta then Drax. “Strange that you slept in his bed yet his own fiancée has not.”

“She slept in it for the first few days of her stay.”

“Imprisonment,” László interrupted.

“Not…” both Drax and Elisabeta spoke at the same time. Vlad nodded for her to continue.

“I was not a prisoner, but a guest.”

“Seems odd to me,” Ruxandra tutted.

“Quite,” László agreed. He reached over and clasped his hand in Elisabeta’s. His hands were always cold, harsh feeling, like the texture of rough slate or granite. Drax’s were neither warm nor cool, but they were smooth. Hardy, yes, but somehow soft. Like the feeling of polished flint.

“All is forgiven,” László said, bringing her hand up for a kiss. Drax was watching so intently he hardly noticed the waiter spill a drop of wine on his grey cotton tunic that he casually tucked into his leather trousers.

“You idiot,” Ruxandra squealed, plucking a napkin from her lap. She licked it once and proceeded to rub and dab at his chest. Drax seemed uncomfortable with the fuss and tried to shoo her, but she didn’t listen, muttering complaints that this would never happen in their castle.

The boy who spilled the wine looked horrified, his hands shaking where he grasped the bottle.

“A thousand apologies, Your Highness, I’ll fetch for…”

“No need, lad,” Drax said, raising his palm to silence him. “It was an accident.”

Before anyone else could speak, Matthias flew dramatically through the door.

Elisabeta peered for signs of his wife. She didn’t join him. This, she supposed, was a blessing. Queen Elizabeth was a bore to be around. Their love was so long gone it made any dinner increasingly tense and foreboding. They often argued, occasionally shouted. Most ended with the Queen stomping off, Matthias sheepishly following close by.

“Friends,” he clapped, sitting in the empty chair by Ruxandra. “Hello again,” he said, bowing his head politely.

“You are so courteous for a king,” she giggled, pressing a hand to her chest. “Thank you for your hospitality, you have a beautiful palace.”

Drax raised a brow, not amused at her sudden change of opinion of Hungary since the King’s arrival.

As Matthias sat, a dozen waiters entered, each holding a round gold metal plate with a freshly cooked delicacy.

Roasted goose, honeyed ham, marinated leafy greens, and potatoes glistening with fat and herbs were meticulously placed in front of them, along with several jugs of wine. Elisabeta scowled at them. She couldn’t take another mouthful of the foul sweetness of their hometown vino.

Once all the food was served, Matthias invited them to dig in, reaching for a spoon of mashed sweet potato himself first.

“Drax,” he said between chews of food, “tell me what you’ve been getting up to since your arrival?”

The Prince finished his own mouthful of venison, drank a sip of wine, and pulled a face before answering. “Hunting, mostly.”

“Ah yes, Dracul joined us today,” László said, pointing at the middle of the table where a rabbit stew sat. “Courtesy of our hunt.”

“Do you hunt at home?” Matthias asked the dark Prince, who was now smiling as Elisabeta reached for the only drink that wasn’t wine — apple cider. It wasn’t her favourite, but it would do.

“Rarely,” he said. He really was a man of few words. She wondered if that was because he spoke in Hungarian now. Maybe he didn’t know enough to speak with details.

“Perhaps keep to the battlefield, old boy,” László chuckled, peeling the skin off the goose and dangling it in his mouth like a baby bird would eat a worm. It was utterly repulsive.

“Meaning?” Drax asked plainly, peering around Elisabeta beside him to look László in the eyes for the first time that evening.

“Oh,” he laughed, clearly caught off guard. He was such a cocky fool. It wasn’t uncommon for him to put people down. He had a habit of having to establish his authority everywhere he went. So far, with his status and annoying reputation as 'the greatest hunter in the world' (a self-proclaimed award), most didn’t argue back when he pressed buttons. Drax, however, wasn’t a person to be trifled with, and she feared he was about to learn that. “I just mean, well... you only caught a small animal. It was a fun hunt. I assumed you wouldn’t have the abilities to attend my usual hunts. They’re far more challenging. I meant nothing by it.”

“What would you consider a challenge?” Drax countered.

“Wild boar, wildebeest,” he smiled cockily. “I plan to be the only man to capture or kill the infamous Gyrfalcon.”

Ruxandra gasped, while Elisabeta scrunched her nose. She didn’t have a clue what that was — a type of deer, perhaps.

Drax’s eyes lingered on her face, noticing her confusion somehow. He always did seem to notice it; how, she had no idea.

“Gyrfalcons are exceptionally rare large birds. They were once imported from the north but reach the Carpathians in late autumn,” Drax explained gently. 

“Owning or killing one marks elite status. Godlike, some say,” László said, interrupting him. “I hunt tomorrow. An overnight campaign to find the one Gyrfalcon spotted in the forests that circle our city.”

“You promised your men would be here when the Ottomans arrive,” Matthias warned.

“It’s only one night. We’ll be back before they arrive the day after tomorrow,” László nodded. “I plan to capture it,” he leaned a long arm around Elisabeta’s shoulder, forcibly bringing her close to his side, “I claim all things that impress me.”

With no warning, he captured Elisabeta’s lips in a full-on snog. This was unlike him. Very unlike him. Usually, he was a bore, but polite. In her company he had almost seemed disinterested. She often wondered if he cared for her at all, hoping he didn’t and would quickly call off this shamble of an engagement. They had only kissed once before, and it was but a peck on the lips. Dry, fast — to seal their engagement three months ago. Since then, he made no move, seeming to respect her wishes to wait for marriage.

Tonight, he was happy to ravish her in front of her own brother. Lips locked on hers messily, he tried to slip his tongue inside her mouth. But she was fervent, clamping her lips shut. Finally, unable to take much more of this horrific display of public affection, she pushed at his long skinny chest, muttering that they had company.

He only chuckled, unfolding his arm around her to reach for a long leg of duck.

When Elisabeta looked up to the masses, she found Drax’s deep, penetrating stare not on her but László.

The table began to talk thankfully, about matters that she had no interest in. Light music fanned the room too as a lutist hummed a jolly melody. It was enough cover for Elisabeta to subtly lean close to Drax and whisper, “Stop.”

Drawing his deathly gaze away, he seemed gone from this world. Shaken, almost. “I can’t do this,” he muttered. “I fear I’ll throttle him if he touches you again.”

Those words should have made her anxious. He absolutely should not do that. Drax and she had agreed to play their part for now. This was a delicate matter. If they upset Bohemia, it meant a war. Ruxandra wasn’t a royal, but she was ridiculously well-connected. Upsetting her would also be a bad move. They were at an aching impasse that made whatever this was, forbidden.

Yet, somehow, the nature of their position, though regrettable, added a dull thud of pleasure to her stomach. She had always behaved in court. Never made trouble. She was always a good student, a good sister, and, she hoped, a good princess. Having an affair with the Dragon was scandalous. And, horrifyingly, it excited her.

“Fight it,” she mumbled, shaking her head as a boy asked if she would like some wine.

“Do you have any of my own wine in your cellars?” Drax asked the King suddenly. “I find the wine here to be too sweet for my taste.”

Matthias chuckled, signalling for the boy to approach him. “Bring a bottle of Fhugue over, for our guest.”

“Thank you,” Drax said, pushing himself to eat the rest of the food on his plate. 

To everyone’s surprise, Ruxandra and László got on famously. Both loved to boast, to talk of privilege like it was a bore, and, most of all, complain about the state of the world. Drax, Elisabeta, and Matthias found their conversation entirely uninterrupted by them until László turned to Elisabeta, rubbing her cheek while glaring at Drax.

“It’s soon, isn’t it, my love?”

“What?” Elisabeta frowned.

“Our wedding. We were hoping for next summer.”

“Why such a long wait?” Ruxandra asked, dabbing the side of her mouth with a scarlet-stained napkin. Almost all of her lipstick had removed itself, what with all the greasy chicken and goose-fat potatoes she had partaken in.

“Good things come in time, don’t they, my dear?” he answered. 

Elisabeta nodded, forcing a smile.

“I cannot wait to make you my own,” he gushed, before turning the conversation back to Ruxandra.

The King seemed occupied with one of the waiters, who was asking when they wanted dessert.

It gave time for Elisabeta to creep a hand, very subtly, under the veil of the table, to Drax’s lap. There, as she guessed, his hands were tied into fists.

“Elisabeta,” he hissed. “We should tell them now. Damn this truce, I can’t watch him look at you like that for another moment.”

“Stop, you’re not thinking,” she muttered, eyeing both fiancées laughing heartily with one another.

Drax watched her carefully. “You have changed your mind?”

She glared at him, not dignifying such a stupid question with a response.

Dangerous territory was approaching. She tapped László on the shoulder and decided to clear for a conversation that was more pleasant, including all.

“I read an excellent book the other day,” Elisabeta said in a jolly tone. Ruxandra slowly flipped her head around, her blonde hair bobbing as she pulled a thoroughly unimpressed look. Elisabeta pressed on regardless. “It was about two druids who fell in love. The man had to leave her to fish for food. See, they were all quite hungry, and winter had killed most of the animals—”

“—Oh Lizzy,” László chuckled. “I don’t think we read those sorts of books, do we?” He looked to the King and Ruxandra. Matthias shrugged his shoulders politely while Ruxandra giggled maliciously. “Exactly. Now, I read a fascinating account of the Bohemia war two de—”

“—I’d like to hear more about Elisabeta’s book, wouldn’t you?” Drax almost growled, looking to Matthias, who nodded, seeming suddenly amused.

Beneath the table, Elisabeta felt a large hand snake to her thigh, clasping it gently at first before squeezing. It jolted her so unexpectedly she almost dropped the fork she was loosely clutching.

“Are you well, sister?” Matthias asked, frowning at her.

“Quite,” she replied fast, settling her fork on the table. She assumed he would move his hand fast, but he didn’t. He clutched her harder. Not daring to look at him, she cleared her voice, ignoring the disarming hand creeping closer to the area between her legs that pulsed with heat.

“Book,” Drax practically purred.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, squeezing her thighs together so he couldn’t make contact with the destination he was heading toward. “Did you say you’re hunting tomorrow?” She turned instead to László.

He nodded, smiling boldly to Drax. “You’re welcome to join if you want some practice.”

She could feel Drax look to her, his eyes burning on the back of her head.

“We should all go,” Elisabeta said, surprising herself.

László and Ruxandra cackled loudly, obviously assuming she was making a funny jest.

“I’m serious,” she said, clasping her hand down to her lap and stilling Drax’s hand that rubbed seductive circles with the flat of his thumb. “We should go. I need some practice with archery; I’ve been learning.”

“She has,” Matthias said. “Are you sure you’re quite well? You look a little pale?”

“Perhaps something I ate,” she mumbled.

“I think it’s a splendid idea,” Drax said, ignoring the not-so-subtle “of course you would” from Ruxandra. He ignored her. “When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow morning,” László muttered. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Frightened I might catch that rare bird before you?” Drax challenged.

“You are welcome,” László said, pointing to Drax. “The forest is no place for women. Hunting animals isn’t for the weak-hearted.”

“Why?” Dracul pressed, rubbing his cheek with two long fingers. His other hand was up to more naughty business beneath the table. He now clutched her hand, lacing his fingers between hers. She couldn’t think straight, for his touch always melted her away into a pool of incoherent nonsense.

“Why?” László laughed. “You take women to battle, do you? Don’t be ridiculous; you know why.”

“A dozen of my best soldiers are women,” Drax replied plainly. “You should invite your friend too,” he added, looking to Elisabeta. 

“Jason?” Elisabeta asked.

“Who?” Matthias asked, perplexed at the name.

“Judit,” Elisabeta managed.

“Hmm,” Matthias replied. “I…” A scrawny lad approached with the imported Transylvanian wine Drax requested. “Ah, perfect, thank you,” he said, gesturing for the boy to pour Dracul a glass.

Once filled with the darker wine, Drax pushed it to Elisabeta, taking another empty glass from the table and asking for more.

“Thank you,” Elisabeta breathed, promptly downing it. Not only was it a taste she missed, but she bloody needed it, for the Dragon’s hand was determined beneath the table. With an expert pull, he gathered the light cotton of her dress, dragging it up so his hard touch could graze over the soft skin of her leg. The feeling was ungodly. How he could set her mind and body alive with a simple touch was beyond her apprehension. But he knew what he was doing — as he looked straight to the table of Matthias and Ruxandra, smiling pleasantly.

“Wouldn’t want you to get hurt, my love,” László purred, leaning in slightly to stroke her cheek with a cold, harsh finger.

“What do you say, Matthias?” Drax asked. “Good practice for your sister and friend, is it not?”

Matthias thought for a moment, watching Elisabeta curiously before grinning and turning his sights to Drax. “So long as they have some protection, I don’t see why not.”

László and Ruxandra pulled almost identical faces of displeasure.

Beneath watching eyes, Drax’s hand had made its way to the sensitive skin that connected her thigh to her hip and was stroking mind-numbing circles again before… gods, slipping a hand over to her womanhood, curving so he cupped her.

Elisabeta, now beyond all reason, squirmed as covertly as she could, the sounds of László complaining drowning out as her mind became nothing more than static.

“Elisabeta, are you sure you’re well?” László asked this time.

“Perhaps you should retire for the night,” Matthias asked, straightening in his seat. “If you are to hunt with these boys tomorrow.”

László immediately rose to his feet. Drax quickly removed his hand, pulling her dress down as her side was exposed by the sudden standing. Her fiancé opened his palm. “I’ll take you, dearest.”

“No,” Matthias said before anyone could reply. “I have much to discuss with you, especially if you are planning to be away for another night. Bohemia has many problems that need straightening before the Ottomans arrive.”

“Something we can surely do another night,” László asked, curling his palm closed and placing it at his side.

“Drax, would you mind escorting my sister to her quarters?” Matthias smiled. Elisabeta, with a clear mind again, watched her brother curiously. Did he… did he know? She knew his face well, his words well. It was quite unlike him to arrange for company to her rooms. Why Drax would be asked was highly unusual. Unless… did he want this for her?

“Hurry back if you must, Prince,” Ruxandra purred. “I have not seen you for so long, and I have no intention of joining this hunt of yours.”

“Of course,” Drax said, seeming to shuffle in his own seat before offering the palm that Elisabeta gladly took. She stood gingerly, dipping in a curtsey to the King, Ruxandra, and finally, her betrothed.

“I hope you feel better tomorrow,” László tutted.

“As do I.”

*

They walked out at a normal pace. It wasn’t until two corridors passed them that Drax finally spoke.

“Never again,” he muttered, his pace far calmer than his tone.

“What?”

“I shan’t watch another man treat you like that,” Drax said. “Do you understand?” He turned as he walked to watch her with a dark intensity she both loved and loathed. “This,” he gestured to them, “needs to be taken care of before I drive us both insane.”

“It’s tricky,” Elisabeta said. “So many politics.”

“Fuck politics,” he hissed, pulling her arm so she halted with him. His dark blue eyes glared as he watched her. “Every moment we pretend is another blow to my heart.”

“Prince,” she breathed, lost in the moment until a person passed by them. They could never be alone in this dratted palace.

“Come,” he said, pulling her arm again so they returned to walking.

“Is this hunt a good idea?” she asked.

“Likely not,” he said. “But it could work in our favour if we’re smart.”

“Pray tell?”

He shook his head, his face like stone. “Give me time to think, I’ll… damn.”

They paused at the long corridor that held Elisabeta’s room. Outside it were two of László’s men, waiting patiently for her to return. She was never alone here. She had stupidly hoped they would have one moment alone in the confines of her room.

“Mine?” he asked.

“There’ll be more.”

“Jesus,” Drax said, threading his fingers through his hair. He guided her with a hand on her hip around a corridor behind. “I just wanted one moment,” he breathed. They looked for a space to be alone but found none. Too many people were still roaming the dark halls of the palace.

“That was a silly thing to do,” Elisabeta said as they stopped outside a wide bay window that showed the grounds of her home. Hugging it were a large pair of thick velvet curtains.

“It was,” Drax agreed. “I am usually far more coy,” he tutted. “You…” He watched her again, his fingers pressing harder against the soft skin of her hip. “Appear to drive me wild, Elisabeta.”

“Stop,” she breathed as he stepped closer to her, daring to tuck a loose wave behind her ear.

“Why?” he teased. “You are mine. I don’t care who knows it.”

“Consequences.”

“Fuck the consequences,” he growled, lustfully running his sights over her, his eyes dotting from her stomach to her chest, the bare skin on her arms, and her face. “Watching him kiss you,” he snarled with gritted teeth. “His hands all over you.” He took a step closer, cupping her cheek.

Elisabeta immediately looked around her shoulder to check for company. There was none, for now. But there would be. One could never be alone here. “We can’t, not here.”

Drax also looked to the so-far-empty landing and, with no warning, pulled her behind the curtain, reaching to extend it so it hid both of them. His lips were on hers before she could say another word, his kiss oozing with possessiveness. This was a side of Drax she had never seen. He was usually so calm, so stoic. Ever graceful and gentle. He was right before — she was meeting the Dragon now. And goddamn it, she loved it.

All thoughts of warning and anxiety escaped her when his tongue met her mouth, eating her alive with lust and want. His hands, desperate on her body, lifted her so she was sitting on the window ledge. He stepped between her open legs, snaking his hands down to pull her tighter around his waist. This kiss was different to any before. It was a claim. A vow. She was his and he was hers. Whatever László had done had driven him insane, clearly. Now it was his turn. 

Drax bent his head to her neck, kissing deeply. When he met her earlobe he sucked, and purred and groaned, his own desire clear as day. Between her hips, she could feel him hard as stone. Beneath the cloth of her dress and leather of his trousers, they were there, laid bare, desperate to be joined. You could feel the heat radiating between them. The unrelenting desire that was binding them together. 

“You don’t know what you do to me, Eliabeta,” he growled, biting at the thin skin on her neck. She let out a yelp, quickly covered by his huge palm. “No noise. One day, my sweet, I’ll let you scream for me. Loudly. Uncovered,” he exhaled a great puff of air against her skin. “I look forward to that day.” 

“Prin-” 

“Shhh,” he cooed, “we have to be quick.”

“Now?” she gasped. Were they really going to do this, out here in the open, where they could very easily be caught?! She should have been terrified. Yet, somehow, god dammit, she was burning with heat. The threat of being found only made the pleasure within her grow. Perhaps she was the devil. But if she was, he was temptation embodied in a man. 

His finger rose to her lips, curling inside and pulling her jaw open. He watched her mouth take his finger, biting his own lips. His pupils were almost black. 

“Not now,” Drax chuckled. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t have fun.”

“I need you,” she prayed, wiggling her hips so she could feel the shape of his huge member between her. 

“Soon, my love,” he said, reaching between her dress and pulling her undergarments aside. “Allow me one moment of weakness until then.” With no warning, he plunged not one, but two fingers inside her. She was so ready for him, squeezing her aching muscles around his digits and moaning deliciously - he caught them with a burning kiss. Swallowing all of the noises that were coming out of her. 

This was different, she didn’t ride him. He was in full control. With a delicious rhyme, he began to knead her beneath, hitting that spot of pleasure that was so long ignored, his thumb expertly circling her bud of nerves that pulsed desperately. 

“You are magnificent,” he said, watching her. “So wet, so ready, so…” he groaned himself, biting his bottom lip so hard, she saw one of his glistening white canines pierce the skin. A small drop of blood began to form. She moved to wipe it away with her fingers, but he kissed her too quickly. Elisabeta could taste the metallicity of his blood in her mouth as he relentlessly kissed her, moving his tongue in time with his fingers. This was unbearable. Too  much. She could already feel her climax building, that knot in her stomach tightening. 

As her legs vibrated in preparation for her orgasm, his fingers stopped. 

If she wasn’t being so mindful of their delicate hiding position, she would have screamed at him. Instead, she silently pleaded to continue, trying to thrust her hips to meet him. 

“I wonder,” Drax said. “I have wanted to taste you for so long,” he said deep, moving to her cheek and kissing it. “To have my mouth on you,” he continued, slowly moving in and out of her again. 

“Prince,” she managed. 

He seemed conflicted, but then… he smirked. Before she had time to ask him what he was doing, he planted kisses down her body. At her chest, he paused, reaching a hand to cup at her breast, to kiss the flesh that poured out of her dress. She felt the vibration of his growl there. He moved sharply to  her stomach, holding his palm over it and pressing. 

Dropping to one knee, careful to stay hidden behind the remarkably large curtain, he felt for the hem of her skirt. Head tilting upwards, those dark eyes sparkled at her with mischief. 

Flicking her skirts up, he ducked between her legs, and wasted no time in planting soft, hot kisses at her thighs, tracing upwards until… 

“Shhhhiii-” 

Quickly reaching to press a finger to her lips, he laughed softly. Drax pulled his belt from his waist and clasped her neck, bringing her close. “Forgive me for doing this, but you cannot seem to be trusted,” he smirked, tying the belt over her mouth to block out any noises. “There, now we can have fun.” 

Elisabeta could only huff behind the soft leather pressed firmly against her mouth now. And before she knew it, he had dived back between her legs. She felt only warm breath, teasing fingers at her thigh, squeezing and massaging. And then, she felt his lips on her, and then… his tongue. 

Licking a long path up and through her, he was slow, measured. Holding more self-control than she did as she instinctively bucked her hips. Drax gripped her from beneath, restraining her. She could only see a suspiciously head shaped lump from under her dress and was almost thankful for her sights being impaired. The feeling alone was enough to make her expire on the spot, seeing him doing this to her may have been too much for her to handle. 

His hands moved to grip her hips hard, holding her still as he plunged that ridiculously hot tongue inside her. Mimicking the very member between his legs, he moved it in and out, the thickness and warmth of him, this feeling… it was heavenly, it was divine. 

It was too bloody much. 

When he angled his tongue over her bud of nerves this time, flattening it so it ran soft and hard over her, teasing out her climax, she began to shake. Moving one hand from her hip, he plunged two fingers inside, keeping to the same beat as his tongue. Mercilessly thrusting inside her and hitting every spot of pleasure she knew of, and some that were yet to be discovered. 

Elisabeta breathed hard against the belt, desperately trying to keep the guttural moans from escaping. She had no choice but to bite down on the leather, the taste rich and spicy in her mouth. His tongue was driving her achingly close now. The wave of pleasure that greeted her this morning was of the tidal variety, and it was close to shore. Twisting and teasing and… jesus, this was why people drove themselves crazy over sex and lust. It made sense suddenly. The fuss over it. The feeling that spilled over her was addictive, so utterly divine she didn’t want to leave it. Elisabeta only wished to stay here forever, at the peak of the mountain of pleasure - her lover's tongue rubbing and lapping at her bud, his long fingers pulsing and pressing inside her. 

When she heard him growl against her sensitive skin, she was gone. Lost to the world she lived in and into a different plane of existence. One where her skin was hot as fire, where her skin was damp with sweat and need, her mind ablaze with a thousand thoughts but no coherency. 

Biting hard on the belt, her hips shook violently, her waist jittering as her climax found her. Stars met her eyes as she whacked her head back, feeling him slow his pace to guide her through her explosive moment of pleasure. She felt Drax chuckle against her warm flesh. He whipped his head out of her skirts, his lips glossy and smirking as he watched her try in vain to regulate her unsteady heartbeat. Ripping the belt off her, he lifted to kiss her, dipping his sweet tasting tongue into her mouth. Now she had her moment, she was suddenly determined to give him something. Her mouth went dry at the thought of his swollen member unchecked and neglected beneath the leather that ached between them. 

Gently, shyly, almost hoping he wouldn’t notice, she sneaked her hands to cup  the enormous shape of him through his pants. God, he was like stone. The familiar fear for the future struck her. His fingers she could handle, but how anyone could fit that beast inside was beyond her. 

His hand covered her as she squeezed, causing him to press his forehead to hers. “We don’t have time,” he said, trying to pull her away. 

But god dammit, two could play at this game. 

“No,” she said, more seriously than she expected. “I want to feel you, Prince.” 

“Elisabeta,” he chuckled, “how can I say this….” he watched her with wide pupils and kissed her softly. “I won’t last long, when we do this, it will be all night.”

“I am not suggesting that,” she challenged. “But you were so kind, let me return the favour.” 

“You don’t hav-”

“I want to,” she interrupted, cupping him harder through his trousers. A low rumble echoed between them, the Dragon stirring beneath. 

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he said, holding the back of her head and pulling her into another mind-blowing kiss. 

That was all the permission she needed, and she began to kneed, pressing his hardness with the soft of her fingers and palm. He twitched beneath her touch, and she mimicked what it would be like to rub her fingers over his bare skin, moving her hand up and down over the soft leather against his - now pulsing - member. 

“Fuck,” he hissed, his forehead hard against hers. “If you don’t stop that i’ll-” his breath hitched with another hiss, then a dull grunt. “Elisabeta,” he warned. 

She did not listen. Newly determined, she fastened her pace, watching in awe as he seemed to come undone without any need for skin on skin contact. 

“I’m warning…” he stopped again, words lost on him. He closed his eyes, silent, his mouth opened enough to shakily exhale. “Enough,” he said suddenly, stopping her hands and pulling her up and off the windowsill. 

“No,” she said again, frowning at him. “Let yourself feel.” A wash of confidence came over her. And she found herself stepping him towards the window. His back pressing against the cool glass. Shocked at first, Drax’s lips pulled with an impressed smile at her vigour. “Really, you want to watch me?” 

She nodded, silently unclasping the first button his leathers, then his second, and third, her eyes never leaving him for a moment. His hand cupped the back of her head, holding her by the crown, “fine, do with me what you will.”

Now was her turn to smile. She didn’t know where to start. With her hands, her mouth… the decision was taken from her when he pulled her to sit on his lap, the ledge of the window acting as a seat for them both. He kissed her firmly as her shaking hands reached beneath his leather for the first time and… there he was. Soft, marble hard, huge… his head already leaking with moisture. She rubbed her finger gently over the tip, producing a low breathy growl from Drax. She popped the digit in her mouth, him watching her greedily as her eyes rolled to the back of her head at the feeling of tasting him. He kissed her again, biting at her bottom lip as she began to stroke at the Dragon, bobbing her hand in time to his rhythmic thrusts below. 

“I’m…” he stopped, moaning deeply. The sound drove her close to climax herself and she felt her body pulse and jolt. He began to gather her dress, pulling it up and positioning her naked flesh beneath him. For a moment, she thought he was going to go all the way. Giving in to the feeling. And she would have let him. But he didn't, instead, he moved the cotton her underwear aside, and with a hand bruising into her side to guide her movements, rolled her hips against the length of him. It was so close to sex… it felt like it. The feeling of his naked cock as she thrusted above was doing wild things to her. The friction driving them both close. 

“Fuck, you feel,” Drax breathed, running his fingers through his hair, “move for me, my Princess.” 

Her pace fastened, she could feel a second release building. All while, he thrusted faster, faster, bucking his hips to the beat of hers, she was riding him and he was watching, lost in her eyes, in her movement. Elisabeta began to clench again, her muscles preparing her for the burst of pleasure waiting to take her over. With one final buck of her hips, she was drawn into his mouth, his lips and tongue swallowing the animalistic moans pouring out of her as she climaxed again. 

“Shit,” he hissed, lifting to hold the back of her neck. “Elisabeta,” he growled. She felt warm jets of his own release cover her stomach, as he hummed deeply, lost in his own finish. When he stopped twitching below, he simply embraced her. Lovingly holding her close, inhaling close to her hair and breathing out a noise of satisfaction. “Strawberries,” he said. “Your hair always smells sweetly of them.” 

“Does it,” she mumbled, her body limp in his hold, closing her eyes, in love with the feeling of his finger stroking her arm, the kiss on her cheek. 

Jason was right, she was, without a doubt, in love with this man.

Chapter Text

“I can’t believe it,” Jason squealed, pulling Elisabeta forcefully through the halls towards the north exit that bordered the forests. “I owe you one, Lizzy. A hunt. A real hunt!”

They had been beside themselves with excitement ever since Elisabeta shared the news that Drax suggested they join. “You’ll have to forgive me if I kiss that beautiful bastard when I see him, finally a man who can appreciate that what I have between my legs does not affect my fighting!”

“There,” Elisabeta puffed, losing her breath with exertion. “There will be no… no fighting,” she finished, holding a hand to her chest as she ran to steady herself.

She was royally fucked. If this was her running to the grounds, how on earth was she going to keep up with the hunt? Jason seemed to have the same thought and slowed.

“Jesus, Lizzy, you’re out of shape, you need to eat more, I keep telling you,” they mumbled.

Autumn made for pleasant weather generally. Today was not so kind. While the land was thankfully free of rainfall, the wind was cruel and icy – a tease of the winter that approached. Elisabeta had wrapped in her warmest woollen dress and draped herself in one of the dusty fur cloaks in her wardrobe – it was the first time since spring she had needed to reach for it.

Jason, however, never seemed to feel the cold. It was an inside joke they had shared most of their lives. When the town was covered in multiple layers, Jason would flaunt a simple cotton tunic – often complaining they were still too warm. Today was no exception, dressed in similar leathers to her Prince – nutmeg browns instead of black – they happily strolled beside Elisabeta, light on their toes with excitement.

A huddled circle of horses and men gathered at the mouth of the forest. László, head high, wearing his finest cloak and gold, surrounded by his best men. Drax, however, stood a little outside. Joined only by Ponvelt and Lor.

“Ah, my love,” László bellowed as he saw Elisabeta approaching. He kissed her on the side of the cheek, clasping her hand immediately. “I hope you are well today?”

“I feel much better,” she replied, her eyes glossing to Drax for a moment – he was smirking behind László’s back.

“And… Jason, is it?” László mocked, looking them up and down with clear judgement.

“Yup,” they said, patting Drax on the shoulder, Jason thanked him fast. Drax shook their hand like a fellow soldier, clasping it up to their chest – not gently like he would shake a lady’s hand. Elisabeta was glad he understood without having to be told. So many didn’t.

“It’s not too late,” László chirped, shivering a little from the cold wind, “you can turn back.” He looked to the new arrivals, and Drax.

“And miss all the fun,” Drax said, patting the humongous horse behind him. Its coat was onyx black and so fine it gleamed in the morning sun.

László’s horse was quite different. For a man who insisted on the best, his mare was surprising. An older beast, his from his childhood, aptly named: Horsey. He had named her as a child and never bothered to change it. Elisabeta had learned he was a man who didn’t like change, of any sort.

“Elisabeta,” he said, squeezing her hand tight in his grip. “You’ll ride with me, for safety.”

“I can ride a horse,” she frowned, watching as Drax’s hands clenched into fists. He hid them fast behind his back, but Jason noticed, rolling their eyes and chuckling.

“She can ride with me,” Jason said, pulling a more sturdy brown horse from the clump. “This one’s a beauty.”

“That’s m–” Ponvelt began to speak but stopped himself, shuffling where he stood. “He’s called Artue, you… you can ride him if you wish.” Elisabeta smiled to herself as she watched his cheeks grow rosy. Ah, the effect of Jason on men was delicious to watch.

“So kind,” Jason nodded, “we’ll take good care of him, won’t we Lizzy?”

“I’m sorry, I have to insist she rides with me,” László tutted, pulling Elisabeta a little more harshly by the arm towards his ageing mare. “I promised the King she would be safe.”

Drax’s lips tightened into a thin line. He took one step forward, then halted, confused, as Elisabeta shook her head behind László’s back as he prepared the saddle.

She could handle riding on the same horse as him. This was not the time for dramatics. They had an opportunity to bond. It would actually work in their favour if László and Drax were on better terms – permission was better than forgiveness, she always thought. Making nice was what she was best at, with years of training in the court.

*

Elisabeta regretted stopping the Prince from intervening approximately forty seconds into the ride on Horsey’s back. The horse was slow, bony and clearly struggling.

“Come on, ol’ girl,” László patted her affectionately.

“Are you sure she can handle both of us?” Elisabeta asked, clutching to the top of the saddle for dear life as they rode on. She never rode with others, usually enjoying solo travel. She had expected László to loop his arms around her to offer some stability, but he never thought to, instead holding her shoulder tightly. That offered no support in the slightest… Though, she supposed it would keep Drax a little more sane seeing that they were not riding in a tight embrace. Hopefully the hunt would be swift – the faster she could relieve poor Horsey, the better.

“Why do you ride that horse?” Jason shouted from ahead. They rode beautifully on Artue, so elegant – with a straight back and fine hold. Elisabeta watched them with jealousy, her back hunched, puffing stray hair from her face every few seconds. She was stupid not to bring a tie for her unruly locks.

“She’s a friend,” László answered, stroking the mane of Horsey affectionately. So, he could be gentle, just with his childhood horse. Not her.

“And who are your friends who join us, Dragon?” Jason shouted over to the right, where the Prince and his two men rode together in near silence.

“This is Lor,” he nodded to his right at the shortest of the men. His ginger hair was messily tied at the back of his head – he was a little rat-like, but had been perfectly polite in the time Elisabeta had seen him. “He’s my best archer. And,” he turned to smile at the other man, one that Elisabeta actually liked, “Ponvelt, one of my best soldiers.”

“And friend,” he chuckled, winking at Drax. “Don’t forget friend.”

Drax only grunted in reply.

“Ever hunted before, boys?” László shouted so loud, Elisabeta winced, reaching for her ear and rubbing it with her palm. “Sorry, dear,” he muttered, laughing.

“We have,” Lor said, “a little at home. Ponvelt was always good at catching all kinds of beasts when we ran out of supplies at war.”

“Pff,” Ponvelt hissed. “The Dragon was always the one to find them and make the kill.”

Drax, still silent, patted at the side of his great mare’s neck. The horse rounded, avoiding something on the ground. Elisabeta turned back, narrowing her eyes to see what. Focusing hard, she finally noticed a deep hole in the ground, so hidden by the undergrowth and moss, any normal person would never have noticed. He did have a sharp eye, indeed.

“We should press on,” Drax said, “it looks like a storm is heading our way.”

“Nonsense,” László laughed. “I had my best men check the signs. We have clear skies all today and tonight.”

“Hmm.” Drax looked to the sky, which showed no sign of rain or clouds. He peered to the forest, appearing to focus on the way the copper autumn leaves were moving in the wind, but said nothing.

“Once this wind passes, we’ll be basking in the sun, trust me," László said. 

*

For the third time in five minutes, Elisabeta almost slipped right off Horsey. The rain had made her thin fur slippery. As they rode, almost blindly, in the thick sleet of rain that pounded the earth, it was László’s turn to stay quiet.

Drax had every right to offer a sarcastic comment. An ‘I told you so’. Instead, he kept his head low, raindrops falling from his hair onto his leathers, quietly brooding.

One of László’s men approached. A rounded lump affectionately nicknamed Duffers, as from behind, he appeared almost slim. When turned, a perfectly round and protruding stomach could be seen, making him appear pregnant – thus Duffers – up-the-duff. “We should make camp, get some shelter.” He looked cautiously at Horsey, who was not in good shape. The entire group had to slow their pace to make up for hers. Elisabeta felt awfully sorry for the poor horse. She should have been retired long ago, to live out the last of her years with plenty of hay in a warm, sheltered stable. Instead, damn Prince László couldn’t seem to let her go.

“Fine,” he hissed, catching Elisabeta as she began to slip again off the soaked saddle. “There’s a clearing not far from here.”

It was hopeless to hunt in such a state. Even on a clear day it was notoriously hard to find the infamous gyrfalcon… perhaps this was all one big mistake. One she was beginning to regret suggesting to start with.

They made camp shortly after – every man (and Jason) helping to put up the tents to provide some shelter from the violent surprise storm. Elisabeta tried to help, but promptly slipped in the mud trying to pull at the rope of the first tent. Drax, chuckling, lifted her effortlessly from where she was sprawled on the floor, checked her over, and guided her gently to stand beside his horse.

Once the tents were ready, Jason caught a bucket of rainfall (which was so heavy it took only minutes) and brought Elisabeta into the smallest of the tents. Their tent, they said.

Cloth in hand, Jason began to strip off and clean themselves. “Come on Lizzy,” they laughed, throwing another cloth at her – who started to shiver violently from the wet clothing and cold. “You’re gonna catch a flu if you don’t get out of those.”

With nimble hands, she had the worst clean of her life. The water was freezing – goosebumps appearing immediately as she wiped away the mud. Finally, the two found some dry clothing from their waterproofed holds and relished in the comfort outside of the rain.

“The boys are making a stew,” Jason said, attempting to dab the moisture out of the feather tops of their arrows. “If you’re hungry.”

The mere mention of food caused a grumble from her stomach. “I am quite peckish.”

Moving closer to Elisabeta, Jason peered at the closest entrance of the tent, checking there were no passers-by. “Has the Dragon spoken more on what he plans to do?”

“No,” Elisabeta said. “I don’t think there is a plan. It’s hopeless. I shouldn’t have brought us out here. It was a stupid suggestion.”

“Not at all,” Jason said, nudging her side. “Hey, Drax said tomorrow this should clear right up. Then, it’s hunting time. And I am determined to show that skinny rake who’s the real hunter.” They were referring to László. “He’s showing off, for you, for that Dragon of yours. But I’ve heard the tales of his hunts. Where one of his men has killed the beast and László has paid him to claim it for himself. It’s all a front, Lizzy. He’s way over his head – use that to your advantage.”

“Perhaps,” Elisabeta murmured, grabbing her already wet cloak as a shield for the rain outside. She looked to Jason. “Shall we?”

“If you slip and cover yourself in mud again after all of that,” Jason chuckled. "Come on then, mushroom. Watch your step."

Chapter Text

The cold was so biting by night, Elisabeta found herself in a perpetual shiver. Her teeth chattering so loudly, she feared they might chip.

“Do you want my furs, Lizzy?” Jason asked gently, rolling over to place a hand on her vibrating shoulder.

She shook her head roughly, bringing what little cover she had up to her nose. Inside the confines of the fur, she could feel her hot breath create a cloud of condensation, making her face feel damp and even colder. Why the hell had she suggested this hunt…

“I’ll be fine.” Jason wasted no time in stripping the furs from their body and wrapping Elisabeta up like a caterpillar preparing for a cocoon. “See,” they pressed a hand to Elisabeta’s cheek. It was warm. They had to be inhuman.

“Thank you, lovely,” Elisabeta murmured, quickly grabbing their hand from her cheek and kissing it.

“Pffff,” Jason said. They hated any signs of emotion. Found them to be quite repulsive unless they were hidden in jest.

“Jason?” Elisabeta asked, rolling a little to her right so she could see the outline of their face lit from the shroud of the moonlight through the thin tent.

“Go to sleep, Lizzy. You’ll need your strength for tomorrow.”

“I know,” Elisabeta pouted to no one in particular. “But… but what if we can’t be together? What if we shou—” she stopped herself. She couldn’t say the words out loud. Meddlesome thoughts had plagued her head as they rode the brutal storm through the woods earlier. A wave of depression and anxiety hitting her with no warning. They—Drax and herself—had been so caught up in what they wanted, they had never stopped to consider if it was wise at all. Ultimately, Elisabeta loved her family, her people, Drax’s too. If there was an outrage politically, a coup, it would be catastrophic for innocent people. Those she loved. A life with László would be dull and free of love. But it would be safe for those around her. The truce with Bohemia would be guaranteed—her brother safe from war and hand in hand with a great ally.

“Look,” Jason sighed, also rolling to face Elisabeta on their side. “I know you. I can feel your little head whirring with thoughts. Ultimately, we all need to be a little selfish sometimes. And if your Dragon can work out a way to be together and not cause a ruckus, that’s great. Do you believe he can do it?”

“I don’t know,” Elisabeta said. “He seemed quiet at dinner.”

“I thought that was normal for him. The Dragon broods away moodily in the corner of every room, a glass of wine in hand. Seems quite apt.”

He was notoriously angsty and quiet, yes. Though, tonight, he was particularly mute. He would look at her warmly from time to time as the boys ate an unseasoned stew of rabbit and leek. László spoke loudly of his past hunts—great victories of wild boar, aurochs and European bison. Claims that Elisabeta now knew were fake. Lor and Ponvelt sat close to Jason and her, leaving Drax at the end of the log. Ponvelt and Jason had started to get on splendidly; when he wasn’t so flustered around Jason, he was quite charming. They, it appeared, had quite a lot in common. A passion for war and physically demanding exercises. While they spoke fervently about a particularly gruesome attack on the Ottomans—impaling them on poles—Drax and Lor simply watched on, Lor unimpressed and a little scared, while Vlad grinned at the prospect of impaling.

“You read those books, where they always kiss at the end,” Jason pulled a face in the darkness; Elisabeta could hear their cheeks dimpling with repulse. “And as—quite frankly—disgusting as I find gooey love stories, you’ve always wanted it. For fuck’s sake, Lizzy, allow yourself a little happiness. Now, sleep, you silly bint. We rise early.”

Tapping her hip gently, they rolled back to the right, exhaling deeply as they shuffled, trying to get a little more comfortable on the lightly padded ground of the tent.

*

Sleep eventually found her somewhere between the hours of two and three a.m. It was soon interrupted when Elisabeta heard a curious shuffling outside. Bolting up from where she slept, she squinted, trying to centre her hearing and look for shapes through the shadows she could view outside. The rain had relaxed in the last hour—drops patting off the tent rather than hammering. The sway of the wind was more gentle too.

Between rainfall and wind, Elisabeta heard it again. The slight sound that rang unusual to her. A twig snapping, a small shuffle, a crunch of wet leaves.

Her eyes widened, and she looked over to Jason—checking they were there and hadn’t nipped out to the loo. There they laid, snoring gently, clasping their leather-bound sword like a sharp, insidious teddy bear. She would have laughed if she wasn’t so on edge. 

Another noise—louder this time. Closer.

It was likely a deer, or one of the men outside going for a bowl full of leftover stew. Nothing to be scared of, she told herself. Though her heartbeat was erratic and her neck was plastered with goosebumps, she forced herself to settle down—pulling the covers over her head like she had as a child when something went bump in the night. If there was something terrifying outside, she would rather not know. She would be blissfully ignorant until the moment it killed her (hopefully swiftly and painlessly).

These thoughts were all well and good—even comforting—until the sound of her tent flap flipped open.

Elisabeta froze, not daring to take another breath. Completely still with fear. She tried to reach for Jason, her hand snaking slowly and carefully through her furs and creeping to their side.

She felt the soft floor move with the weight of someone—or something’s—heavy footsteps, the unmistakable sound of light breathing meshing with the wind from outside.

Jabbing Jason in the side, she hoped they’d wake quietly. Notice someone had joined them. She didn’t dare whisper; it was too quiet. Their intruder would surely hear.

Instead, Elisabeta fumbled with her left hand to her side, finding her bow and… bingo, an arrow. Its sharp steel head could puncture skin with enough force. 

Being blind under the furs offered her no indication of how close they were to her. 

Well, this was how she was going to die. Under the cover of night, her best friend beside her, the love of her life in the tent next door. She had a good run, she supposed. 

No—they had taught her better than this! She may have been a clumsy fool, but she was determined. Fast on her feet. Gathering the will to fight, to plunge the thin arrow she held tightly in her shaking hands into the neck of her intruder, she smelt something curious.

It was… familiar. Leathery, oud… vanilla and shit, it was…

“Elisabeta,” a rough, low voice whispered.

“AHHHHHH!” Jason roared, leaping from their bed with all the ferocity of a jungle cat and wrestling Drax to the ground. To Elisabeta’s surprise, he tumbled down, surprised by the sudden attack from the seemingly sleeping beauty. In one swift move, they pinned Dracul to the floor, their sword against his neck.

“What the fuck do you think yo—” they panted, before gasping. “Shit, shit—” swinging their legs off Drax, they plopped to the floor. “Sorry, Dragon.”

Elisabeta reached to turn the oil lamp on—giving enough light to the tent to make out faces, but not enough to alert the entire camp that they were awake.

There Drax was, still lying on the floor, one hand over his chest, the other open wide to the ground. For one strange second, Elisabeta thought he was sobbing. His chest was moving up and down in a similar motion, and he was rumbling low with something. It was only when his mouth opened wide, his teeth gleaming, nose pinching, did she realise he was laughing. 

“I rather like you,” he said once he had recovered, leaning up with one strong arm and looking at Jason warmly.

“Didn’t mean to hurt ya,” they mentioned, nodding to the small cut at his neck.

“A welcome sign that you can, indeed, protect this one,” he nodded to Elisabeta, looking at her properly for the first time all night. His eyes were gentle again, loving. Not black and hell-bent with jealousy and possessiveness. He turned back to Jason. “Tell others you managed to pin me, and they’ll give you any role you want in war.” He winked cheekily, stretching his back and wincing where Jason had flipped him over.

“Risky move, Dragon,” Jason said, folding their legs as they sat up straight. “There are enough rumours about you and this one,” they nodded to Elisabeta, who was quickly brushing back the evidence of her messy bedhead.

“I apologise,” Drax said, dipping his head to them both. “It’s not safe to talk out in public with so many eyes on us. I think… I think I have a plan.”

Jason and Elisabeta both straightened where they sat, looking to Drax more curiously.

Drax’s eyes darted from Elisabeta’s to Jason’s, hesitating for a moment.

“You can trust them,” Elisabeta said firmly.

“I do,” he nodded. Leaning back into his hand, he raised one knee, resting his other hand casually on it. It was only then that Elisabeta saw he was dressed far more informally than she had seen him in recent months. His leather replaced by casual black linen trousers, his shirt, usually tucked in, was loose around his well-built, muscular chest. The white flowing cottons offered a peek into his pectorals that were delightfully peppered with dark hairs. She fought the temptation to pounce into his arms then and there, swallowing down the desire that was already growing inside her. Damn this man and the effect he had on her.

“Have you heard of Lovagi próba?”

Jason nodded while Elisabeta shook her head. Drax’s eyes caught on her nose and he chuckled.

“Known as the knightly trial. Two persons with the same goal or prize give a fogadás,” he looked to Elisabeta who still looked confused. “A wager.”

“What kind of wager?” she asked, watching as Jason’s lips twitched with a smile.

“I think it’s best to leave it vague. If I said you, he could easily disagree. So,” he flexed his hand to a fist. “I’ll wager something precious to me. That he could, in effect, claim for anything I own, whilst I can do the same.” He paused for a beat. “Are you with me so far?”

Elisabeta stared blankly as Jason bit at their bottom lip in thought. “Yes, I think so. It could be brilliant. It could also be disastrous if you lose, Dragon.”

“It’s a risk worth taking.”

“Indeed,” Jason agreed.

“I’ve mulled over it for a while. I think it’s the safest option. A fogadás is bound by God. He would be going against Him if he tries to dispute it.”

“When do you plan to challenge him?” Elisabeta asked slowly.

“Tomorrow,” Drax said. “At breakfast, in front of everyone so there are witnesses.”

“And if you win…”

“We can be together in peace,” Drax said softly, reaching for her hand and squeezing.

Breathing out a shaky inhale, Elisabeta nodded, dipping her head down. He moved closer, lifting her chin with a finger to meet his eyes. “I told you I would find a way.” Drax kissed her lightly, drawing away, leaving her with just a peck.

Holding the back of his strong neck, she refused to let him get away with the smallest of kisses, pulling him back to her lips roughly and pouring all the tension left in her body into him. His tongue dipped into her mouth as he cupped her jaw, kissing her passionately back.

“Uh-er,” Jason coughed.

Both eager parties pulled away immediately, Elisabeta’s cheeks growing rosy.

“Don’t let me stop you,” Jason continued, reaching for their tunic and dressing quickly.

“No,” Elisabeta mumbled, “sorry.”

“No no,” Jason chuckled, pulling on their boots. “I was feeling an urge to eat more of that nasty stew anyway. I’ll give you half an hour,” they said, looking at them both. “If you could both keep any liquids away from my side of the bed.”

Drax pressed a hand to his forehead, looking adorably embarrassed for the first time.

“Are you sure?” Elisabeta said, reaching for Jason’s hand.

“Who am I to interrupt this?” Jason winked. “Be quick,” they looked to Drax. “Well, not too quick.”

Creeping out of the tent, Jason gave a mock salute and pinned the tent shut, leaving them alone. 

“So, tomo-”

Elisabeta didn’t get to finish her question, as the Dragon’s lips were on her so hard, her breath had no choice but to pour into his mouth. Gasping for air, as his hands clutched her, holding her by the bottom of her thighs and lifting her into his lap. Wrapping her legs around him like a snake, she immediately felt a pool of want within. Beneath her hips, she felt the ridiculous hardness of him - even more foreboding with a light layer of cotton rather than thick leather between them. 

“I want you,” Drax growled into her mouth, biting and pulling at her bottom lip. His hand reached for her neck, squeezing it and kissing a trail with his burning hot mouth down her neck. “You torment me, Elisabeta.” He sucked heartily, only pulling away a second before her skin would bruise. Drawing back to drink her in, he reached to tuck a stray curl behind her ear, his hand falling to her waist and pinching, a breathy groan escaping his mouth as her hips moved up and down the great length jabbing her below. “I don’t know how much longer I can wait for you, my love.” 

“Prince, we have tonight,” she breathed, desperate to feel him - the real him - inside her. 

He chuckled into their next kiss, tracing a line down her spine. “I will not fuck you for the first time in a tent,” he smiled at her pout. “That doesn’t mean I can’t play.”

“Drax,” she breathed, her yelp hidden by another deep kiss as he sneaked his hand between her thighs and cupped at her womanhood. “Jesus Drax, you’re going to kill me if you don-” 

“We will,” he interrupted. “In good time. And it’ll be you who commits murder if you don’t stop grinding those heavenly hips over my cock.” 

“Hmm,” Elisabeta hummed, drawing herself harder over the Dragon that stirred. She loved it when he cursed. It was so unlike the usually polite Prince she knew. “Like this?” she positioned herself with her hands on his hard chest, lifting so she was sat on her knees. There the movement was easier, more fluid. Delicious friction bursting between them. 

“Fu-” Drax bit his lip, hard. Elisabeta watched with delight as his pupils grew, the colour of his eyes shifting from that delicate and charming aquamarine to the foreboding navy that only appeared when he was very, very aroused. “Elisabeta,” he warned, frowning at her. 

“Oh, did you wish me to stop?” she challenged, grinding her hips faster with a rhythm she had no idea she was capable of, above. 

A wave of confidence flooded over her. Perhaps it was the glass of mead she had with dinner, or more likely the way he looked at her. Like she was something to be desired. It made her feel wanted. It made her want to please him. To watch him come undone beneath her, because of her. She pressed her hands more firmly to his chest, guiding him back until his head hit her pillow. His hands gripped her hips, not guiding her movements this time, just there, clutching tightly, bruising her soft flesh where his fingers dug in. 

“This is a dangerous game,” he panted, watching her sharply. He closed his eyes for a moment, allowing himself to feel her, to relax into the pleasure she was giving him. They snapped open fast and he attempted to reach up to her, to switch their positions. Elisabeta had other ideas, keeping her palm pressed to his chest, not allowing him to move. Of course - he could have - he held more strength in his little finger than she had in her whole body, but he listened, smirking lightly. “What do you want, Elisabeta?” he asked coolly. 

She dipped down, watching as her long wavy locks fell to his chest and face, he was so beautiful from there. His lips pink with their kisses, his cheek bones sharp, his eyes devilish. He wasn’t a perfect man - Lazlo was certainly more traditionally good looking. Dracul was scarred and unique. With a slice of a scar on his cheek, still a little red as it healed. His face held a few lines - a forever present crease where the shadow of his smile showed at all times. His lips were full, his nose was broad, roman-looking. Still, she had never seen anyone more beautiful. 

She kissed him, holding the curve of his own cheek this time, feeling the rough skin where he had recently shaved. She breathed in the exotic scent so unique to him. Drax pulled her closer, and tried - in vain - to roll her to her back. But she pinned him with her thighs, pushing off him and watching him greedily. 

“What are you…” he watched confused but delightfully aroused as she kissed the top of his chest, pulling at the buttons until his toned abs glistened in the warm candle light. Reaching to his trousers, she dipped her head up to catch his eyes. He was frowning. His pupils were the closest to black they had ever been. 

With no delay, she popped open the button that kept the Dragon captive and took a moment to admire the great length of him as he pulled himself out. It was actually terrifying. Making her mouth water with want but her body shiver with fear at the realisation that she intended to take him. That monstrous size… would it fit? 

“Darling,” he purred, lifting her chin. “You don’t have t-” 

Catching him off guard, she gripped at his thick length, moving her hand up and down; admiring how a bead of moisture appeared at the pink tip immediately. She heard him growl low. The noise locked her in and she dipped down to lap at his glistening head. He was sweet - like honey. It was so delicious, she instinctually closed her mouth over his head, sucking gently like he was her favourite forbidden treat. 

His hand reached for her head, and for a moment, she feared he would pull her away. This time he didn’t. He just wanted to touch her, to feel her hair between his fingers. 

“Gods,” he hissed as she opened her mouth wider to take more of him in. “Your mouth. Fuck, darling… you’re so good at this.” 

The praise filled her stomach with butterflies. She felt her own bud pulse with want, but that could be dealt with later. For now, she had a feast to start. 

Gripping the enormity of him with her right hand, she licked a path from the tip of his cock to the bottom and then, took half the length of him into her mouth, relaxing her jaw so she could handle the girth. The noises he was making were finer than any music she had heard before. He was quiet, coy, but rough with his growls. His breathing was low, as he started to guide her movements himself, pushing lightly on her head in time to her movements. 

“I… fuck,” he muttered, a gutteral grunt echoing through his chest. “I won’t last long this way.” It was a warning. That he was close. Perhaps he expected she would stop. But it only spurred her on. The thought of bringing him to climax with her mouth alone was intoxicating and now she was determined. 

She moved faster, lapping at his head, changing up the pace, first fast quick bobs, then long slow movements, taking in - close to - his whole length. Elisabeta felt his grip tighten in her hair, feeling a pang of pain as he (perhaps inadvertently) pulled sharply at her hair. 

“You remarkable thing,” he exhaled, thrusting his own hips a little to meet her mouth. “Fuck, i’m close, I…” he stopped, quickening the pace. He felt like a stone beneath her grip. She could feel him twitching beneath, his muscles throbbing as he lost control, thrusting hard and fast, pulling her hair and twisting it between his hand so he had created a make-shift-poneytail. He wrapped it around his hand once more and yanked, growling as she lapped, sucked and drew the climax out of him. 

“Fucccccck,” he hissed. His growl reverberating off the walls of the tent as Elisabeta moaned around his cock. It pulsed in her mouth, growing somehow harder until… 

Hot jets of liquid spilled into her mouth, he pushed her deeper around him as she swallowed greedily, her eyes rolling to the back of her head at the feeling of him releasing himself inside her mouth. She continued to suck, as he moved with small erratic thrusts beneath, the last of his climax spilling into her. 

With a pop, she pulled her mouth away, looking up dreamily, lost in lust and satisfaction. He wasted no time in lifting her to his lips, kissing her deeply, exploring her mouth with his tongue, his warm breath sweet against her face. 

Spinning them gracefully so she was now beneath him, he kissed her neck, pulling at her dress until finally, he lifted the entire thing off her...

Chapter Text

She realised it was the first time she had truly been naked in front of him. Every moment of the past was fully clothed. 

Instinctually, she squirmed; her cheeks rosy with lust and a new found shyness - quite a different woman to the one who had, just moments ago, pinned the Dragon to the ground and sucked him to completion. 

His eyes washed over her, still black, still wide with desire and admiration. “I have never seen something so perfect,” he muttered. “You are truly a goddess, Elisabeta.” He spoke in his own tongue - one she had missed hearing as he so often spoke in Hungarian now he was here. 

“You are my saviour,” she said, reaching up to his face to run her fingers through his wavy locks. “Without you, I would have no dreams. Before I met you, I only dreamt of the past. Now, I dare to dream of the future.” 

“I won’t leave you again,” he said firmly, kissing her. “I will want to kiss these lips every day of my life,” he purred. As he spoke, she felt him reach down, tracing her bare skin with a long finger. He stopped at the apex of her thighs, simply pressing the tip of his finger against her bud of nerves, but not moving. “I’ll never forget the first moment I saw you,” he said softly. 

“Tell me,” she managed, squirming beneath him. 

“You looked so lost - this untemptered beauty that I knew I had to claim,” Drax said in Hungarian. 

“No,” she breathed, “in your tongue. Talk to me as you did in the castle.” 

“What would you like me to say, Elisabeta,” he said low, kissing her neck and blowing cool air into her ear. The feeling made her shiver. 

“I…” she didn’t actually know, and bit her lip, chewing on her thoughts. 

“Shall I tell you how I was yearning to kiss those lips from the first moment i saw you,” he said, his finger running small, gentle circles over her bud. 

She sucked in a breathe of shock and pleasure. 

“Shhh,” he chuckled, cupping her neck, “or I shall have to gag you again, and I rather enjoy seeing those rose-bitten lips of yours tremble as you come.”

“Prince,” she muttered, closing her eyes, the feeling too intense too soon. One finger teased her entrance as he moved their position so his knee was raised, close to her, one elbow leaning beside her head on the right, the other doing the devils work below. He buried his face into her neck, kissing her once before whispering more in her ear: “You drove me insane, Elisabeta,” he purred, slipping two fingers inside her. “Fuck, you’re so wet. So, deliciously ready.”

“Mmm,” she mumbled, squeezing her lips together to keep the moan she knew was waiting masked. 

“Remmeber when we duelled, how we moved together so naturally. I would watch you watching the fire late at night, counting your freckles. And then, restless in bed, when we awayed, I would dream of you.” He began thrusting his fingers faster into her, his thumb casting expert, firm circles around her bud of nerves, teasing her, causing her whole body to vibrate. His body, his movements, his talents in bed were enough to finish her off, but his words… his words would be the death of her. 

“I would think of your lips, your smile, your eyes, and those breasts,” he dipped his head down to lick and lap at her round flesh, teasing her nipple with his sharp teeth. The knot within her stomach was tightening, warning her that she wasn’t far away. 

“The forbidden taste of your lips haunted my daydreams for almost a year, Elisabeta.” 

She was grinding her own hips beneath him now, desperate for him. She wanted more, she wanted all of him. His fingers were pulsing deliciously beneath her, hitting her pleasure spot perfectly again and again. Her muscles gripping his fingers within. 

As she opened her mouth to pant, a not-so-subtle moan escaped. 

He whipped up, leaving her breasts to claim her mouth. “When will you learn to be quiet,” he chuckled. His dark eyes sparked with mischief suddenly. “Did you ever touch yourself in my bed?” he asked with no warning. 

“I…” she had. Of course she had. But she couldn’t say it. Instead, she nodded shyly. 

“Fuck, the thought of that,” he breathed, pressing his forehead to hers and exhaling. “Show me,” he said suddenly, drawing his fingers away from her. She felt horridibly empty all of a sudden. 

“Drax, don’t s-”

“Shh,” he said, kissing her deeply again. “Show me.”

He reached for her hand, pulling it gently from her pillow to her own womanhood. She was embarrassingly soaked - throbbing with want. He placed her fingers to her, then left her hands. Gripping her breast gently instead, his face pressed to the side of her head.

“Touch yourself for me.” 

The thought of him watching her should have horrified her. Once upon a time, it would have. Still, there was a comfort between them. A delicate sanctuary that existed where you shouldn’t be embarrassed. It was a safe space. 

A wash of heat licked her body as he squeezed at her breast, kissing the side of her cheek softly. Slowly at first, she began to draw small circles, just like he had, around herself. Rubbing through the slickness and warmth, thinking of his eyes burning onto her. Watching her as her breath began to hitch at the feeling. 

“Did you think of me, like this?” he purred, teasing her nipple with a finger and pinching it. The pain shot a lightning bolt straight to her bud, and suddenly, she was dangerously close. 

“What did you think of?” His voice was low but needy, erratic like hers. He was enjoying this. 

“You,” she said quickly. “Your hands on me.” 

“And?” 

“Your tongue against me,” she muttered, about to gasp. Sensing the sudden noise, Drax turning her cheek to face him, burying his tongue into her mouth, kissing her desperately with so much want and burning desire. 

“Tell me your fantasies,” he said, his lips brushing against hers. 

“You… you would take me against my bedroom wall,” her fingers had a mind of their own now, kneading at her bud of nerves, as she twitched beneath her touch. “Holding me up against the wall, you’d fuck me there, hard,” she breathed, “Annd, hummm-” he kissed her more, swallowing the noises. 

“Tell me, my love.” 

“I… i’m so close, Drax, I’m…”

“Imagine it,” he whispered, “imagine us against the wall. My hands holding you, pinning you against the cool stone, your legs wrapped around my waist. Deep in you. Taking you hard, claiming you finally as mine.” 

A flicker of the dream emerged clearly in her mind again. Him ruthlessly taking her, the Dragon unleashed. Possieve. The noise of their fucking echoing around the room. No care in the world who knew of their pleasure. Completely, and utterly, eachothers. 

“Come for me,” he purred, holding her neck and squeezing away a little air from her lungs. 

Her fingers were messy, but measured. His words, the memory, the feeling toppled her. Pulsing waves of pleasure travelled through her, attacking her nervous system, making her hips twitch, her eyes flash with stars. His mouth was on her immediately, swallowing every moan and squeak of pleasure she was making as she rode out the orgasm she had produced. 

“Watching you come undone is one of the greatest things I have had the pleasure in witnessing,” he murmured, covering her with furr and kissing the side of her head hard. “You are my reason for being, now and forever more.” 

“My Prince,” she said, her breathing still erratic. 

“Shh,” he lulled. “Allow the silence. I’ll take care of everything, Elisabeta. Like I will take care of you.” 

She was silent, as he embraced her tightly, pulling her onto his muscular chest and wrapping his strong arms around her limp body. She wanted to tell him now. That she loved him. That she would always love him. And she almost did… if Jason had not made themselves known. 

“Pssss,” they muttered, opening a small gap in the tent. “Are you… fuck me, it reeks of sex in here.”

Jason stumbled inside, chuckling as Drax reached for Elisabeta’s dress, helping her to ready herself for her friend's company. 

“Nothing I haven’t seen before, Dragon,” they said. “Although, that, I have not seen before.” Their eyes darted to the semi-hard outline beneath his black cotton trousers. 

“Thank you for the time,” he said, quickly lifting his tunic over his blantenly obvious and thankfully covered manhood. 

“Looks like you used it well,” Jason laughed quietly, collapsing onto their own make-shift-bed. “Now, kiss her goodnight and get some sleep both of you.” 

Drax watched them warmly, before turning to Elisabeta, his eyes back to their usual shade of ocean-blue. “I’ll see you at breakfast.” 

“Okay,” she said. Damning herself for now confessing her love sooner. Now was certainly not the time. 

She watched him leave carefully, bowing to them both as he dipped out of the tent. 

“I’ve lost count now,” Jason muttered. 

“What,” Elisabeta chuckled, drawing her fur back around her body loosely. She smiled, realising she was much warmer than before. 

“Of the favours I have done for you,” Jason replied. “One day, I shall request a large cake as payment.” 

“But you don’t like cake.”

“Did I say cake,” Jason chuckled quietly. “I meant to say steak.” 

Chapter Text

“You really should eat.”

The Prince — not the one she had warm fuzzy feelings for — looked sternly at Elisabeta as she moved lumpy, and somehow salty, porridge around a bowl with a wooden spoon. Lifting a spoonful, she watched it drop gloopily and felt another pang of disgust. Perhaps not just for the porridge, but the wrong Prince.

While László berated her for not eating, everyone else sat pleasantly talking, eating the foul breakfast like it was a plate of delicious sausages and lightly toasted sourdough with butter.

“Here,” Ponvelt said to her right, reaching in his bag. He passed a small glass jar of thick amber liquid. “Honey helps.”

She thanked him and spooned a good helping into her bowl, watching as the mulch began to separate a little as she stirred. “Thanks,” she gulped, daring to taste a bite again. It was still unpleasant, but not entirely inedible thanks to the honey.

“War never provided the niceties,” Drax smiled, accepting the honey from Ponvelt now. “We all had to find ways of making the food more to our taste.”

“And what would you add, Prince?” she asked, a little mock in her brow.

He watched her, unable to hide that maddening smile of his. “I would often close my eyes and pretend it was something else.”

“Nonsense,” László cackled. “Taste buds cannot be fooled. You’re just used to the fouler things in life.”

“Would it be shocking to a man of your stature to learn that I have partaken in the finest of foods in my time,” Drax’s eyes glazed to hers for a moment. “Honey-dew nectar, and forbidden fruits.”

Jason laughed so loudly, a little of the porridge flew from their mouth and into the fire they sat around. Ponvelt caught his own chuckle in his throat, coughing a little and reaching for a glass of watered wine. László was thankfully oblivious to the not-so-subtle flirting, tying his knee-high leather boots tightly.

“Clear skies today,” he said, turning to his men. “No excuse to not keep an eye out for our prize.”

“Speaking of,” Drax said suddenly, “what if we catch the prize? What be our reward?”

“If you catch the bird, which — may I say — would be close to impossible for someone with novice skills as a hunter, God will bless you.”

“They say all who catch a Gyrfalcon will be given a God-like status. Is that not prize enough?” Duffers said, looking to his own Prince with doting support.

“So, you do not want to risk playing for a physical prize?” Drax nodded, poking the fire with a long branch while metaphorically also poking at the Prince before them.

“What do you mean?” he replied, crossing his booted legs to scowl.

It was Drax’s turn to laugh. “I just mean, it would be good motivation, would it not? Make things more interesting for us to have a prize at the end of the tunnel?”

“And what do you wish for, dear Vlad?” László asked, his eyes darting to his own sword — like he would ask for it.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Drax drawled, leaning back in his seat and settling his hands on his knees. “Why not play as tradition tells us to? Lovagi próba.”

László’s brow ticked. “You wish to play the knightly trial… for what?”

“Whatever I want,” Drax challenged. “And you, in return, can request anything I own.”

“Anything?” László said, drawing closer to the fire, now interested.

Drax nodded, his teeth gleaming through his smirk.

“Hmm,” László looked to his men. “Within reason, I agree.”

“No,” Drax said. “No reason. We can claim whatever we wish that the other person can give. Unless… of course,” he smiled teasingly. “You are afraid to lose something?”

Ponvelt and Lor tittered — Jason soon joining in. László gulped, his face somehow stoic. Though Elisabeta saw his brow twitching. It always ticked when he was nervous.

“You’re not going to catch the bird,” he said finally.

“All the more reason to have no fear of losing,” Drax replied coolly.

“Fine,” László said. “Fine.”

“Wonderful,” Drax said, clapping his hands together loudly once. The trees around them shook at the sound, a handful of birds fleeing from the branches. “Shall we finish up, ready ourselves, and leave in half an hour?”

The team around the fire nodded, Jason immediately jumping to their feet, excitement clear on their rosy-cheeked face.

*

The weather was better today. A light breeze replacing the brutal, biting wind from the day before. There were a few clouds peppering the forest sky, but a bright blue pronounced strongly behind them. All in all, it was a perfect day for hunting — Lor said, as they readied themselves for the day.

Elisabeta tried (in vain) to brush her hair and plait it messily in braids. She did the same thing with Jason’s hair, tying it into a knotted bun at the crown of their head afterwards so it was away from their face. Dressed and ready, the two friends joined the men — who had promptly dismantled the tents and were by the horses, looking oddly moody.

“Cheat,” Lor said, spitting at the ground.

“What?” Jason said, patting the nutmeg-coloured mane of Ponvelt’s horse, Artue.

“They left early,” Drax tutted, looking through the tense forest, past the moss-lined trees, thick knotted stumps and trunks of the huge redwoods, and to the blur of the horizon.

“Seems your Prince is eager to catch his prize,” Ponvelt said to Elisabeta, offering his hand to Jason as they jumped on his horse. Jason did not take it, but thanked him nonetheless.

“Speaking of prize,” Drax said, eyeing Elisabeta as she looked between the few free horses for a ride. “You’ll ride with me, Princess.”

Everyone averted their eyes as Drax stretched his palm out for her to take, leading her to the largest of the horses. A real black beauty. Quite like the Prince, she held an unmistakable aura of elegance and regality. Her large, obsidian eyes met Drax’s, and she seemed to relax in his presence.

Huffing affectionately, she leaned her huge head to rub against Drax’s leather shoulders. Holding her head with a huge hand, he tapped her back with equal fondness.

“This is Széplány,” he said, lifting Elisabeta's timid hand to replace his on her face. The horse now looked to her, enveloping her in her powerful gaze.

“Széplány,” Elisabeta said slowly. “Meaning, beautiful lady?”

Drax nodded, admiring how Széplány now huffed with acceptance. “I call her Lány for short.”

“Lány,” Elisabeta said, stroking her mane carefully. With no warning, Drax gripped Elisabeta's waist and effortlessly plucked her from the ground, placing her on the saddle of the great beast. He joined her, sitting close behind and snaking a hand around her waist to grip the leather reins.

“My two girls,” he chuckled, tucking his heel into Széplány’s side. “Let's go!”

*

They rode for hours. The journey far more pleasing and comfortable on the back of Lány than László’s ancient horse. Unlike her betrothed, Drax’s presence was far more protective. Any sharp turns or bumps that befell them, he would grip her tightly, pulling her closer into his warm chest.

Elisabeta had not slept awfully well the night previous. And with the relaxed strum of his heartbeat at her back, his intoxicating spicy scent, and low, measured breaths, she found herself asleep in a matter of minutes. Protected and safe from falling by Vlad’s strong arms locked around her.

Chapter Text

Occasionally Drax would rouse Elisabeta to halt Lány and explore a potentially Gyrfalcon sighting. She would watch, blinking away her tiredness at nothing in particular. She didn’t have the same eagle eye as the group.

This time, between the dense shrubbery of the tree branches in the forest, Drax spotted a deceiving Saker Falcon. 

“That’s it, is it not?” Elisabeta whispered to Jason, who stood close beside her. 

Narrowing their eyes, Jason watched carefully as Drax lowered his bow, shaking his head at Lor and Ponvelt. 

“No,” they said, climbing back on Ponvelt’s horse. Ponvelt, bless his heart, moved to stand beside Jason and walk, as he had done for the last three hours. Love made men do crazy things. Too bad he was barking up the wrong tree. 

“Oh, just come up, you oaf,” Jason said, patting behind them on the spacious maire. 

Drax pulled himself up and onto Lány, placed a gentle, steadying hand onto Elisabeta’s hip and cleared his voice. 

“No luck?” Elisabeta said as Lány began to trot through the moss-bedded forest again. 

“It was a Saker Falcon,” he said, stretching his large fingers out to spread across the entirety of Elisabeta’s waist.

“What’s the difference?” 

“Well,” Drax clicked his tongue, calling for Lány to change direction to the right, which she did immediately. The bond between these two - creature and man - was firm. When they rode together, it was as if they were one entity. “Sakers are a little smaller. Leaner and longer, less... muscular, shall we say? Their plumes are more earthy. Their beaks are less curved. Smaller heads. Bigger eyes.”

Elisabeta looked behind her, admiring the calm and focus on his handsome manly face. “You say you’re not a hunter?” 

Drax’s lips curved to a smile. “Who said I was no hunter?”

“László… he,” she paused. “Of course.” 

He grunted instead of using words. A regular occurrence for Drax - who never spoke words when a moody noise could replace them. 

“You made it seem like you were a novice,” Elisabeta said, reaching her hand to rub the soft mane of Lány as she gracefully trotted through the winding vines that appeared in this more dense area of the forest. Here, dark green vegetation and sprawling ivy seemed to thrive. They were in the thick of the woods now. And, curiously, they had seen no sign of her betrothed. 

“Right, stop!” Jason shouted, halting Ponvelt’s horse. The party looked to Jason, all perplexed. 

“What’s up?” Lor asked, coming to stop at their side on his grey horse. 

“If I hear Ponvelt’s stomach rumble one more time,” they tutted. “Quick lunch, gather our strengths. What do you say, Dragon?”

Drax pulled lightly on Lány’s reins, learning closer to Elisabeta’s back. Gosh he was warm. A welcome plus considering the chilly air of Autumn in Hungary. “Are you peckish, Princess?”

“I could eat,” she agreed. 

“We eat, then we move,” Drax said to the group. 

*

“That’s it,” Drax whispered, lifting Elisabeta’s arm up ever-so-slightly, as she aimed a steel-headed arrow towards an unsuspecting rabbit. 

“I don’t know if I can kill it,” she pouted, focusing too much on the innocent eyes of the - let’s be honest - adorable woodland creature that bounced around merrily, none-the-wiser that a nervous princess would soon shoot it with trembling fingers. 

“Not hungry?” Drax removed his hand from the dip in her waist, lowering her bow with a long finger. “Or shall I?” 

“I forget that you are used to killing,” she mumbled. “Sorry, I just wanted to practise.” 

“And practise you shall,” he said, manoeuvring himself so he was behind her again, his body flat against the back of hers. His heartbeat was incredibly slow but strong. Like huge rocks falling to an ocean bed. “Hit that.” 

Elisabeta’s sights moved where he pointed, she squinted, but found nothing worth hitting. “What am I looking at?”

“Look closer,” he breathed close to her ear. Well, Sir Dragon, that was not helping the matter of concentration. All she could focus on was the intoxicating smell of rich leathers on his body, the spicy cologne she had learned to associate with a safe feeling. She did not want to think about the way he looked last night, lost in ecstasy with her in the furs. Yet, despite her best efforts, it was all her mind could offer. 

“Concentrate,” he chuckled, lifting her chin with a firm but gentle hand to look where he meant. There she saw it, a spiralling knot in an old oak tree, right in the centre, was an almost artificial hole. She only hoped it was not home to another sweet woodland creature. 

“Aim for the middle,” he said. 

She could only nod in reply, moving her weight between her feet to steady herself. Elisabeta could do this. Jason had taught her well. She was absolutely not going to look like a silly damsel in front of the Dragon. She detested being seen that way. Though her muscles were admittedly weak, her vision poor when looking long distances and she was horrifyingly clumsy - having, on more than one occasion, tripped on a perfectly flat surface with nothing to blame; she was going to hit her mark. Prove to Drax that she was more than just a ‘pretty face’. 

Her insecurities squirmed. It was a soft spot for her. Especially seeing first hand what he was capable of. A small voice from within always whispered that he could grow bored of her. That her simple nature would become tiresome for such a great beast. Therefore, she was determined to prove there was more to her than what appeared to the naked eye. A petite and messy woman - yes. But she yearned for literature, found the company of flowers and nature to be comforting. She cooked too. Yes! She would have to bake him a soft pastry and further woo him with her expertly plaited strudels. Perhaps make Jason a steak while she was at it too. 

“Elisabeta,” Drax said softly, “you’re daydreaming again.”

“Sorry,” she mumbled, lifting her bow when she realised it had dipped. 

“After a night like we had, I will allow it. Memories have been tempting me all day too.” 

“Shh,” she hissed, lifting her chin high. “No more distractions.” 

“As you wish, Princess.” 

He stepped back, removing his hand from her waist. Allowing her to act alone for once. She felt his warmth leave her, but her determination was strong. This arrow, stupidly, meant more to her now. It was proof that she could be more than a silly girl of privilege. If she could hit the mark, she could join him on hunts, be at his side in battle, perhaps? She would not be captured again. 

Her fingers released on the string she pulled taut and with a musical woosh, the arrow flew through the air. Hitting the knot in the centre of the tree. 

Elisabeta couldn’t mask her joy, jumping and clasping her hands together. Drax smirked, his muscular arms folded at his chest.

He approached her coolly.

She expected a report quite like Jason’s. They were her harshest critic - but it was only to help her improve. “Very good Lizzy,” they would say. “But you closed the wrong eye when you aimed.” Or “Nice one Mushroom, but you almost impaled that passing maid.” Everyone was a critic. 

“Perfect.”

Not, apparently, Drax. 

“Thank you,” Elisabeta mocked a low curtsey. 

Drax approached closer, holding the back of her head and pulling it into his chest to place a tender kiss to the crown of her head. 

“Come on,” he said, pulling her by the hand into the thick of the forest. “Time to inspect your handiwork.” 

“VELVET CAUGHT A PIGEON!”

Both Drax and Elisabeta looked behind. Jason was shouting in the distance. They had taken to calling Ponvelt Velvet now. 

“We’ll join in a moment,” Drax said, continuing to guide her to the oak tree. 

The arrow really had hit the spot. The hole in the centre of the knot wasn’t large. Only Elisabeta’s hands were small enough to reach inside and pull it where it had lodged in the wood. As she tugged, she felt something curious. It was also wood, but smooth. Like it had been… carved. 

Leaning closer, Elisabeta peered inside the hole, gasping when she realised what was inside. 

There, clear as day, illuminated by a helpful blaze of sunlight, was a delicately carved statue of a woman. In her arms, she held a bundle of linens, a little head poking out, two indents resembling the baby's eyes. It was charming and she wanted to hold it immediately. Rub her finger over the careful carpentry. 

Drax caught her hand as she went to reach for it. She looked at him, confused as he shook his head coolly. “Look at the ground around it.”

He was right, a bed of silver and gold coins acted as a moat for the little model. This wasn’t the work of a bored child, this was a tribute. 

“It’s important to someone,” Drax said, pulling her shoulder gently to step back. Holding the middle of the arrow, he pulled it out of the wood, then reached in his pocket, holding two gold coins in his palm. His large hand did not fit in the opening, so he flicked the coins with his finger and thumb to land with a spongy clang, with the rest of the gold. 

“WE’LL EAT IT ALL, YOU HETHENS!” Jason shouted again from a distance. 

Drax chuckled at Jason’s persistence, but didn’t make a move. 

“Interesting,” he nodded to the hole. “Isn’t it?”

“It’s a tribute,” Elisabeta said, watching as Drax leaned against the tree. 

“Yes, but by who?” He looked around the forest. “There are no people for miles. So who would make the journey, to the middle of a treacherous forest, to offer coins. And why, out of all the knots in the forest, did your arrow make its mark here?” 

“Luck?” Elisabeta shrugged. 

Drax’s hand cupped her cheek. “I think we both know there is more at play than luck. Whoever is watching us,” he looked to the sky, as if he searched for God himself, “is guiding us towards something.” 

“Where are we headed, Drax?” she asked, becoming putty in his palms as he neared, tracing a line down her spine, his other hand still on her cheek, stroking her skin with the flat of his thumb. 

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “For now, I just wish to kiss you.”

“Here?” she gulped, her eyes dotting around for signs of László’s men. “What if someone spots us.”

“Let them,” he purred. 

Leaning to meet her, he pressed a tender kiss to her lips. Not deepening it more than that. A simple kiss to any onlooker, but a vow to her. They always said more with actions than words. His breath on her skin, his soft lips on hers, his palm holding her jaw. It was a reminder that this was all they needed. More than any prize on earth. And a statement to God. Behind them, through the burrowed hole in the ancient oak, Mary watched on, clutching her baby Jesus - a witness to their embrace. 

*

“Nice and tender, well done Velvet,” Jason said, kicking the back of Ponvelt’s shins. That was how Jason showed affection. With violence. 

Ponvelt gleamed at the praise, looking to the others as he chewed on half of the seared pigeon breast. “What doya think?” 

“Better than porridge,” Elisabeta grinned, looking around for a napkin out of habit but only finding mulch and leaves at her feet. Drax, noticing, reached a hand in his leather trouser pocket, pulling out a black, silk handkerchief and passing it over. 

She nodded with thanks and dabbed at her lips. Elisabeta moved to pass it back, but he raised a palm to stop her. 

“A token m’lady,” Jason teased before Drax could speak. 

“So doya think the bastard found the Falcon already?” Lor asked, throwing a thoroughly gnawed bone to the fire between them. 

“We’d know,” Drax said. “László doesn’t strike me as a man to let his victory be unheard.” 

“He would blow his horn,” Elisabeta agreed. 

“Ah, László does look like a man who would be partial to autofellatio.” 

That comment earned Jason a weak shove from Elisabeta. “You dirty thing,” she tutted. 

Ponvelt moved to clear the plates, taking them to the corner of the clearing and washing them with a little of the water they took with them. 

“He’s smitten, my dear,” Elisabeta said. “What are you going to do about that?” 

“It’s a shame,” Jason said, watching as he washed the plates. “Though, he makes a wonderful pet. He’s handsome, don't you think?” 

“I suppose. If you like tall, skinny men with feminine features.” 

“Feminine features, that's what it is,” Jason chuckled. “Imagine longer hair, softer skin and breasts on him.”

Elisabeta squinted, trying to imagine it. She could not. 

“Just a shame about the dangly bits,” Jason admitted, seeming to squirm at the thought. 

“Yes, that does cause an issue,” Drax said. 

“Hey!” Jason spluttered, turning a sweet shade of pink. 

“Was this one of those talks that men should not be privy to?” he asked Elisabeta, who nodded as she coughed into giggles. 

“Yes - you do not take part,” she said, recovering. 

“But… I could hear. Do I pretend to not hear?” Drax seemed adorably concerned with learning the rules that existed between friends that were not mud-rubbing, chicken eating ‘lads’. 

“You can listen, but you don’t react,” Jason grinned, plucking a small mushroom from the ground and plopping it in Elisabeta’s lap. 

“Right,” she agreed. “You also don’t tell anyone what you hear. It’s an unspoken rule.” 

“You are strange creatures,” Drax hummed, picking up the mushroom from her lap. “You call Elisabeta mushroom,” he smiled. “Why?”

Jason looked at Elisabeta in jest, asking for silent permission to tell the story. The roll of her eyes gave them that. 

“She cooked with poisonous ones once,” Jason said plainly.

“What?” Drax spluttered. “Were you… what happened?” 

“We were, what, eleven or twelve?” Jason said. “Gathering ingredients for another one of the mini-princesses' feasts.”

“You cook?” Drax asked, raising a brow. 

“I do,” Elisabeta replied. 

“Anyway,” Jason went on. “Spent all day at the edge of the forest. Gathered kale and pine nuts, dandelions and mushrooms. She wanted to make a mushroom soup with the surplus of cream the kitchens had.” 

“Who for?” 

Jason’s eyes wrinkled with amusement. “The King.” 

“Matthias?”

“God no! Her father, John. Basically the King. We do love fake kings don’t we… he was regent under the minor Ladislaus V.”

“I remember,” Drax chuckled, watching as Elisabeta began to cover her face with her hands in shame. 

“Well, little Lizzy made a big fuss. Spent hours making this delightful mushroom soup. Convinced the cooks to serve it for him as a surprise for his birthday.” 

“Stop,” Elisabeta pleaded. 

“And then?” Drax prodded. 

“THEN the King began to splutter - all hell broke loose. Went straight to the infirmary as he began to feel queasy. Started vomiting something awful. The priests and leaders were in uproar - thinking it was an assignation attempt. Questioned the cooks, demanded a meeting of all royals in the surrounding kingdoms. They were even considering a coup was in motion. It wasn't until little Lizzy met her father in his bed and sheepishly admitted it was her, that he put a stop to a potential civil war.” 

Jason couldn’t hold in their laughter any more and erupted, joined swiftly by Lor and Drax into a cascade of giggles. “Amanita citrina,” they said, wiping a tear from their eye. “Otherwise known as Fool’s Mushroom. Thankfully only mildly poisonous. Almost started a war over soup, didn’t you pet?” 

“I hate that story,” Elisabeta mused, nudging Jason in the ribs playfully. 

“Remind me to never accept soup from you,” Drax teased, placing a strong arm around her shoulder and bringing her close to his chest in a half-hug. 

“Oh she’s a splendid cook,” Jason said quickly. “Don’t let one near-poisoning put you off. She makes wonderful Mézes lepény, honey cakes… Dragon?” 

Elisabeta looked up to Drax, who was now silent, his gaze locked on something in the distance above. 

All heads turned to follow his eyeline. There, nestled between the branches of a great redwood in the distance, a large eagle-like bird with white plume feathers perched. 

The Gyrfalcon.

Chapter Text

Elisabeta wasn’t sure why she joined them as they ran carefully through the forest, light on their feet, to close in on the great bird they hunted. 

Curiosity perhaps. 

The group of five gathered below the enormous red-wood that housed the Gryfalcon, whispering in hushed tones. Drax stood at the front, observing where the bird nestled. Turning to Ponvelt, he gestured him to approach with a long finger. “Go back to the horses, I won’t be long.” 

The ever-faithful Ponvelt nodded, ushering the group away. 

“I want to stay,” Elisabeta whispered, creeping closer to Drax. He eyed his friends, seeming unsure, but nodded sternly. 

The rest scurried off silently through the woods, leaving Drax and Elisabeta alone to stare at the bird high above. 

Drax readied his bow carefully, closing his right eye to focus. It gave her time to admire the beauty of the bird they hunted. 

She knew it would be something majestic. A Gyrfalcon wasn’t just hunted for its rarity, but for how very grand it looked on the arm of a king. Oftentimes, when they were more common, they were simply caught and tamed. Joining the royals in their palace as a sign of great strength and regality. This hunt, however, didn’t call for that. A kill was the only option. 

And there she sat, perched in the centre of a particularly thick rust-brown branch, tending to her beautiful snow-white feathers with her curved beak. Unaware that the two lovers stood below, planning to kill it. To use her life to free theirs. 

Elisabeta should have been excited at the prospect. One arrow and they could be together - with no disruption of politics, no arguments. They could live in peace. 

And what a gorgeous prospect that was.

So why, when she looked to the bird, did she feel so sad. 

As it nibbled away at its own feathers, she felt a stab at her chest. It was so innocent. So free. And in a moment, she would be dead on the ground at their feet. And for what? Their own selfish love. 

At that moment, she might have not intervened. It was, after all, just one life. One life as a sacrifice to free two others. Then, she spotted it. 

A rustling of twigs and dark leaves moved in the wind, revealing a small nest. And inside was her own family. Her babies. To which she tended to with the love of a human. Elisabeta watched horrified as she nuzzled one of her chicks, nipping a feather from the nest and moving it closer to provide ample warmth for her children. If they killed her, they were condemning them too. All four chicks (that she could see) would die. 

Drax aimed his arrow, his face stoic and determined. Did he see the chicks? If he did, did he care? She watched him bite his lip, moving his posture and aiming true. 

Something came over her. Something she would surely regret. Before she could stop herself, Elisabeta placed a hand to his bow, lowering it. 

He didn’t let go, only looked to her, puzzled as to why she would stop him. 

“We can’t,” she said simply. 

With a deep exhale, Drax looked back to the bird. “You eat meat, we live in a country that has killed thousands for our version of freedom. This is no different.”

“I’ve never stared in the face of the innocent before they’re killed,” Elisabeta said softly. “I don’t know how you do it.”

“With years of practice,” Drax answered, lifting his bow again. 

“Prince.” 

Drax sighed, dropping his bow to his side and scratching his brow. “Being blissfully ignorant to how the world works is a blessing. I wish I could live like that. This bird, her children, they are nothing compared to what I have had to do. What I have seen. Elisabeta,” he said gently, turning to face her now. He frowned as he watched a tear fall down to her cheek, and reached to brush it away. “I do not take pride in what I do. Blood has stained my hands for so long, no matter how much water or soap I use, it will never be removed. If we kill her, we are free. Do you understand? All of this becomes so easy. You don’t have to watch,” he finished, kissing her cheek and moving to lift his bow.

“Do what you will,” she said, softly crying now. “I never thought that our union would be born in blood, that’s all.”

He closed an eye again, aiming. She held her breath, her heat beating an unsteady rhythm in her chest. The Gyrfalcon tenderly saw to her children. Her last moments. She couldn't see the chicks faces from where she stood, but if she could, she knew they would be peaceful. Looked after. Protected by a force greater than god. The force only women could muster. The love of a mother. 

Elisabeta could no longer watch, turning her head away from the beautiful bird and squeezing her eyes shut, her cheeks now wet with tears. She heard the arrow fly from his bow. 

Done. 

It was done. 

They were free. 

But at what cost. 

When she opened her eyes, Drax was looking forward not up, at the arrow that lodged into the trunk of the tree before them. 

Quickly, she looked to the high branches. And there, free and happy, was the Gyrfalcon. Undisturbed - ruffling her huge snowy feathers none-the-wiser. 

“You didn’t kill it,” she breathed, watching as Drax shook his head solemnly. 

“I think, perhaps,” he paused. “I have killed for so long, I never stop and think why. You, however, see reason. Life is precious to you, and if this family,” he gestured to the branches above, “means so much to you. I could never.”

“Thank you,” she said, reaching for his hand and squeezing it. “I can’t explain it. I just felt… wrong. What we have is untempered. I don’t want to muddy it with blood. Can you understand that?”

“I can,” Drax smiled, stepping close. He ran a finger down her jawline, admiring her. “I have lived in blood for so long, you’ll  have to forgive me. You, Elisabeta, are so pure. It frightens me.”

“Why?” she asked, holding his hand against her cheek. 

“When you live in the darkness for so long, light becomes something you fear more than you crave. It’s jarring, and blinding. It makes your head hurt and your eyes thin. We acclimatize to our surroundings. Before you, I lived that way. With no purpose. A death wish, I was told. But now, everything’s different.” 

“Would you believe I felt the same?” she said. 

“You would have found someone else,” he replied sadly, rubbing her cheek. “But you allowed me to walk in the light for a moment, and I'm afraid to say now I've bathed in it, I never want to leave. You’ll have to forgive my selfishness. You have become my reason for being.”

He kissed her, gently, pulling her waist closer to him and knotting a hand through her hair. 

“What do we do now?” she asked against his lips. 

“We’ll find a way,” he promised. “A love like this has no boundaries.” 

“Perhaps, we could speak to Matthias,” she suggested, closing her eyes as he kissed her cheek, then neck.

“Perhaps,” he muttered, kissing her again. “Thank you.” 

“For what?” 

“For stopping me. For showing a moody man what love is.”

“Love,” she smiled, drawing back to admire him. She wished she could drink him up like a glass of aged wine. His gentle blue eyes, his rough skin, the way his hair fell messily to his shoulders. 

“I do, you know,” he said. 

“What?” she breathed, too intoxicated by his presence to think coherently. 

“Love you.” 

“As do I, my Prince.” 

“Love is too small a word, I think,” he chuckled, holding her waist with both his hands now, his thumb drawing circles on her hip. “I adore you. Everything you are. Everything you do. You make me want to wash these hands clean of blood, to live in the light.”

“Drax,” she managed, melting into his embrace. “You’re straight out of a book. Written by a woman, surely.” 

“No more blood,” he mused, pressing his forehead to hers. “Just us.” 

They kissed again, drawing more passion from each other. It was so perfect. So pure. 

Up until they heard the noise that still haunted her nightmares. 

A dull thud to the forest floor. 

They turned, still locked in each other's arms to see what could have produced such a noise. 

There, on the moss bed floor, lay the Gyrfalcon. A silver arrow embedded in her scarlet stained plumes. Dead. 

And there, in the distance, stood László. A look of triumph meshing with fury on his chiselled face. 

He had won.

Chapter Text

“Took you long enough,” Jason bellowed from the distance. “Nice shot, Dragon,” they grinned as they approached the confounded two, now separated from their embrace. Elisabeta horrified, Drax, as usual, stoic. 

“Wasn’t me,” he simply said.

“What are you talking about?” Jason chuckled as Ponvelt and Lor neared, large smiles etched on their faces too. They thought they won. That this was all over. 

“László killed it,” he finished, securing his bow to his back. 

Elisabeta listened but wasn’t quite present. The moment László’s beady eyes met hers, her mind was ablaze with a thousand conflicting thoughts and fears. 

Not only did he have claim to a prize of his own now he won, he saw them. 

They were exposed. The secret was out. They were, completely and utterly, fucked. To not put a finer word about it. 

She blinked away her tears, watching as Jason’s pretty face washed with the horror of their situation. Lor and Ponvet just looked confused, approaching Drax calmly. 

Ponvelt was the first to offer comfort, stretching his lanky arm out to clasp the dark Prince’s shoulder. 

He shrugged out of it immediately. “It’s done. No point fretting.” He paced for a moment, then made his way towards their make-shift camp. 

“What happened?” Jason asked, knotting her fingers between Elisabeta’s still-trembling hand. 

“It was my fault,” she whispered. “I told him not to, I couldn’t let him kill the…” her eyes found the Gyrfalcon mid-sentence. Somehow, even bloody on the bed of the forest, it still looked perfect. The remnants of snow from the storm acting as a white bed for the beautiful creature. It still looked so perfect - even with the bloody pool that had seeped from its wound. Still, somehow, pure. 

“He saw us.” 

“Who?” Jason said. “What the fuck is going on Lizzy?” 

“He saw us!” Elisabeta cried, tears now flowing down her cold cheeks. “We kissed, we thought… We thought we were alone. But László was there, he watched us. He killed the bird and now he knows.” She looked to Jason, angrily rubbing the wetness from her cheeks. “He knows everything.” 

When they sulked back to the horses, László’s men were already waiting in silence. The only noise the tapping of impatient hooves on the mossy forest bed. Drax seemed calm. But she knew him better. When he appeared stoic, he was thinking. Deeply. He could think of a way out, surely? If anyone could, it was him. She wanted to approach him desperately, place a gentle hand to his rough cheek and tell him all would be okay. László’s presence thickened the air with tension. As much as she yearned to stand by her Prince, she would have to settle for the other. 

“You ride with me,” László said, fury laced in his words. 

Elisabeta didn’t argue. She didn’t look to Drax, who had turned to stare at László. It was better to do as he asked, for now. 

The ride back to the palace was horrific. László didn’t speak a word to her for hours. He rode in silence, occasionally patting Horsy to speed up - which she, of course, did not. Her old body heaving at the weight of them both. 

Only when the palace was blinking at them over the pink horizon of the afternoon did he finally speak. 

“Do you want to know what prize I’ll claim?” 

Elisabeta felt his cold hands grip tighter on the right of her hip. “Me,” she replied. 

László chuckled, malice rich in his laughter. “You naïve girl,” he said. “I already have you. I have no need to claim what is already mine.” 

“You don’t own me,” she spat, keeping her chin high as Lany jolted over a bump in the mud. 

“From the moment you said yes to my proposal, you signed away your fate. You may fraternize with the Dragon, but it’s my bed you will share. My seed you’ll take. My child you’ll bare. I have been patient, Elisabeta. Respected you.”

Elisabeta scoffed at the notion. 

“Did I ever touch you? Many men would. I was a perfect gentleman to you. And this… this is how you repay my kindness.” 

She said nothing. Not because she was worried she would scream at him if she opened her mouth to reply, but mostly because he was right. He had respected her wishes. Never pushing the boundaries. He was cold, and idiotic and quite frankly boring, but he was never beastly. 

“That’s all changed now. Seeing you with him,” she felt his chest shudder behind her. “You’re no angel. I thought you were waiting, but now I see temptation got the better of you.” 

“What are you saying?” she muttered, blinking back her tears of fury and embarrassment. 

“I don’t know. To tell you the truth, I'm not sure I want a woman who’s already been tarnished,” he sighed. “But you didn’t guess what I will claim. Do you want to know what I will ask from your lover?” 

“He’s not m-” 

“His kingdom.” 

“What?!” Elisabeta shot her head to turn László so fast, her neck twinged with pain. She wished she hadn’t faced him. Because now, she really wanted to slap him. László was smug. His teeth gleaming through his wide grin. He had never looked more evil. 

“You can’t.” 

“Oh I can,” he said. “It was Vlad who suggested there be no limitations. He dug his own grave right then.”

“Why?” she breathed. Her heart was going to burst in her chest. The body reacts curiously when you’re in dire stress. It was silly really. You’d think that people were built better. That in stressful situations it would come to your rescue, allow for clarity and calm. Perhaps others were luckier and could adapt to anxieties and fear. But Elisabeta was not so fortunate. Her vision became blurry, her cold hands clammy. Without his kingdom, Drax had nothing. It was his blood right. His destiny. To be the Dragon without a throne was obscene. Where would he go? In hiding? To the Ottomans? László would have the power to combine the armies of Bohemia and Transylvania, to put another man in charge, and lead them into pointless battles. Perhaps, god forbid, join with the Ottomans. Bohemia often sided with them, which meant Drax’s kingdom of Transylvania - a kingdom that famously had peace and freedom from their rule - would be taken over by the very people he despised. The people who capture him. Who killed his family. 

“Don’t punish the Prince for my mistake,” she said, her voice so timid, László had to lean closer to hear. 

“You don’t love me,” he spat. “You never did. And to do that…. On my hunt, do you get a thrill out of disrespecting me?” 

“I never… László. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Looking to the distance, she could see a small tree. One of her favourites for, in the Spring, it fruited the most wonderful plums. As a child, she would curl up beneath it, sitting on her long skirts, and spend hours reading, picking a plum from above whenever she got peckish. She hoped next Spring she could bring Drax to that very place. Her favourite corner of their kingdom. 

The wish faded away as the realisation of what she had to do became stronger. Her next words were like ash on her tongue, her brain clamping her mouth shut. Praying and pleading for her to reconsider. These horrible words were her worst fear. But they were also the only thing that could save Drax. And for him, she would say them. To know he could live in freedom was a good enough notion for her to live in chains. At least one of them would be happy. And she would rather it be him. 

“I’ll marry you, I'll love you. I’ll do whatever you ask, László. Just leave him be.”

László tutted at her words, chewing on his own response for a while. 

“You thought I didn’t care for you. But I do. I may not show it, but I do. You’re smart, powerful, beautiful, a perfect wife.” She could feel his eyes burning into the back of her head. For a ridiculous moment, Elisabeta thought he may push her off the horse. Or worse, plunge the dagger he kept at his side into her waist. But he didn’t, he did something worse. 

He kissed her. 

Holding the side of her head, he yanked her jaw to meet his mouth, planting a horribly wet kiss on her lips. He moved his tongue, forcing her lips to part, breathing a deep exhale of breath to her face. He smelt of pork and liquorice. She always hated liquorice. 

She wanted to yank away, to push his foul body off hers. His hands gripped tight at her side and she wanted to die. To sink off the horse and through the ground and just keep going. But she didn’t. She neither kissed him nor resisted. 

“You are to never see him again,” he said, his rough lips brushing against hers. “This bond between you, it’s not real.” 

She wanted to scream he was wrong. That the love she shared between the Prince was the only real thing she had felt her whole life. Instead, Elisabeta nodded. 

“You were captured by him,” he said softly, stroking her hair. She could feel bile rising to her throat, but swallowed it down. Playing along. For him. “There’s a word for it, that escapes me now, when prisoners fall for their captor. That’s all it is.” 

Another solemn nod from Eliabeta. 

László pulled away, observing her closely. “Tell me your mine,” he said plainly. 

“Wh-” with no warning, he held her cheek firmly, forcing her eyes to meet his. 

“Tell me.” 

“I’m…” she could see Drax behind, his fists trembling as he gripped the reigns of his black beauty. He was riding close. That look… he looked like he was ready to disembowel László. And all knew he could… would even. In an alternative reality, she would have flung off the horse, joined Drax on his saddle, placed a promise to his lips that she was his, eternally, and rode off into the distance, away from Hungary, away from László and politics and pain. They would start a simple life for themselves in a cottage near a lake, and grow a garden of herbs that they could use to cook with. Have children. Love each other, endlessly. Eat plums in the spring and drink watered wine every morning. They would stare into their fireplace, then into each other's eyes and find that the fire had always been there, living in them. Their passion, their own flame. 

Instead, she brushed her fingers at her side, away from László’s eyes, warning Drax to not approach. He frowned, pulling a little at his horse to slow. The tear that ran down her face was her apology. She only hoped he would forgive her, for she didn’t think she could ever forgive herself. 

“I’m yours.” 

“Good girl,” László growled. Kissing her lips short. “I’ll let your Prince off for now. Claim something else. His sword, perhaps. You know, I think it doesn’t matter. I wanted to ask for his kingdom to watch him suffer. But I think seeing your belly round with my child will be the best revenge a man could ask for.”

Elisabeta seized in fear, squeezing her eyes closed as his hand snaked around her waist, pulling her closer to his chest. This was a dream, a nightmare. She fell asleep against Drax’s chest as they rose on Lany earlier, she would soon wake, kill the bird and be together. This couldn’t be real. 

“You can tell him,” László chuckled. “Tell him you do not care for him. Do not love him. And take his sword and deliver it to me.” 

“As you wish,” she said, biting her lip to mask her whimper. 

“And Elisabeta,” László drawled from behind. “Don’t get any funny ideas. One more mistake and it’s not just his kingdom I take. I could do much worse, remember that.” 

They passed the plum tree, and with it every hope Elisabeta had for a life of love. 

She let her memory fade, the outlines of her future self and Drax smoke around the tree.

Chapter Text

The Palace looked rather peculiar as they returned. Almost a hundred workers fretted about the gilded walls, hanging banners, laying tables of mead, wine and honied treats. Were they having a party or ball? If so, Elisabeta heard no warning of one. 

László led Elisabeta, forcing her hand to loop into his arm and holding her shaking hand with his, through the Palace into the central Atrium. A party certainly was in progress, the tables were prepared with the finest dinnerware they owned, great floral arrangements were prepped and in the top corner, a full band rehearsed a jaunty melody. At the centre of it all was her brother, Matthias, and his irate wife, Elizabeth - Beth, to most. 

They were already arguing. Matthias forehead pulsing with irritation and hers matching his. Around the palace, you could often hear their famous brawls. Needless to say, The King and Queen were not the most peaceful couple. Perhaps there was some love there, once. But that left a long time ago. What was left in the cracks was only resentment and anger. 

“I said duck! We were to have duck, Matthias. How many times must I tell you that Goose is too fatty? It makes my skin oily and my stomach upset!” Beth lifted a lily from the pot beside her. Beautiful flowers, grown in the Palace greenhouse. In Autumn they still bloomed a dazzling orange and yellow. Their vibrant petals famously resembled a Hungarian sunset.  “And these flowers are awful, just look at them.”

Matthias peered to them, and raised a brow. 

“Well?!” she practically screamed. 

He only sighed in response, pressing two fingers against his brow. His handsome face was distorted and tired - but still lovely. It was such a pity that he had to settle for her. Beth was beautiful once, but her pointed features had grown sharper over the years, her black hair was now wiry, her complexion cracked with how much thick, white makeup she wore. Quite a juxtaposition to the King, who had grown more fair and beautiful over the years. His strawberry blonde hair remarkably thick and wavy at his crown, his jawline sharper, his eyes still beaming amber - like hers.

“The colours of the flowers, Matthias? Orange does nothing for my complexion. I am to wear green tonight and it will clash most awfully.”

Matthias opened his mouth to reply with a sarcastic comment, when he noticed Elisabeta. He breathed a smile and approached his sister quickly, lifting her into a tight squeeze. 

“Orange,” Elisabeta whispered into the hug. “You should know better,” she teased, winking at him as he placed her back to the floor. 

“Nightmare fuel, honestly,” he chuckled, turning to his wife. “Change them then, I’m washing my hands with all of this. I try and throw you a party for your fortieth an-”

A high pitched squeal emitted from Beth, her navy eyes rounding in warning. “Thirty-five, Matthias!”

“Right,” Matthias rolled his eyes. “Whatever you wish dear. Pray those lovely wrinkles around your eyes grow no more.” He turned back to the group who had gathered in full; shaking Drax’s hand warmly, clasping Jason on the shoulder and nodding to the rest of the men. 

László approached cockily, pulling a long white feather from his pocket. “The Gyrfalcon.” 

“You caught it?” Matthias nodded. 

“Killed it,” László replied, smiling at his men. “Drax and I made a lovely game out of it, didn’t we dear boy. Now I have claim to something of his.” 

“Oh really?” Matthias drawled, folding his arms. He looked László up and down carefully. “And what will you claim for, dare I ask?” 

Elisaebeta opened her mouth to speak: his sword. But he placed a hand over her chest, stopping her. 

“I am undecided,” László grinned, staring at Drax now. “Was a grand kill, you should have seen it.”

“The Dragon chose not to kill it. He showed mercy,” Jason said, stepping forward. They looked furious as they pulled their helmet off their head - a wash of dark plaits fell from their head, free from where they were tied. The entire journey, they and Ponvelt had muttered on the back of his horse. Ponvelt looked equally angry standing close behind Jason. “Was that not the more noble thing to do?” Jason looked to Matthias hopefully. “To spare the life of a great beauty, rather than kill it pointlessly.”

László stepped gracefully toward Jason. They were an inch shorter than Elisabeta’s friend, and it showed. Height came with a foreboding aura. Despite the hard steel armour and jewel decorated chest, neck and arms that László showed off, Jason came off on top. 

“It was not a quest for nobility,” he tutted. “It was a test of strength.”

“You know nothing of strength,” Jason countered. 

“And what would a woman know of strength?” László cackled, his men following suit. 

Drax approached this time, his eyes black, his face deadly. Such a handsome Dragon, but a Dragon none the less. “Do not judge appearances,” he said slowly. “Looks can be deceiving.” 

“Yes,” László tittered. “Deceiving indeed.” 

“Enough!” Matthias said, stepping between the circle, watching everyone carefully. “We can speak more about this so-called-prize later. For now, you can go and prepare yourselves for Queen Beth’s ball. It was jaw-droppingly-expensive and I, for one, hope to at least try and enjoy myself. Besides,” he sniffed the air. “You appear to have brought the smells of the forest back with you. Bathing would be more appreciated.”

Ruxandra seemed to appear out of thin air to speak to the Queen, who was now beside herself, sobbing about the colour of the petals. It was ridiculous; but as silly as it was, Ruxandra seemed to play along, patting her arm carefully. She caught Drax’s eye and lifted her hand to seductively wave at him, mouthing: “later”. Elisabeta shivered at the notion. It was one thing to not have him for herself. The thought of him in the arms of another was an entirely new form of hell. 

Drax mumbled something incoherent, spun on his heels and left the room with Ponvelt and Lor close behind him. 

László grinned devilishly at Elisabeta, closing in close to her ear to whisper: “Let the wedding celebrations begin, you can prove to me now just how much you meant those lovely words earlier.” 

She shuddered at his words. When they were spoken by her, they seemed so simple. So innocent. The motion of actually having to bed this horrible man was mortifying. 

Matthias cleared his voice, watching them both. “László, you stay, for a moment.”

“But… I stink of horses and…”

“You were the one who decided to go off on a two-day-hunt when the Ottomans were close to approaching for their tribute,” he said. “We have a few hours before the party, where I plan to get as drunk as possible as quickly as possible. Now is this time to talk, not later. You don’t mind, do you Lizzy?”

“Not at all,” she said quickly, thanking the gods they gave her a brother like Matthias. 

“Go to my study, i’ll be a moment with my sister,” he ordered, looking sternly to László - who huffed, grumbled, then did as he was told. 

Matthias looked around him, eyeing his Queen still sobbing into Ruxandra’s arms. “Lizzy,” he said softly. He kissed her gently on the cheek, taking her by surprise. 

“My king?” 

He scoffed at her use of his title. “Stop that, will you. It’s Matty to you, and only you.”

She nodded, squeezing his hand that held hers.

“Drax is staying three doors down from me, in your Uncle’s old room. The one with the balcony, you remember?” he watched her lovingly, smiling such a sad smile. “Be quick.”

“Wh… how? Why?” she hissed, watching Ruxandra from the corner of her eyes. 

“Shhh,” he warned. “I have been married to the wrong person for a decade. I never wanted to see you make the same mistake. Whatever this is… I’ll see to it. Now, for god sake, give you Prince something to be happy about. I’ve never seen a man look so broken.”

“Matty… I,” her voice broke off as her emotions bottled again. “You don’t understand, the claim… László said he would ask for his sword, but I don’t trust him. If I do not come through on my promise of marriage, he’ll… well god knows what he will do.” 

Matthias tapped his foot, watching as Beth began to rip all the flowers from the bowls, tearing them into pieces in her hands. “They were our mother’s favourite, you know,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I don’t wish to remind you who the real King is, Lizzy. I’ll see to it. Now go, you don’t have too long.” 

“I’m sorry you have to put up with her,” Elisabeta said, pulling him close to her side. “You know, I know many fine women. If anyone deserves love, it’s you.” 

Matthias chuckled into her hold, kissing the crown of her head. “One day, perhaps. For now, love for both of us.”

Chapter Text

Three doors down. Did he say three or four… 

Elisabeta grew weary as she slowed down the corridor leading to her brother’s chambers. Thankfully, she knew Lazlo was placed at the other side of the palace, along with his men. Still, the wrong door could have proved meddlesome. 

Third door down, she was sure that was what he said. 

Coming to a stop outside of the door she knew as her brothers, gilded in gold, different to the walnut wood of the others, she peered left to four doors, then right to three more. God in hell, he didn’t say which direction. 

Taking the initiative, she placed her ear against the third door to the left. Nothing. Silence. She tapped the smooth wood timidly. Still nothing. Peered through the keyhole. Darkness. Perhaps he slept?

With a mighty sigh, she began to pace. The others housed there were various higher-up nobles. Most rather devious and waiting for an opportunity to have some golden gossip to spread around the kingdom. Mid-step into her spiralling pace, she tripped a little on her long, mud-stained skirts. Catching herself, she mumbled a few curses, moving to the same door she had pressed her ear against. There was no harm in knocking… surely? Stretching her hand out and into a fist, she went to do just that. 

To her right, the door at the end of the corridor squeaked open. Elisabeta jumped back on instinct, straightening her ruined dress to appear more prim and proper to whichever nobleman emerged. 

“Brother, I was looking for my br—” her voice caught in her throat as the Dragon looked back. He was staring, a smile almost peaking at his lips, his hair dripping wet, forming small waves that stuck to his damp neck and forehead. He was also… shirtless. Good God in heaven, her legs almost buckled at the sight. 

He looked behind her, then found her eyes again. “Lost?” 

“I was looking for you,” she breathed, approaching closer. His scent was richer on his wet skin. Leathery, spicy, rich with oud and temptation. 

“Is it wise?” he raised a brow. “We’re already watched like a hawk, tonight of all nights.” He reached for her hand, lacing his long fingers between hers. “Do not mistake me, I’m happy to see you… only—”

“Matthias has Lazlo. I think he knows.”

“He knows?”

“That’s just the thing,” she said, enjoying that his thumb was now stroking the back of her hand. “He not only knows, he encouraged me to see you.”

“How curious,” Drax said, leaning into the doorframe. “I always liked your brother.” His dark eyes glanced again to the empty corridor. “Come,” he beckoned, pulling her inside. 

The room was a good mixture of messy and clean. Similar to his own quarters at his castle. It was littered with books, parchments, swords, armour and… plums. Several bowls of ripe plums. He noticed her looking at them and smiled, releasing her hand to pluck one from the closest bowl. “I’m quite partial to fruit since meeting you,” he smiled, biting into one. 

It looked delicious. A little of the pink juice bled into the corner of his mouth. She felt a sudden urge to lap it up, but resisted. 

“All the more delightful when they are forbidden, wouldn’t you say?” He offered the next bite to her, watching her with darkening eyes as she bit into the juicy flesh herself. 

“Quite,” she managed, swallowing. 

He took another bite and placed it on the table, watching her more carefully now. “We need to talk.” 

“Indeed,” she agreed, following him to the two simple wooden chairs by the fire. They sat in silence for a moment, her watching the flames, and he, watching her, as they once did in his castle. The feeling was blissfully familiar. 

“I remember when we would sit and try to talk,” she smiled weakly. “I think that was when I was most happy.”

“The feeling is mutual,” he said, pulling the wooden leg of her chair so she sat closer to him. 

“Do you wish to know what Lazlo said?” 

“No,” he answered. “But you should tell me anyway.”

Folding her fingers into her palms, she looked down to them, wondering how to sugar coat this pile of shit they had landed in. “He was going to claim your kingdom.” 

Drax scoffed, reaching for a cup of wine on his right. “He can make no such claim.”

“He can,” she said. “And he would have. So…”

Drax dipped a finger in his wine, swirling it in the bronze cup before drawing it to his mouth. “What did you say?” 

“If he claimed your kingdom, Drax, he would have taken everything from you. Your castle, your army. You would have no choice but to make a truce with the Ottomans… you might have to flee. Without a hom—”

“—What did you say, Elisabeta?” he said more sternly, placing his cup down. 

“I said I would marry him. Be his. I couldn’t let him take that away from you, not when I could save you. He was so close to taking everything that you loved away.” 

His face became stoic again. Which meant he was quietly furious. She had learnt to read him well now. Drax leaned into the back of his chair, his eyes moving to the fire again.

“You are everything to me,” he said quietly. “I would give up my kingdom in a heartbeat if it meant having you. Tell him that.” 

“I won’t,” she said. “Your words are so pleasing to my ears, my Prince. But our love has left you blind. What would you do? Where would you go?”

“Anywhere. If you were with me,” his face met hers. It was sadder than it had ever been before. No knife could hurt more than his ocean blue eyes now. 

“You were born to be Prince,” she said. 

“And to have a life without love?” he laughed deeply, the sound reverberated around the room, vibrating in her chest. “What kind of life is that?” He reached for her hand, stilling the anxious twisting of her fingers. “What did you brother say?”

“He said…” she tucked a stray lock behind her ear. “He said he would see to it.” 

“Hmm.” Drax looked to her lap, holding her hands with both of his now and lifting them up to his mouth. “Then we must trust our king.” Softly, he placed a kiss to her skin. “Love always finds a way. Those books you read, they must tell you that.” 

“How do you know what I read?” she chuckled incredulously. 

“Jason talks,” he replied with a smile. “A lot.” 

Before she could reply, he pulled her up off her own chair and into the sanctuary of his lap, his still-damp leathers groaning under her. “Can I kiss you now?” he purred. 

“You never have to ask.” 

Taking her words as gospel, he pressed his lips to hers, hard, wasting no time in bringing her chest close to his. She wrapped her arms around his naked shoulders, marveling at how toned and muscular they were without clothing. All she could do was close her eyes and melt into his embrace. Kissing him as if it was their last chance. 

As his hand reached into her hair, his other at her back teasing her, tracing circles, she found that she started to cry. 

He pulled back noticing the soft noises she made, his eyes so gentle as he wiped the tracks of her tears from her cheeks. “I’ll take care of it, you don’t need to cry, my love.” 

“I don’t want to think of what will happen when I leave this room,” she muttered close to his lips, pulling him into her again and desperately kissing him, letting her tongue roam free in that gorgeous mouth of his. “I don’t want to think at all.”

Before her confidence could stop her, she boldly reached for his leathers, plucking the buttons apart clumsily and lifting off his lap for a moment to disregard her cotton undergarments. When she lowered herself, she could feel the soft skin of his stone hard manhood against her bare flesh. The anticipation should have scared her. Frightened her beyond belief. She had always dreamt that her first time would be the night of her marriage — going forth into a life that wasn’t confusing or treacherous, but easy and carefree — this was nothing of the sort. Still, she wanted him all the more for it. If Lazlo was to marry her, to take her, she would not let him be her first. 

All Elisabeta yearned for was for her first time to be with a man who loved her and she, in return, loved to. And if this was her only opportunity, God dammit she would take it. 

“My love,” he purred, stopping her as she reached for him below. “Is now really the time for this. When I take you, I don’t want it to be rushed. It should be natural, pure… I—”

His breath caught as she found her prize in her fingers, curving her grip around his huge member. “Elisabeta…” he growled, his eyes growing darker by the second. 

“It’s on my terms,” she said, kissing his lips with all the passion burning her from the inside out.

Drax gripped the back of her neck, pulling her away, confused but equally taken by her. He wanted her too, she could feel it. The Dragon pulsed deliciously beneath her, his heart slow and strong against her body. 

“Fine,” he purred. “But we’re doing this right.” 

With no warning, he scooped her up and off the chair, lifting her effortlessly over to the window, where a vintage wooden desk lay. He propped her on it, sitting her down and stepping between her legs. There, he kissed her with more fever than a hungry wolf, kissing her neck, biting her earlobe, all while his hands explored her body, peeling off the layers of her thick-winter dress, until she was naked and bare before him. 

He backed away for a moment, chuckling as she reached for him. “Allow me a moment to drink in your beauty,” he smirked, biting his lip. 

Torturously slowly, he approached again, tracing a long line with his finger from her lips down her body, past the curve of her breast, making home against her bud of nerves that throbbed with need. She was practically panting as he kissed her again, knotting her fingers in his damp hair, swallowing her moans in his mouth as he kicked out of his leathers. When her hands found his toned waist, she delighted in how lovely it felt naked. If they had more time, she would have liked to lick every inch of him. But time was short, and she needed him more than she needed to breathe. 

“Drax,” she panted, pulling at his waist, wrapping her legs around them as he bit hard at the delicate flesh on her neck, claiming her. “Please.”

“Just one thing,” he said, pressing his forehead against hers. His pupils were black, large with desire and wild. Gods she could have expired on the spot at the sheer sight of him. His perfectly imperfect face, littered with healing scars — the one on his eyebrow was her favourite, she loved how it shined when he cocked his brow. “Tell me.” 

“Tell you what?” she breathed, wiggling her hips shamelessly with need, stretching her hands around his waist to draw him into her. 

He placed a hand on her neck. His fingers were so large, he could almost grip around the entirety of it. “Tell me you’re mine.”

A small moan bled from her, but his grip only tightened. Not to hurt, but to claim. He wanted to hear her say it. Perhaps he was unsure… thought that she was not so disheartened by a life with the wrong Prince. 

She stopped moving, glanced up to those gorgeous pools of black that stared at her possessively and raised her chin. “I’m yours, forever.”

“In this life, and the next,” he growled, kissing her lips, and edging closer. She could feel him - huge and hard — lining against her entrance. No fear was in her now. All want. She wanted this. More than anything she had yearned for before. 

If this made her impure, so be it. She would fight the devil himself for her chance to have him. 

In one tender thrust, he entered her. Pain and pleasure shot to her head, her body shuddering with the feeling of oneness at last. The feeling was so intense, she pressed her head into his hard shoulder, breathing in his scent to ground her. He didn’t move at first, allowing her to adjust to his size.

The dull ache of pain quickly subsided and morphed into something marvellous. An untempered need for more. More of him. More of this. More. More. More. 

Drax seemed to sense it, for he inched forward, pushing more of himself into her at a measured pace. She gripped him so hard, it was as if she feared she would fall if she let go. He kissed her again, gently, letting her fully feel this with him. 

Then he did something ungodly. He let out a dark groan, low and needy. He was feeling what she was too. It was a beautiful notion, to experience this with another. And this was just the beginning. 

Elisabeta moved her own hips, clawing at his back as he reached his hilt. There, she squeezed around him, clenching her muscles so she could feel every inch of him inside her. 

“Fuck,” he muttered, holding the back of her head and pulling her hair so he could claim her lips. “You goddess.” He pulled back, and thrust again, pushing the full length of himself inside her faster. 

A cord inside tightened, her legs shaking and trembling. She was close already, this was ridiculous; the power he had over her body. It was like she had been designed for him, and him for her. She wanted to scorn her past self for not divulging in such a mind altering act before with him when she had the chance. She supposed now was an ample opportunity to make up for lost time, and answered her thoughts by meeting his second thrust with a swing of her own hips. 

He growled into her mouth, biting her bottom lip as his thrusts become more rhythmic. 

“Are you okay?” he breathed close to her lips, grunting low as she clenched in response. “You feel divine, you are everything.”

“Yours,” she managed, leaning back to the desk to allow him a better angle. He thrust into her faster, gripping the naked flesh of her hip hard with his huge hands. She watched him, through the throes of bliss and almost died at the sight of him. 

Drax watched her feverishly, his achingly beautiful face drinking her body in, falling apart over her. He had never looked more perfect. The dragon. Her dark prince.

With a growl, he lifted her from the table, never leaving her body, and pressed her against the cool, wood wall. He adjusted their position, lifting her legs tighter around him, and used his body as an anchor. 

“Against the wall you said,” he growled to her lips, kissing them for good measure. 

“I…” she did. In her wildest fantasies, for some reason, it was there that he claimed her first. Those dreams were wonderful, sensual. She never expected the reality to be more mindblowing. More intense. 

With a firm grip on her backside, he pounded into her relentlessly, like he was a man possessed by lust. The voices he was making, low and fevered were driving her wilder. And she matched them with her own howls of pleasure. 

“I can’t stop,” she mumbled, omitting another whimper. 

“Then don’t,” he snarled, thrusting faster, harder. Ploughing her into the hard wall at such a pace she was sure they would break through it. 

“They’ll… they’ll hear?”

“Let them,” he replied low, kissing her again. 

Held up by his enormous strength, Elisabeta let herself feel. Despite his enormous size, her body adjusted well, yearning for more. Whatever he was doing, was drawing her closer and closer. The feeling of his skin and thrusts not only filled her, but rubbed deliciously against her throbbing bud, every hit teasing her, pulling at the cord inside her. Closer and closer. 

She clamped around him, pulsing her muscles as her climax took her over. 

Drax watched her, managing to hold the back of her neck hard so he could drink in the sight before him. His love coming undone around him. Eyes closed, rolling to the back of her head, her lip quivering so hard she had to bite down to still the tremors. 

“I can feel how close you are,” he purred, kissing her neck, biting it, then sucking. He was going to mark her and she didn’t care. She would take whatever consequences, so long as he didn’t stop. She wished for this to never stop. And the faster she came undone, the sooner it would end. 

Sensing this, Drax slowed a little, timing his thrusts in a teasing fashion, pulling back slowly and slamming into her hard. “Let go, Elisabeta,” he breathed, squeezing at her neck. 

“I can’t… I want more,” she managed, throwing her head back. It would have hit hard against the wood of the wall if Drax’s hand had not been there to protect her. 

“I want to watch you come undone,” he said, pushing her body against the wall harder, angling himself deeper inside her. Thrusting powerfully, driving her achingly close to a world ending climax. 

She tried — god dammit, she tried — to hold it in, to push her mind elsewhere so she could string this out. But the shaking began at her toes and travelled through her body, her thighs, her hips, her entire soul was trembling like the start of an avalanche. And at the peak of the mountain was her Dragon, burning through her with relentless movements. 

“Fuck,” he muttered, a low rumble drawing from him. “I won’t last much longer like this.” 

Inside her, he throbbed, stone-like, pushing her more. 

Her body snapped, like someone had cut a string inside her. He kissed her fast, swallowing every curse, every mutter, all of the ragged moans that poured from her as she experienced the most mind-blowing sensation her body had ever felt. Perhaps this was what heaven was like? A moment like this on a loop. She twitched around him, and despite her exhaustion, moved with him, bouncing against his hips as he drove into her faster, harder, his eyes alive with want and desire. 

A loud knock echoed through the room, shocking her to the core. 

She expected him to stop. And though he slowed, he didn’t. 

“Drax,” she gasped. “It could be—”

“I don’t care,” he said, thrusting up with his hips and smirking as her lips curved into an o. 

“Prince!” a familiar voice shouted. 

Ponvelt. 

Drax didn’t reply, didn’t stop. It seemed he, like her, never wished for this to end. 

“The Ottomans are here, Prince, they call for you!” Ponvelt yelled. 

“Let them wait!” Drax growled, kissing her more, breathing hot, sweet breath against her cheeks as he deepened their embrace. 

“They won’t wait!” 

A roar bellowed out of the Dragon as he stopped, lowering her gently to the floor but not letting go. “Forgive me,” he said, tucking her unruly locks behind her ear and kissing her cheek. “I plan to finish what we started.” 

“You better,” she smiled weakly, reaching for one of his shirts beside her. 

They watched each other in silence, still vibrating with lust and pent up frustration, as they messily dressed. 

“Prince!!” Ponvelt yelled more desperately, pounding at the door. 

“A moment!” he replied, closing in on Elisabeta again, and cupping her jaw. He placed a tender kiss on her lips. “Do not think on your fears for another moment.”

She held his hand, pressing it close to her skin and turned her head to kiss it. “I am thankful we got to experience this.” 

“As am I, but it will not be the last time,” he dropped his hand, backing away. “This is just the beginning, my love.”

Chapter Text

“Where are the others?” Drax asked as Ponvelt watched, seeing a little abashed that he was privy to the two of them in such an intimate setting. Ever-awkward he averted his eyes from Elisabeta buttoning up Drax’s shirt.

“You can’t go down wearing that,” Ponvelt said, coughing lightly, looking at a particularly interesting section of the wall.

“She’s not coming at all,” Drax muttered, attaching his leather belt to his slacks and securing his faithful sword.

“But,” Ponvelt’s nervous eyes darted to them both. “The Ottomans have asked for all to be in attendance.”

“They won’t miss what they don’t know,” Drax replied coolly, moving over to Elisabeta now. “Go to your rooms, relax.”

“Prince,” Ponvelt said. “I’m sorry, but László requested I fetch her. The Ottomans asked.”

“God, your betrothed is a fool,” Drax sighed, pushing his fingers through his already-messy hair. “Fine, still you can’t wear that my love. Go and dress, Ponvelt will come with you and take you down.”

“Where are you going?” Elisabeta mumbled, her face still flushed from the act they just partook in.

“Apparently I have a date with my worst enemies.”

*

The ever-dutiful Ponvelt did indeed wait as she changed, hurriedly washing the scent of her Prince off her skin. It felt like a crime to do such a thing.

She dressed in new cream-colored robes, pinched her cheeks and was just slipping on a less damp pair of slippers when Jason barged through the door.

“Lizzy, for goodness’ sake, the Ottomans are getting impatient, we can’t start without you ar…” they paused, narrowing their lightly kohl-ed eyes. “Did you have sex?”

“Wh-” Elisabeta choked, bursting into a coughing fit. “How, how did you know?”

Jason beamed cockily. “Back of your hair looks like a raven’s nest.” They started to run their fingers lightly through the knots that had indeed formed at the crown of her head. “Also, you’re glowing, my girl.”

“Well,” Elisabeta said, staring now at a mortified Ponvelt whose jaw almost reached the ground at the conversation being had. “Jason, we have company.”

“Pffff,” Jason cackled, brushing their hands towards the lanky man in the doorframe. “He doesn’t mind, do you?”

“I don’t mind,” he confirmed obediently. Goodness me, he really was their dog. Or a puppy perhaps? Definitely puppy. As eager as he was faithful.

“So, how was it?” Jason grinned, pinching her cheek hard. “My little Lizzy, finally a woman.”

“Stop,” she lamented, pushing their shoulders in jest. “Remind me why the Ottomans want me there of all people?”

“Right,” Jason said, shaking out of their excitement. “It appears someone, not me—” they said quickly. “Might have written to them when you were away, accusing them of taking you and… erm,” they shuffled more.

“What did you say?” Elisabeta sighed.

“Well, they—not me—like I said. Some blithering idiot might have threatened to, erm, behead every man, woman, and child until they returned you. Anyway, they want to see the proof that you’re back and have you tell everyone you were never touched by the lot of them.”

“But, everyone here knows what happens?”

“Yes, yes of course. I mean, Matthias tried to tell them that. But they wanted to have it come from your mouth, just to, I don’t know, settle it once and for all.” Jason picked at the corner of their nail, biting at the edge of her thumb and spitting out a sharp piece.

“Right,” Elisabeta sighed. “Well, I suppose I have no choice.”

“Sorry,” Jason smirked, pulling her along.

“What are you sorry for? I thought it wasn’t you,” Elisabeta smirked, squeezing their hand hard.

“Right, yeah, idiot. If I ever find them, grrrr,” Jason said guilty.

Ponvelt watched incredulously at the two as they closed her bedroom door.

“Sorry, I thought you did send the letter?” he mumbled, looking at the two more confused than ever. Poor lamb.

“Shhh,” Jason hissed. “The point isn’t who sent the letter. The point is my little mushroom has finally been plucked from the ground.”

“So vulgar,” Elisabeta laughed, moving through the corridors arm in arm with her friend. A little apprehension in her for seeing the Ottomans, but above all, a sense of hope. Drax and Matthias would make things right for them. Maybe, if she was really lucky, she could find happiness after all.

“Ah, I said plucked not fucked,” Jason corrected. “But speaking of fucking, tell me how the Dragon performed. Did he spit fire?”

Elisabeta’s roars of laughter could be heard by all the palace as they moved towards the hall, Ponvelt sheepishly giggling behind them.

The laughter promptly stopped as they approached the halls.

The partygoers had backed to the walls, many hiccupping and swaying with the alcohol that had consumed them. The long wooden tables were littered with the remnants of the feast. The room reeking of duck fat and rich warm wine.

That wasn’t where her eyes stayed, however. The head of the room was flanked by at least fifty Ottoman soldiers, each wearing long kaftans (a sort of robe made of thick crimson wool). All wore a wide gold sash with a short curved sword that gleamed against the bright candlelight. A warning to not mess with them.

At the front was the man himself. His kaftan appeared to be silk, rather than wool, lined with brown fur. On his head, like the others, he wore a neat turban. His was emerald, unlike his men’s blood-red headwear. The colour was proof to anyone foolish enough to not know him that he was, indeed, in charge. Sultan Mehmed II’s right-hand man or Grand Vizier, Mahmud Pasha Angelović—over in Hungary, he was aptly nicknamed Veli the Virtuous, seeing as he spent much of his time off the battlefield writing all kinds of poems. Elisabeta had read a few of them herself. They were annoyingly good. He was no doubt a smart man, which made him all the more dangerous.

At their side, standing straight and silent, were Matthias, László, Ruxandra, Drax, along with two of the most trusted advisors to the King. They all looked to her as she arrived—Drax’s infamous face growing more stoic to mask his worry.

“Ah, this must be Elisabeta, the captured,” Veli drawled, bowing his head to her as she approached with Ponvelt and Jason. “You can all leave us now,” he waved to her friends and the rest of the room.

With a nod from Matthias, the room of at least a hundred party guests scurried out of the door, requiring no further confirmation. The air the Ottomans brought with them was not pleasant.

“You too,” Veli looked to Jason and Ponvelt, who looked to each other then to Drax. Ponvelt looked conflicted (what was new there) while Jason raised their chin.

“I would like to stay,” they said confidently. “If I may.”

“And who are you exactly?” Veli asked, drawing their head high with the power they exuded. Elisabeta watched Drax carefully as he appeared to grit his teeth watching in the background.

“I am Elisabeta’s closest confidant, and…” they paused. “I sent the letter, apologies. I was worried for my friend.”

Veli’s face was unreadable for a moment. His dark eyes watching with no hint of what he was feeling. He pulled at his long chestnut coloured beard that had been plaited neatly, reaching the top of his chest. He might have been handsome if he wasn’t so cruel in appearance. No scars to show of his battles, but his eyes were like death itself—narrow and dark as a muddy puddle. He wasn’t Turkish like most of the Ottomans. He was a man who converted in Serbia. Hilariously, Drax could have been standing in his shoes as they had a similar history. Captured at first in his youth, then converted. Soon, he rose through the devşirme-style military and court ranks to become one of the Sultan's most loyal followers. Due to his Balkan-Byzantine history, he was fairer than the others. Tall, slender, deep-set dark eyes. His eyebrows were dark, with the faint remnants of kohl dusting them. He smelt, quite strangely, of roses—the scent hitting Elisabeta quickly as he approached Jason.

“A woman dares to write to our Sultan with threats. Accusing us of stealing this beauty? What is your name?” he asked, his tone honeyed with charm albeit still serious.

“Judit,” one of the nobles to the right of Matthias spoke quickly. “We can only apologise for her mishap. Women are far more prone to acting on their emotions. It’s why we don’t keep them in our armies.”

“Jason,” Ponvelt mumbled.

“Sorry, what was that?” Veli asked, ignoring the bold noble completely.

Matthias pushed a hand to his chest, silently scorning him.

“Jason,” Ponvelt spoke louder. “They’re not Judit anymore. They like Jason.”

“Well then,” Veli smirked. “Jason, shame this court doesn’t seem to appreciate your vigor. We have a few trusted women in our ranks.” He nodded to one of the few females that did indeed, show in their mess of soldiers. She was so tall, she easily matched the men. Well built too, their face plain with loyalty. She was quite pretty, it had to be said. Clearly of Turkish descent by their bronzed skin and lush dark eyebrows.

Jason glanced to her briefly, then back to Veli. “Like I said, apologies for the mix-up.”

“You can stay if you wish,” Veli said casually. Seeming done with Jason, they now turned to Elisabeta. “Contrary to rumours, we Ottomans do not capture noble women without good reason. We are not brutes, are we dear Drax.” He turned for the first time to grin devilishly at the Prince.

“I would argue against that,” he said, his voice so low it was almost a growl.

Veli chuckled heartily, “You misbehaved awfully. It was your own fault. Your brother was not harmed, was he? Well, your younger one. Shame about your father and other one. But, needs must. We took you and Radu in as part of your father’s pact. He didn't come when we called him to fight at Varna. And your boys in Hungary didn’t seem too pleased with him either.”

“What was he to do? Fight against his own people in Hungary?”

“Not our problem. May I remind you, we were not the ones to bury him and your brother Mircea alive, hmm?”

“You expected my father to betray his people!” Drax hissed.

“We expected him to stay loyal to what he vowed. He didn’t. It’s not our fault that the Hungarians killed him for not staying loyal to them either. He just watched from afar. Pointless man.”

“Take that back,” Drax warned.

“Oh, have I awoken the Dragon?” Veli grinned.

“You’ll know when you wake the Dragon.”

“Side-tracking. You’ve not changed one bit Drax, pity you couldn’t have been more like Radu.” Veli turned back to Elisabeta, reaching towards her to lift a ginger curl from her shoulder. “Very pretty indeed, Drax, I see why you captured her.”

“I didn-”

“Confirm you have never seen our men before Elisabeta and you can go,” Veli interrupted Drax—causing a dark rumble to escape his chest. She had never seen him so furious. Though, she supposed it made sense. Drax was surrounded by everyone he hated. Matthias, he could make peace with, seeing as he never directly did anything to harm him or his family. But there the dark Prince stood, forced to stand amongst everyone who betrayed him.

Elisabeta had read the books, she knew all too well from the very records she had requested from Drax as she left his castle of his story. Captured by the Ottomans around him. The Hungarians who once betrayed his family, burying his own father and other brother alive. The Ottomans thought them disloyal, the Hungarians thought them to be betrayers of Christianity. How could he possibly trust anyone?

“I was captured, at first,” Elisabeta said, forcing calm to her voice. “Taken to Vlad, but they treated me kindly. Even upon capture, the men didn’t touch me. Not once.”

“You were to be an untouchable, am I to understand?”

She nodded.

“And if dear Vlad was not to claim you, do you think they would have been so kind to you?”

She stayed silent. Fearing he was correct.

“Something I am still unsure of,” Veli tutted, now approaching Matthias and Drax where they stood.

“Why did your men capture her in the first place?” he asked casually, tying a long finger around his beard.

“They thought she was pro-Ottoman. She was travelling through a Hungarian village loyal to you.”

“I see, so despite our truce, you planned to capture our women.”

“She was never your woman,” Drax countered.

“But she could have been,” Veli said. “I suppose the truce was not active between Transylvania and ourselves at the time. Perhaps I can forgive it.”

“Your truce is between Matthias—it’s Hungary that signed it, not me.”

“But, by its very nature, it is, do you not see,” he said, his lips curving into a knowing smile. “You signed a truce with Hungary, they signed a truce with us. All in all, you are locked in a truce with us. Isn’t that marvellous," he clapped his hands together hard. “Knew you’d join us eventually, just like Radu.”

“Radu is dead, did you not hear,” Drax said, his lips thin with fury.

“Shame,” Veli nodded. “I came here for a tribute. Matthias had kindly offered gold and men, is that right?”

Matthias nodded calmly. Elisabeta could sense he was uneasy, he always hated any political conversations. He was fiercely protective over his people, it was his greatest strength and weakness. He didn’t let his personal views or opinions cloud whatever he had to do. He didn’t love the Ottomans either, a Christian at heart. A lover of their God. But war was horrid to their country, it was safer for all to make peace, for now.

“How nice,” Veli said, turning to Drax now. “And what will you offer me from Transylvania?”

“He’s not Prince yet,” Matthias said quickly before Drax could reply with something almost certainly biting. “Only royals can offer tribute.”

A small squeak emitted from one of the few people in the room who was yet to speak. Ruxandra floated forward, placing her claw-like hand on Drax’s arm. He flinched subtly.

“We can promise something now, can we not dear? After all, when we marry next week, you’ll be Prince.”

If Elisabeta had the strength and guts to pounce on her then and there, she would have. Ripped that gorgeous black hair from her scalp and kept going until she resembled the head of a match.

“Strange,” Veli said, looking between Drax and Ruxandra. His curiosity clearly piqued. “You are to marry this one,” he nodded to Ruxandra. “Yet are clearly in love with this child?” He spun to Elisabeta, cocking his head like a dog.

Drax said nothing, how could he? Ruxandra cackled her own cruel laugh.

“She was just something he could bump in the night,” she looked to Elisabeta, her eyes blazing. “Nothing more. I am the woman he loves, isn’t that right?”

Every head turned to Drax now, watching as he raised his head to look directly at the woman he did love. Not Ruxandra. Elisabeta.

“I’m sorry to have taken you down this path,” he said slowly, carefully turning to the foul black haired woman. A little guilt appearing on his face. She didn’t deserve his empathy, Elisabeta thought. “I can’t marry you.”

“You wish to marry her?” Ruxandra yelled, her voice shaking the empty wine-stained glasses on the table.

“Interesting,” Veli said, looking highly amused at the dramatics unfolding around him. “I’m half tempted to ask for her as tribute myself, seems she’s found herself in quite a pickle. The Sultan would love her, I’m sure.”

“No!”

Matthias, Drax, Ponvelt, and Jason all spoke at the same time.

Veli circled the room, laughing more enthusiastically. “What a power you have over them,” he said, reaching for Elisabeta’s hand. She had no choice but to allow it. What with the fifty very pointy knives on the belt of his men winking at her. “You’ve heard stories of us, I’m sure,” Veli purred. “Nonsense I promise you. We allow no cruelty, our women are treated with the utmost respect. You’d be royalty my dear—get on splendidly with the Sultan’s other wives no doubt. With our help you could wield immense power in the harem.”

Elisabeta’s heart began beating so fast, she worried he could feel her fluttering pulse through her wrist. She wanted to drop to the floor, to scream from the top of her lungs. Curse God for yet another problem. Could she never escape these horrid men? Would she always just be a political pawn?

“Elisabeta is not a prize you can win,” Drax said.

“It seems you all hold her dearest to you. A tribute, by nature, should be something that one misses. The best tributes are the hardest, they show your loyalty. If this girl—” he looked quickly to Elisabeta, his brown eyes softening, “woman, my apologies, is so important to you, she would make an excellent offering. We would vow to not harm her. You’d have my word, Dragon.”

“I will cu—”

“Errr,” Matthias interrupted hastily. Cutting off the death threat Drax was about to offer. Possibly saving his life. “We have offered a tribute of gold and men for your army, you accepted this. I thought, forgive me, but I thought we were done here? This is no time for games now, Veli.”

“I am not playing,” Veli said. “We have had our Hungarian offering, and I thank you for that. But a peaceful tribute from Transylvania would go down very well with the Sultan. What do you think, dear Vlad? Save your kingdom from bloodshed in one word? You know you want to.”

Drax stepped coolly towards Veli, looking him up and down, his jaw ticking. He grew so close, Veli could no doubt feel his warm breath on his face. There, the Dragon finally spoke. “You want one word?” he said. “Never.”

“Even if he wanted to,” Matthias said, his voice stumbling with worry. “Drax cannot give away Elisabeta. She’s no one’s to give. She belongs to my country and as King, I say, no. Respectfully.”

Veli watched the room carefully, eyes narrowing on the King. Only an Ottoman would ever dare to look at a King that way. “Fine.”

“Sorry,” László said, his voice unusually high. “You said she is owned by no one, did you not? She’s my fiancé—can I not have a say?”

“The plot thickens,” Veli cackled, sitting on a chair close to the men and stretching his legs. “I should visit you all more, this is gripping stuff, it really is. Go on… Laplo was it?”

“László,” he corrected with an ounce of annoyance. “See, she is my betrothed. I get a say on the matter, do I not?”

“You wish to claim her to keep her here,” Veli said, waving the air. “Yes, yes, you all adore the girl. I can see that plain as day.”

“Well, I was going to let you have her,” László grinned. 

Chapter Text

“YOU BEAST!” Jason screamed, aiming to sprint towards him. Ponvelt caught them before their feet could leave the ground, wrestling to calm them. “You’re not married to her, you can’t!” they spat, panting as they continued to try and fight Ponvelt off to give László a well deserved walloping. 

Veli could not have looked more pleased. “Is it true, she is your betrothed?” 

“Yes,” László smiled cruelly. 

“Well, that’s all well and good, I don’t know about your rules, but in our religion, marriage is more binding. As much as I would adore to take this lovely woman off your hands, that means little to us.”

“Actually, she is Vlad’s to claim,” László said, seeming almost bored. 

“What are you on about now, László?” Matthias sighed. “This is not a conversation you need to be part of.” 

“Wait,” Drax said, holding his palm up to the room. “Go on.” 

“Thank you, Vlad,” László drawled. “See, I have been informed that you claimed Elisabeta, is that correct. When you first met her?” 

Drax nodded slowly. “Who told you that?”

“My sources do not concern you.” 

As László spoke Ruxandra squeaked a mouse-like chuckle - an admission of guilt if there ever was one. 

“You fought for her, killed a man for the claim. Even killed your cousin Barsarb and his father, did you not?” 

“That was a separate matter,” Drax tutted. “But yes, I claimed her. So, what’s your point? If you say she is mine, of course she won’t go.”

László walked gracefully towards Drax, climbing fluidly up two stairs to meet him at the top. He looked up to the grand Dragon, who stood at least four inches higher than he did. A beastly tall man compared to him. Still, he didn’t let the lack of height put him off, and circled him; like a wolf hunting prey. His eyes were bigger than his stomach on this one. 

“This very morn, I caught a Gryfalcon, have you heard of them?” László looked to Veli, who nodded, his forehead lining with confusion that was shared by the rest of the group. 

“We made a bet, a knightly bet. Whoever could catch or kill the bird would hold claim on something the other owned,” he stopped his pacing, sliding on his heels towards Drax. “I want her.” 

“You can’t have her,” Drax replied coolly. “It was a game, you fool.”

“The ordinary practice is to win a sword or a particularly grand bottle of wine, have you gone mad, man?” Matthias said, strutting towards him now. 

The two tallest men in the room loomed down to the cocky Prince. A stance that should have brought anxiety to László. He shuffled, indeed, but kept his shoulders back, looking at the Ottoman royal.

“I have claimed what is his, and I say, you can have her.” 

“I’ll kill you, I'll wring your scrawny little neck and-” Jason mumbled through Ponvelt’s hold, wriggling like a caught rabbit in his long, lanky arms. He tried to shush them, but Jason was furious. 

Elisabeta however, quite the opposite, stood silent. Seized with fear. It was one thing to live in Hungary with a man she despised but with the Ottomans? No. That was hellish. She heard stories of what they did with ‘willing’ captors. They were sent away, taught their religion, schooled, made to marry with some dratted royal and then… what? Bear children she did not want? Her God would surely condemn her. And Drax… he would never look at her again and she wouldn't blame him for it. To live with the people who ruined his life. Air escaped her mouth in short bursts as her face darted from Matthias, to Drax, then László. 

Fury pounded through her now. Replacing her fear.

“You swine,” she spat. “You promised me. I said I would be yours. I would be your wife. All you had to do was leave him alone. Yet you put your ego first!” 

“Shh now, my love,” László chuckled. “You so enjoy the warm weather, you’ll love it. Think of it as an extended holiday.”

“She hates the heat,” Drax countered, giving László a look that could have cut through a normal man. “You are nothing but a spoiled prince who killed a pretty bird. You have no right to claim a woman over it.”

“Matthias,” Veli asked, plucking a cherry from the fruit bowl that sat beside him. “What say you as King?” 

Elisabeta watched as her brother’s face crumpled with grief. He didn’t dare look at her. Couldn’t face her.

This was not good. 

“I will unleash hell itself if you dare take her,” Drax said carefully, stepping towards the frey. 

“I didn’t ask you,” Veli said with an oil-slick grin. “I asked the King.” 

“They played the knightly trial. Lovagi próba. I… I will need time to research it,” Matthias said. “I have no doubt we can find a peaceful way to all be happy. Leaving my dear sister out of this.” 

“Spoken like a true politician,” Veli nodded. “Your father would be so proud.” 

“Don’t push it, Veli,” Matthias said through thin lips. 

Elisabeta’s own father, John, had died after defeating the Ottomans. Not on the battlefield, but of camp fever. It was a horribly gruesome and uncivilised death for such a great man. Veli, of course, hated him. For it was his own Sultan that he bested. 

“We camp a few miles down the path,” Veli said, pointing through the walls down towards the city. “Gather the gold you promised, think about the girl and her fate. I would love to bring her along as a treat for the Sultan. But, do with that what you will.” 

The group let out a collective exhale of relief, the fifty soldiers loudly shuffling, at the news of more time. 

Before Veli could leave, Drax raised his voice. His tone showing no notes of anger or fury, venom or passion. It was simple, honest and calm. And for some reason, even  the great Veli the Virtuous shuddered. 

“A warning to you all. Whoever takes her away, against her wishes, will have me to answer to,” he walked closer to the fifty foreboding soilers and their leader, washing them with his stoic expression. “I will cut off every head I see, man, woman and child. I will bathe in the blood of everyone you hold dear. And,” he stopped at Veli’s feet. “I will impale every head on a tall spike for all to see. And when your people see your bloody, mottled faces, they will breathe: if only they listened to the warning.” 

He stepped back coolly, smirking as Veli visibility gulped. His grand and powerful facade dropping for a moment. 

“Bold words for a man who is not a Prince. A dragon with no fire. A man who never married the great love he claimed,” Veli pulled sharply on their lips, forcing a smile to appear. 

Drax’s deep laugh bounced off the walls around them, the rumble filling their chests like a heavy bass. “Wake the Dragon, if you dare.” 

With a pffff, Veli turned sharply and walked his men out of the room to leave. 

It took Drax no less than five seconds to punch László square in the jaw. 

The man was so shocked, he crumbled to the floor like someone had swept a rug beneath his feet. If the matter was not so tense, Elisabeta would have laughed. 

Drax, however, was not finished. Holding the scruff of his fine-silk tunic, Vlad yanked him up and off the ground, pushing him away from him roughly so he would stand. 

“I should kill you now,” he spat, fury spilling from him. 

The room thickened with it, as if a dark cloud had sunk from the heavens and was with them now in the grand hall, bleeding into Drax, adding to his relentless wrath. 

“I will rip your heart out for what you did!” He bellowed. “Fight back, God dammit!” he nodded furiously to László’s fists; that wet with the blood he had messily mopped up from his broken and bleeding nose.

“I… I was angry… I”

“Raise your fists, you dastard,” Drax said. 

Slowly, shakily, László blocked his face with his hands. “I’ll take it back,” he muttered. 

“You planted a seed,” Jason hissed, pushing Ponvelt off them for good and marching to Drax’s side. “Don’t mind if I join you, do you?” 

“What are you talking about, s-s-seed?” László cried, backing away, the cowardly prince revealing his true colours at last. 

“He would have never taken her,” Matthias said. “He was ready to leave.” 

“I…” László stumbled on his words and then, quite literally, stumbled. “I’m sorry, I got… you stole her away from me, you brute!” He yelled desperately to Drax, who walked to him slowly, flexing his large hands at his side. 

“She was never yours to start with,” he bent down, clasping László’s jaw so powerfully between his finger and his thumb, Elisabeta heard his jaw break with a gory crack under his strength. He cried in agony, but Drax didn’t let go, forcing his gaze to meet Elisabeta. 

“She never loved you. She has more purity and goodness in one fingernail than you do in your entire body, she-”

“Drax,” Elisabeta spoke, meeting his side. “He understands, don’t you László?” 

He nodded fast, bawling softly now. Drax released his jaw, but picked him up off the floor again. 

“Leave him, you… you don’t need to, my love. He’s beneath you,” Elisabeta said.

She was not a strong woman, physically. Nor was she particularly cunning or devious. But she could play with words well, it was the only thing she really considered to be a strength. Her conversational skills, her charm, her cleverness. She could never show revenge with her fists like Drax, no. Instead, she planned a more subtle metaphorical slap to her betraying betrothed's face. 

She nodded to Drax, giving him a look to say, enough. 

He didn’t seem to be happy with the notion, yet respected her wishes, propelling László away with such force, he stumbled backwards, falling messily to his bony bottom, where he whined further, rocking back and forth. 

She bent to the floor, careful to avoid the small pool of blood that was dripping from his nose and lip. “My dear,” she said, lifting his chin gently to meet her. “My time with you, getting to know you, walking around the grounds, was… boring. You are a bore. A spoiled brat, small in frame suffering from what I think they named ‘small man syndrome’ - it’s quite deadly, I hear.” She smiled, looking to Drax, who watched her proudly, his handsome face calming. 

“Now, you claim to have killed the bird, is that right?” She was so warm in tone, like she was a mother cooing her child to slumber. He nodded apprehensively, László’s mad eyes darting from her to Drax, who still watched from behind. 

“Indeed,” she muttered, standing and returning to her Prince’s side. 

“Jason, is it true that there are reports that this prince has never caught a beast of his own? That his men killed all the animals on his famous hunts, and he took the glory for himself?” she asked Jason, who began to show amusement, seeing Elisabeta’s game. 

“Yes,” they said, “paid many off too who threatened to tell. Isn’t that right, László?” 

“No… I nevera, I… am Boheerrmia’s greatehst huntee. You sawww me! Hoaw cou-”

“We saw you holding a bow,” Elisabeta said. 

Confidence now oozed through her deliciously, realising the essential missing data that everyone, her included, had overlooked. Why had they thought he, of all people, could hit such a hard target? He was a known cheat, unskilled in every area. A silly and regrettable mistake to not see earlier. Though, better late than never. 

“Is that the bow?” she asked, nodding to the (now broken) grand bow secured to his back. He hadn’t been able to change post-hunt thanks to Matthias, and was still dressed in his muddy hunting gear. 

“War aere you gettin aa?” he snarled painfully through his injuries, spitting a globule of blood to the stone floor by her feet. Drax seeing this, moved forward, a growl rumbling through him. 

Elisabeta placed a palm to his chest, stopping him from proving just how protective Dragons were over what was theirs. 

“You have your arrows too, I assume?”

He nodded again to Elisabeta, holding his jaw that had begun to open on its own accord, on an account of being broken. 

“Let me see?” she asked, holding her palm open. 

László tried to reach behind him, but whimpered in pain again. It seemed that Drax had caused many hidden injuries too. 

“Pathetic,” Drax muttered, approaching him. He spun him around brutally and pulled a bent arrow from the cluster where they were secured in leather by the bow. Passing it to Elisabeta she quietly observed, her insides beaming as what she suspected became the truth. 

“Jason,” Elisabeta asked, “did you send Lor for the bird like Vlad asked?” 

“Yea,” they said, “Drax also asked he rescue those baby ones too. That’s where he is, nursing the noisy buggers to sleep.”

“Drax,” Elisabeta chuffed. For such a brutal man - the evidence gleaming scarlet on his knuckles - he was a softie when it came to small animals (did she count in that category?)

He shuffled in his hard leathers, shrugging. 

“The bird, will you check the linens you wrapped it in? I believe there was still an arrow lodged in its chest?” 

Elisabeta didn’t have to look for proof, she remembered the arrow well. The feather that fanned from the top was a crimson red, complimenting with the same dark green as the foliage around the forest. That’s how she remembered it. The red of the blood and green of the trees all seemingly present in the arrow that slaughtered her bird, and any wishes of a happy future with Drax. 

Jason sprinted off, Ponvelt close to their heels. The lost puppy. 

“Can I kill him now?” Drax said through clenched teeth. 

She reached for his hand, feeling the tension leaving him slightly as she gripped. 

Matthias simply stared on, Ruxandra standing gormlessly beside him. If looks could boil a person, their blood would have been bubbling. 

“So,” she squeaked, her bulging eyes glancing to their hands knotted together. “It’s true. The rumours.” 

“Oh my dear,” Matthias sighed, “were you really that foolish to ignore all of this. Jesus, the moment he came to visit our Palace I knew by the way they looked at each other. It’s love, you fool, a blind man could see it.”

“Is it?” Ruxandra asked, flicking her raven hair behind her back, as if the motion could somehow convince him to reconsider. 

“I meant what I said before,” Drax said. “I am sorry. I should have never asked you. There was an awful lot that was lost in translation with Elisabeta and I.”

“Say no more,” Ruxandra said sharply. “Please. For my sanity, let’s just let this be. Speak no more of it, yes?” 

Drax nodded. 

“Can I at least tell my friends that I ended this? Give me a little respect back?”

“You-”

Drax shhed Elisabeta with a chuckle, squeezing her hand to silence her tenderly. “Whatever you want. You’ll be paid, and such. Whatever you want within limits for your… patience.”

“Patience,” she scoffed. “I am mortified by the entire ordeal, but granted, I am relieved to not have to endure any more of the politics. I yearn for a casket of our finest Transylvanian wine, not the horse piss you all drink.” She pulled the extravagant gleaming silver ring off her finger, walking steadily towards Drax and placing it in his hand. “Silver never suited me anyway.” 

“Thank you,” Drax said, nodding  to her in farewell. 

As she left, she passed the running threesome that was Jason, Lor and Ponvelt. Jason ahead of them, holding a bloodied arrow to the air. 

“You lying, puss-filled, whoreson!” they yelled as they ran to the group. 

“Jason,” Matthias warned. “Your mother would be furious at that tongue of yours.” 

“Right, your majesty,” Jason muttered, passing the arrow to Elisabeta. 

“Now, I may not be the best at noticing details,” she said, prodding László with her toe as he seemed to have drifted off to the abyss for a moment to nurse his battle scars. 

“Hueh?” he mumbled, his jaw lolling to the right. Grimacing, he supported it with his hand, crunching bone as he tried (and failed) to place it straight. “Waa does that proovee?” he managed, drooling all over himself. 

“Your arrow,” she lifted it from her side, showing off the yellow and white plume on the top, “is quite different to the one that killed the bird, is it not?” 

“Proves nufin, had,” he coughed violently, tried to laugh and gave up. “Had lotsa arrowas.”

“Just admit it, László,” she sighed, bending to his level. “Your lies make you all the more repulsive.” 

“Eeet was my bleedin’ arrowwwa!” 

“Hmm,” Elisabeta said, chewing on her bottom lip, fighting a new smile. “Drax, darling, perhaps you could talk to him?” 

“Oh it would be my pleasure,” Drax smirked, striding casually to László. He smiled wide, showing off his gleaming white canines, then dropped it. Looking quite murderous. Gripping László torn tunic again, Drax dragged him into a surprise run, lifting him off the floor and up - his feet dragging behind him until László was slammed brutally into the stone wall of the hall. 

“Who shot the bird?” Drax said, hot steam almost radiating off him. 

“Pleasss!!” László clamored, trying to shield his bloody face with his hands, but Drax pinned them to his side. 

“I’m going to count to three, there will not be a four, so I highly recommend, for the sake of your remaining teeth, that you remember who’s arrow it is by then.” Drax shook his right hand, readying it for brutal use. “One,” he purred. “Two.” 

“Thre-”

“IT WA DUFFURRSS!” László wept, lolling his head to the side. “Duffers. Asss him.” 

“Very good,” Drax said. “That wasn’t so hard was it.” He let him go and watched the once-great Prince drop to the ground, noisily shrieking in pain where he sat. 

“Pathetic,” Elisabeta mumbled.

“Mm,” Drax said, kissing her lips quick as he joined her. “Clever girl.” 

Elisabeta blushed at the praise. 

“Problem solved,” Jason shouted, opening their hands to the sky and closing them in a prayer. “Thank you, God! I will try my very best to pray to you more! And to stop swearing, and sleeping with beautiful wo-” the stopped, their voice trailing off as they noticed all eyes on them. “Can we kill him now?” 

Matthias chuckled. “Jason, enough. The truce.” 

“Fucking truce,” Drax breathed, almost to himself, but Elisabeta heard and chuckled. When she turned to her handsome dark Prince, she foolishly expected him to grin with her. But he didn’t, his lovely face impassive again. “The seed, Matthias.” 

“I know my friend,” Matthias said. “It’s not safe for you here, not now.” Her brother’s eyes creased, sadness lighting his amber irises so they appeared fiery. 

“What are you talking about, they left. We have proof. They have no claim?” Elisabeta said, puzzled. 

“You didn’t see the way he looked at you,” Drax snarled. “They’ve reason to take you, seeing as this ordeal has caused them enough grief. They could threaten to pull out of the treaty. Command their men to kill us all. Wars have been started over less.”

“Helen of Troy,” Elisabeta mumbled. 

“Who?” Matthias asked as Drax knowingly mumbled. 

“It was a Greek story… a tragedy really. They started a war over a woman. I will not be Helen,” she shook head firmly, looking between her brother and lover. “They’ll listen to reason.” 

“No they bloody won’t,” Drax growled. “I lived with them for years. Most of them live by the rules they preach. But some of them… let’s  just say they practise less godly things when their great sultan and ulamas have their backs turned. I have the scars to prove it. Ironic how they called him Veli the Virtueous, ” he grimaced. 

Her eyes shot to his brow - that beautiful silver sliver of a scar she had grown to love. Veli caused that? 

She immediately wished him a life without plums and a bloody most horrible death.  

“So what?” she whispered. 

“Sister,” Matthias said. “I’m sorry. This pains me more than anyone, but… you need to leave. Go somewhere safe. If they arrive here and find you, we can’t protect you. We are regrettably, at their mercy. This dratted truce,” Matthias hit the wall beside them with his hand, the bang echoing around the hall. He looked to his first against the stone, looking suddenly sheepish. It appeared his sudden outburst surprised even him. 

“I echo the feeling,” Drax said. “You’ll be with my men, you can trust them to get you back to my castle securely.” 

“Drax, if they want her that is the first place they will go.” 

“Tough shit,” Drax shrugged. “I won’t have her anywhere else. I can’t trust anyone.”

“You can trust me,” Matthias said firmly. “I love her too, don’t forget that.” 

Drax pinching his brow in frustration. “I pray to God every day to make my life easy and peaceful. I hoped he would grant me that wish just once.” He looked to Elisabeta, then to Matthias, nodding small. 

“Hold on, do I not get a say?” Elisabeta said, horror growing on her face. The prospect of being escorted, without Drax, was not a pleasant one. “Can you not come?” she asked the Prince. 

His blue eyes turned stormy, his jaw ticking as it often did when he felt inner conflict. 

“You know I would,” he said softly. “But the Ottomans, if they see I have travelled with you… it’ll…” he stopped, looking to Matthias. 

“It’s a sign of weakness,” her brother said. 

“So?” Elisabeta asked. 

“I can’t be seen as weak, I have to protect my people. My men. You.” 

“I understand,” she muttered. “It doesn’t mean I like it.”

“I’ll join you the day after you leave, i’ll be half a day behind you,” he said, kissing her cheek. “When did they say?” he asked the King. 

“Tomorrow morning.” 

“Lor, Ponvelt-” 

“-And Jason!” Jason lamented from behind. 

“And Jason,” Drax said, rolling their eyes, “will take you to Bran Castle.” 

“Not Poenari?” she asked, missing the tall castle she once called home briefly.

“They know I live there, your brother is right, it would be unwise. Bran was where my brother Radu lived. It’s mine now, I just haven’t had the heart to visit since he died. You’ll be safe there. So few know I own it. It’s well guarded, tall - you’ll like it, it’s surrounded by forests and mountains.”

“Close to Brașov, though,” Matthias commented. “They are loyal to the Ottomans there.”

“It’ll be a short stay,” Drax confirmed. 

“Wait, is that…” she rubbed her cheek, remembering. “The castle, outside of the city, the one on the hill with the terracotta roof tiles?” 

“The very same,” Drax smiled. 

“I know it, I saw it. When I was travelling through Brașov. Before I was… well you know, captured by your men.” 

Matthias’ more pleasant face turned into a frown. Clearly that was still a soft spot for him. 

“Right, morning - crack of dawn, I want you to go, understand. And you,” he looked to Drax. “Don’t make me regret this truce. If you are going to claim to love my sister, you prove it. Take care of her.” 

“I would die before I let something happen to her,” Drax said. 

“I believe you,” Matthias sighed, reaching for both of their hands. “Which is why I give you both my blessing.” 

“Matty,” Elisabeta said, her eyes clouding with tears. She burst into his arms, hugging him. 

They were so close now. So close to what they wanted. To love. To a happy ending. If God was truly good, he would do that for them. Had they not shown their devotion to him? Perhaps this was their reward now. 

“Jason,” Matthias warned. 

Jason chuckled, backing away from László, passing the small but very sharp sword to Ponvelt, who panicked and dropped it, looking guilty at Drax. 

“Right, bed,” Matthias ordered, chuckling to himself. “I’ve had enough dramatics for a lifetime.”

Chapter Text

The group dispersed quickly upon King Matthias’ orders. Ponvelt, Lor and Jason heading to their rooms, while three soldiers were called to carry the unconscious and brutally beaten, Prince László, to the infirmary. 

Instead of Drax’s quarters, Elisabeta led her Prince to the very room she had grown up in all her life. Wishing to show him a new part of herself. No man had (thus far) slept in her sheets. And she very much intended for him to be the first and last who could do so. 

Before the heavy wooden door had time to close, Drax covered her with his tall, hard body. 

He kissed her quick, planting soft pads of his lip to her neck, then décolletage. It didn’t take long for him to hungrily expose her breasts from her heaving dress, cupping them with both huge hands and dipping in to taste the puckering skin that laid bare for him. 

“My Prince,” she managed, pressing her back to the wall as he reached for her waist, drawing her closer into him as he kissed her lips again greedily, passion lighting him up from the inside. He was like a starving beast being presented with a succulent meal. Truly ravenous for her. And she did not wish to disappoint him - want thick in her also. 

“We have,” he purred, close to her lips, “all,” another kiss to her lips, “night.” 

She nodded into her moan, covering her mouth, embarrassed that another groan of pleasure escaped it. One day she would learn to measure her moans. Elisabeta prided herself on her soft voice and quiet tendencies. She was another person entirely around the Dragon. Moans didn’t wash out of her, they erupted from her. 

“Sorry,” she mumbled, as Drax chuckled lightly against her mouth. He placed a long finger to her lips, curving it so he could press his fingertip against the inside of her bottom teeth. 

“You don’t have to silence yourself any more, my love,” he said softly. “I want to hear you, unrefined and ravaging.” 

He bent a little to lift her, quite effortlessly, off the floor, wrapping her legs around his waist, as he carried her to bed. 

Placing her onto the soft linens, he kissed her more, reaching around to hold the back of her neck as he leaned, covering her body with his, biting at her bottom lip as another uncovered moan slipped from her mouth. 

“No more secrets,” he promised, holding her waist firm and looking into her blazing amber eyes. It was a strange look. One she had never seen on him before. It was neither lust nor anger, relief or apologetic. He wasn’t stoic, nor worried. He was… calm. 

She placed a hand to his cheek, thanking God for this moment. They would escape in the morning, with Drax following close behind. In just a few moons, they would be together. No secrets, he was right. It was a promising life. Of love, stability and freedom. No more rules and regulations. No fears of a life tied to someone she didn’t want. Suddenly, every wish she could have mustered presented itself to her. It made her eyes well, and her lip tremble. 

The sweet ocean blue of his eyes quivered for a moment, becoming darker with concern. He opened his mouth to surely ask what was wrong. She placed a finger to his soft lips. 

“I am not sad,” she said. “Do not mistake my tears for unhappiness. They are anything but.” 

“I’ll be right behind you,” he said. “You’ll be with my best men. The Ottomans will come. We’ll give them gold and i’ll leave. You won’t even know i’m gone.” 

“I know,” she smiled. “I know.” 

Another kiss to her lips. Stronger this time, harder. His tongue meshed with hers and danced delightfully, while his hands devilishly worked their way from her ankles and up, parting her skirts and lifting them so cool hair hit her bare skin. Drax pressed his brow to hers, pushing her head back to the bed. Once there, he traced a path of kisses down her neck, her breasts, her still-clothed stomach, until he was where all her tension was building. 

“How much is this dress worth,” he breathed against the soft skin of her thighs, nipping the more sensitive skin close to her hips. 

“I don’t know,” she gasped. “Twenty crowns?”

A loud rip echoed through the room as he pulled at her corset, ripping it in two with a mighty motion. The cream dress opened like a blooming flower, revealing her pale body, gleaming in the hazy candlelight that washed the room with amber light. 

“And these?” he asked, plucking at her silken undergarments. 

“Oh they're old,” she lulled, curving her brow with tease to match his. “I have no attachment to them.” 

He chuckled low, ripping them off her next, the tear of the silk like music in her ears. 

Drax bent to place a kiss on her pelvic bone, his soft breath and long strands of wavy hair tickling her sensitive skin. Reaching his hands up, he traced her skin gently, using only the tips of his rough fingers. 

“You are a masterpiece,” he muttered. “Carved by a God, I'm certain.” 

“Drax,” she breathed, clutching handfuls of the linens around her with her fists, moving her hips with frustration as he only kissed at her skin. When he finally dipped his tongue to slowly lap at her bud of nerves, she almost expired on the spot. 

This man did ungodly work to her. Drawing a leisured line up her, then, with no warning, thrusting the full length of his tongue into her. 

She yelped, her fists clutching at the bed so hard her knuckles paled. Her hips began to buckle uncontrollably. His hand pressed her hipbone to the bed, giving no mercy as he continued to work her close to climax. Thrusting his tongue into her, while using his other hand to rub sweet circles around her bud. 

A wave of pleasure was rising into her fast - embarrassingly fast. Her legs were vibrating with need, warning her that she was close. But he didn’t stop. By gods, he sped up. 

When she felt the rumblings of his own low moan against her flesh, she was done for. Bright light burst through her close eyes as she rode his face - her climax rushing through her and spilling from her mouth with a guttural sound that could have been mistaken for an animal in pain. 

He pressed a kiss to her, making her jolt with the sensitivity of her nerves. Her legs weak from her orgasm. 

She thought he would give her the courtesy of time to recover. But the Dragon was awake, and already stalking up her body to claim her lips. Elisabeta tasted herself on him, sweet honey-dew. His lips were glossed with her as he eagerly kissed her, his breath needy, his chest rumbling with arousal. 

He reached for the buttons of his own leathers, sliding his trousers off and hoisting her higher on the bed. Between breaths, she pulled off the cotton of his shirt, and admired his physic. 

She realised then, they had the luxury of time. No rush. No anxieties that they might be too loud, too slow - that company may interrupt them. No, this was their time. And she planned to milk him for as long as humanly possible that night.

Tracing the lines of his muscles on his chest, she pushed up on her hands, making him kneel before her on the bed so she could allow herself better access. His chest was like marble - remarkably resembling the artists carvings around her castle of the most dreaded soldiers. She had seen drawings of Michelangelo art in Italy - his infamous sculpture of David. 

Drax made his work look like child's play - his chest was perfectly contoured with tone, his abs pulsing, his side soft and straight. She could have stared at him all night, and perhaps would have, if he didn’t kiss her again. 

Closing her eyes, she let herself give in to pleasure, quenching her desires with her Prince, in her bed. 

“My love,” he purred, nipping her neck with his sharp teeth. 

“Yours,” she said in return, raising her chin so he could do more damage. 

Below, she could feel the outline of his huge member against the supple skin of her stomach. It pulsed beneath her, a little wetness cooling close to her navel with the arousal that seeped out of him. It made her squirm and open her legs, inviting him in. 

When he didn’t immediately ravage her, she wiggled her hips with frustration. Her own need was back with a vengeance. 

She needed him. 

Now. 

But he only kissed her more, taking his time with her. 

That just wouldn’t do. 

Locking her legs around his waist, she spun them more gracefully than she expected, so this time, she was on top of him. Pressing against the hard Dragon beneath her. 

She rather liked the view on top. From here, she could see him fully. His hardened, handsome features fluttering beneath her, warmed by the soft light from the candles. 

His hair was perfectly tousled against her bed, washed brown locks crowning his head, a single thick strand making home on his forehead. She moved it aside gently, cupping the side of his rough cheek. Drax’s dark eyes burnt into her, his pupils growing larger as he drank her in. 

Elisabeta smirked cheekily, shimming herself so they moved, his head meeting the very pillow she once weeped into for him. 

Drax frowned, feeling something against his shoulder and reached behind the pillow to pull out the book she had taken from his castle. He held it to his face, smiling softly as she realised she had kept it close to her this whole time. 

“Just a little light reading,” she commented, taking it from him and placing it on her bedside table. 

He said nothing, only smiled brighter, biting his lip as she ground her hips harder into him. 

“Elisabeta,” he said, watching her warmly. “I love you.” 

“I love you too,” she replied, reaching down to kiss his lips. He pulled her closer, clasping her neck firmly with his hand, allowing her to melt into his grip and embrace. 

Below, she positioned herself, and slowly, lowered herself onto his great length. 

A hiss escaped his mouth, sweet breath bouncing against her cheeks as she watched him come apart between her. It was a marvellous sight. One she wished she could capture forever. 

He gripped her hip firmly as she moved back, grinding her hips slowly against him, allowing herself to adjust to his huge size inside. 

Dipping her head back a great moan escaped her, the feeling incredible. She closed her eyes as she rode him, fastening her pace as comfort and pleasure seeped through her. 

“Fuck,” he muttered, holding her side so hard, she could feel his fingertips mark her flesh.

She watched him, as a wild glaze washed over his eyes, her hips gyrating over him, taking them both to a new level of desire and fulfillment.

“I…” Drax muttered, squeezing his eyes closed for a moment. “I… fuck, Elisabeta.” 

She smiled knowingly, thrilled that she could affect him so. The Dragon, lost in lust beneath her. Growling and biting his lip, because of her. 

It was a heavenly sensation. Her muscles clasped around his member, squeezing and pulsing around him, milking him and massaging him. The friction was incredible. Beyond any feeling she had experienced before. 

Her movements became more fluid. It was like dancing, an act that came naturally to her. She knew how to move her hips, how to roll her body, how to tense and how to relax. She felt like a divine beast at that moment. Driving the man she loved insane with her thrusts. 

Pining her legs close around his waist, she fastened her pace, whimpers coming out of her more now the delicious feeling of a climax teased her. 

Drax jolted up, moving her legs around his waist, like a lotus, meeting every thrust with one of his own. They were dancing together now, and it was nothing short of divine. 

He held her strong as his chest rumbled low, something building in him too. 

“I’m close,” he muttered, driving his tongue into her mouth, kissing her harder as their thrusts became more desperate, more powerful. 

The bed beneath them hit the wall loudly, the noise echoing around the room and - no doubt - the palace too. 

“Drax,” she breathed, her legs shaking as she neared her own boiling point. 

“Come for me,” he said, holding her waist and driving up into her hard, pounding her faster and faster until she was almost screaming curses to God. If anyone slumbered in the palace walls, they had certainly roused by now. 

And then, her own walls crumbled, her second orgasm more powerful than anything she had experienced before. Her breath became a sharp staccato as it coursed through her body like a tidal wave, devouring her body. 

Drax was coming undone himself, pressing his forehead to her hard, pushing at the back of her head so they could be one. He thrust once more and then, the Dragon roared. 

It was the most wonderful thing she had heard in her twenty years on this earth. 

He came so beautifully. His jaw tensing, the great muscles on his body seizing as he slammed into her harder. He held her tight, grunting low as he gave in to his own climax. Hips jerking, he emptied himself into her, ecstasy washing over his exquisite face. The focus and intensity that usually lived on his features was replaced with a painful sort of bliss. 

He pulled her close into his arms, hugging her tightly as they recovered their breaths. When their heartbeats finally returned to their usual steady place, he pulled back, tucking a curl behind her ear and kissing her. 

“Marry me, Elisabeta,” he asked. 

Love bloomed in her chest, bright and hopeful. She almost sobbed again as reality presented itself again to her. All her hopes and dreams appearing from thin air. She pleaded this was not a dream. That she really was curled in the arms of her Prince. 

“Yes,” she said. “Of course.” 

“I should have asked you the first day I saw you, maybe-” he cut himself off, looking at her softly. “Maybe all of this mess could have been saved. If I had just asked you then.”

“We needed the time to show us how much we truly loved one another,” she nodded, holding his face with her palm.

Drax lowered her down gently, pulling the soft linens around her nude body. They laid on their sides, facing each other, hands knotted together against their chests. 

“You know, I never thought you could love someone like me,” she said, admiring the silver scar on his brow again. 

He chuckled in response, squeezing her hands tighter. 

“I’m so simple,” she admitted. “How could I be worthy of a Prince like you, the Dragon himself.”

“Shh,” he said, bringing her hands up to kiss. “Nonsense. Your beauty may be what captured me to start with, but it was your intelligence, your charm, your bravery. Your kindness, Elisabeta. That is what made me fall in love with you.” His eyes moved to her lips. “I was worried you could never love me with such darkness living inside. Your purity, your light. It frightened me deeply.” 

“Darkness is only that when it’s left to fester. Everyone needs someone to show them the light. It’s fixable. You are fixable. Not broken,” she nodded. “You have a kind soul, my Prince. I would not love you so deeply if you did not.” 

He kissed her again. Gently. Tenderly. Using the motions of his lips to seal his proposal. To show her how much he loved her. 

“We’ll marry soon, the moment we get back to Wallachia. My priests will be thrilled,” he said. “They have been waiting for the day I would so I could truly be Prince.” 

“How long until you are called to war?” she asked. 

It was a reality she knew she would have to bear, being married to a Prince. A man who never sat on a throne, but fought for it. She loved that about him, but still feared for his safety. 

“There should be a long gap, if we’re lucky. Though, I can not promise you I will never fight again. It will be as God intended. I fight for my kingdom as much as I fight for God. To protect you.” 

“Do you not think God yearns for peace instead?” she challenged, biting her lip. He watched her teeth graze her lips, and could not help himself but to kiss her once more. 

“The God I knew never brought me peace, not until I met you. He gave me you, Elisabeta. The least I can do is fight for him in return. Besides - you do not think a simple thing like death can keep me away from you?” he nipped at her bottom lip. “I will haunt you forever, my love. Until you join me. I not only look forward to our lives on earth together, but for eternity with you too.” 

He moved where he lay, pulling her into his body as he relaxed on his back, holding her hand on his chest when she laid her head on his shoulder, exhaling a peaceful breath. 

“When you think of heaven,” she asked quietly, “what do you see?”

“Other than your face,” he replied. “I suppose I don’t know. I haven’t given it much thought before. As long as you are there, it’ll be heavenly.”

“A very good reply,” she nodded into his chest. 

“And you?” 

“What?” 

“What do you think heaven is like?” he smiled, watching her affectionately. 

“Well,” she traced his chest with her finger lightly. “I believe in God, of course. But, I admit, when I dream of the afterlife, I always see the Lethe.”

“The Lethe?”

“The Greeks coined the term. It was a mythological river in the Greek underworld. Its waters could cause your memories to fade. Some shades would dip their whole bodies to it purposely. Supposedly it caused reincarnation.” 

“Hmm,” Drax chuckled. “If you ever reach heaven first, perhaps you should take a dip and find me again. Although, we are not Greek, so it may not exist for us.” 

“I think Dante spoke of it too. Did you read his Inferno or Purgatorio?”

“That was hell, my love,” Drax replied. 

“Well, yes, inferno was. Purgatorio though, that wasn’t hell. The souls who ended up there were there to heal rather than repent.”

“You do love to read, don’t you?” Drax smiled, rubbing her back with the rough tips of his calloused fingers. 

She nodded. “I had so much time in my youth. That's all I could do. It was either that or let myself be seduced by handsome suitors.” 

Drax grumbled low. “You chose wisely.” 

“So, that’s what I think of. Not pearly gates, or angels. I think of a river. Of Aeneas.’

“Virgil’s Aeneid?” Drax asked. 

It was Elisabeta’s turn to be impressed. “You’re surprised by my love of literature, yet clearly enjoy it yourself.” 

“One gets rather bored post battle,” he said. “It was that or indulging in ladies. I chose the former.”

“You too, chose wisely,” she mocked. 

“The Aeneid,” he yawned, pinching his brow. “Where… Sibyl guides him into the Underworld?”

“Very good, Prince,” she said. “They're quite similar really. Both have rivers, judges, gates and so on. Only, Virgil's underworld is one place. Neither heaven nor hell. A simple underworld, states existing in different regions. The souls in the Aeneid are simply waiting most of the time. To be reunited with their loves. I mean Dante did use Virgil's books as his framework after all. I think I’ll end up somewhere there. In a land by the water. Waiting.”

“For who?”

“Hopefully you?” she chuckled. 

“I hope I go first,” he said quite seriously. “I couldn’t live a life without you. The thought is too painful.” 

They were poignantly silent for a moment. Drax looking slightly distressed at the notion. 

“It’s all the same thing,” she said. “Different religions. The afterlife, life, morals, every religion is built off the same skeleton, don’t you think?” 

“I think you are delaying sleeping on purpose,” he smiled, kissing the side of her head. 

“I…” she broke off. Not wanting to vocalise the silly words that almost escaped her. 

“What?” 

“No, it’s nothing.”

“Elisabeta.” 

She huffed, turning slightly to look at his handsome dark face as it simmered in the candlelight. “I fear if I go to sleep, I'll wake up to this all being a dream.” 

“It’s not,” he chuckled, squeezing her body into his. “I promise. Also, I agree.” 

“About what?” 

“That all religions are the same,” he said. “I fight for our God. But I don’t hate the others for who they worship. I hate how they weaponise religion to strengthen their own agenda. I don’t fight the Ottomans to make them worship our God, I fight for the right to worship who we wish to. My brother, Radu - who owned the castle you ride to tomorrow. He was Islamic - converted after our capture with them. But he never changed, not really. We squabbled, sure. He tried to bend me to their God. When I relented, he didn’t push. We were as close as ever when he died. I would have given him the burial of his religion if I could have.” 

“You didn’t?” 

“Couldn’t,” Drax shook his head, playing with her hair lazily with a long finger. “A few of his Ottoman friends who lived close to our castle took his body for their own ceremony. Washing the body many times with rosewater, wrapping it and so on. I did visit his grave though, and was there at the end of the ceremony once they had done there… business.” 

“You miss him?” she asked gently, watching his face grow sad. 

“Yes,” he said simply. “But once again, you are talking and not sleeping,” he chuckled, stroking the crown of her head. “You have a long journey tomorrow.”

“I will sleep on the way,” she huffed. 

“You’re not tired?” 

“No.” 

“What helps you to sleep?” 

“Reading.” 

“What if I read to you?” he asked, eyeing the grand bookshelf to their right. It was her most treasured collection. “Will you take these to Wallachia?” 

“Yes please,” she beamed. “And yes, to the books. If your horses can take the weight.” 

“They’ll manage,” he laughed, rising out of the bed to approach her shelves. He fingered the vintage walnut wood, running his hand over the many spines that housed there. He paused, looking back to her, a brown leather book in his palm. 

“The Iliad?” he said. “You really do love your Greek mythology.”

“That’s my favourite one of Homer’s,” she mused. “The siege of Troy.” 

“Ah, Achilles. You know, of all the fictional soldiers, it was he that I admired most.”

“I rather preferred Patroclus,” she hummed, watching his naked body greedily now. How it glowed so beautifully in the candlelight. 

Drax walked gracefully back to join her, tucking beneath the covers and pulling her close to his warm, hard chest. 

“Of course you do,” he laughed, opening the book to its first page. “Right,” he yawned. “Sing, goddess, the anger of Achilles, son of Peleus…” 

And so, Drax read softly to her, stroking her hair, his calm voice lulling her to sleep with tales of Troy. 

Elisabeta changed her mind in that moment. Heaven was not a story, a myth or a hope. 

It was a reality. And it was her present. And hopefully, her future too.

Chapter Text

“Half a day,” Drax promised with a soft kiss to her lips. “One at the most.”

Elisabeta nodded, squeezing her arm more tightly around his leather covered waist. He pressed his lips to the crown of her head, smelling her hair, then exhaled low.

“It’s silly to say I’ll miss you deeply,” Drax chuckled. “But I will.”

“Don’t dilly dally with the Ottomans my love. I’ll be waiting.” With a squeeze to his side, she regrettably released her Prince, accepting his hand as he guided her into the prim carriage that trembled awfully in the harsh winds Hungary was experiencing.

“Shite weather,” Jason muttered, peering out of the window of the carriage. They sat nestled opposite Lor, who simply grunted, opening the book he was pretending to read. Everyone knew he couldn’t make out words, but he tried nonetheless, to keep up appearances.

Ponvelt was perched at the front of the carriage, holding the reins next to the official driver. There was room for him inside, but he chose against it, it seemed. Their faithful guard dog.

“Look after her,” Drax said, looking sternly at Jason.

They shuffled uncomfortably on the cushioned seat, always preferring horseback if the option was there. There was no need for armour today, with no indication of any attack on the road. Jason still wore tight leathers similar to what any of the men would wear. Not the full steel soldier’s uniform one might don for war – a more casual style, the only metal being the chest of chainmail. Elisabeta imagined it must have been awfully heavy. Jason didn’t seem to mind. They once told Elisabeta that they were more comfortable in a dress of steel than cotton. Good for them – but she was glad to stick to her thick woollen dresses and tights in this weather. Metal was awfully cold.

“Hurry,” Elisabeta whispered, watching as her Prince lay a quick kiss to her lace-gloved hand. His dark eyes moved to lock with hers. A silent promise before the door of the carriage closed and they started on their journey to Bram Castle.

*

The journey was thankfully swift. Despite the adverse weather conditions, and occasionally having to stop to pull the carriage out of the mud, they were making good time. The short distance that Drax had alluded to was compared to the great journeys they travelled in war, she supposed. Twenty days was how long it would take – assuming luck continued to be in their favour.

And so they travelled. Stopping off each night in a sheltered area, away from the heavy gusts that surrounded them to camp. By the third night, Elisabeta longed awfully for Drax. Jason, despite curling up to them each night (platonically), didn’t offer the same love and contentment as her sweet Prince.

On the fourteenth day, Elisabeta lay in the bed rolls, tucked closely in Jason’s lazy grip for warmth, listening to the rain pounding on the tent above.

“What will you wear to wed?” they asked, blowing out the candle beside them.

Elisabeta shrugged, curling the soft furs closer to her neck. “Something elegant.”

“Quite right,” Jason chuckled. “Do I have to wear a dress?”

“No,” Elisabeta nodded. “You wear whatever you like.”

“Ponvelt has asked if I would accompany him on the day. As his… date,” the word felt odd on Jason’s tongue.

Elisabeta pulled up to look at her friend through the darkness. “Do you feel for him at all?”

Jason shrugged. “I love him as I love you.”

“But no romantic feelings?”

“It would be so easy if I did, wouldn’t it,” they sighed, folding their arm to the back of their head.

There in the moonlight, they looked jaw-droppingly beautiful. They had such a natural handsomeness to them. It was no wonder every woman and man fell for them. More than their beauty and grace, Jason was unapologetically themself. They held no pretence, no mask. Didn’t mince their words or change their behaviour no matter who they spoke to. Ponvelt was only human to fall for them. But the poor lad couldn’t take much more of the unrequited variety of love. On their journey, he looked to Jason like a lost puppy would to its master when they returned home. They had been a gentleman, not pressing – in fact, he said nothing in the slightest. Him asking Jason to the wedding was the first forwardness he had uttered. Still, they all knew what his heart desired. And Jason was no fool.

“What should I do, Lizzy?”

“Tell him how you feel,” Elisabeta said. “Cut the cord before he drives himself insane.”

“I do like the boy though,” Jason mumbled. “I… I’ve grown quite fond of him. It would be sad to lose a friend.”

“If he is truly your friend, he’ll understand,” Elisabeta offered.

“Perhaps.”

“I want to find a love like you, Mushroom. How does it feel? To love so deeply and be loved?” Jason purred. “The way the Dragon looks at you. It’s like he would burn the world for you.”

“It’s lovely,” Elisabeta chuckled into her friend’s shoulder. “But it’s easy. Like breathing, it just happens without you trying. You know, I never thought I’d experience it.”

“Really?” Jason asked, raising their head to attention.

“Nope,” Elisabeta shook her head. “Of all the books of longing and love I read. I was sure the closest I would experience to the real thing would be captured in the pages of fictional books. That I would be scorned to a life of having to live vicariously through the characters of the novels I read every night. But it’s real, Jason. And if I can find it, you will too, someday.”

“How will I know though,” Jason said, reaching to press on the tent above, watching the rainwater bounce as they released their finger.

“You’ll know,” Elisabeta mumbled, sleep taking her over. “You’ll just know.”

“Does it hurt? To love?” Jason asked weakly this time. Like they didn’t wish to know the answer but couldn’t help but ask.

“Oh it hurts beautifully. It’ll eat out your insides and burn away at your brain. But you wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Sounds horrible.”

“Oh it is, quite ghastly. I hope you feel it someday.”

“Did you know,” Jason yawned. “When you first saw him.”

Elisabeta was silent now – the only noise was the raindrops pelting above.

“Lizzy,” Jason hissed.

Elisabeta’s soft snores replied.

*

They reached Bram Castle at dusk on the twenty-first day. The orange hues of the sky perfectly complementing the tall peaks of the castle’s terracotta coloured roofs.

It was a marvellous building. Just as she remembered when she journeyed to Brașov a year ago for her education. The forest hugged the castle, fully encompassing the gothic walls with thick elms and spruces.

Upon entry, the few servants who remained greeted them warmly, their air of surprise not lost on them. The walls were not quite as dark and foreboding as Drax’s home she visited before. They were white, inviting and far more modern – the gothic design replaced with a more modern Transylvanian flare. Dark wooden beams propped the castle up as they passed the rooms, each more luxurious and gilded than the last.

Finally, they reached the centre hall – the atrium, one of the well-dressed servants said.

“This was Drax’s brother’s home, I hear,” Elisabeta said quietly, admiring the grand portraits on the wall.

“Yes,” the lady servant answered, adjusting her apron over her wide middle. Most of the staff were middle-age, rosy cheeked and well fed. It seemed Radu had looked after them, even past his passing. “That’s him there,” she lamented, opening her palm to the largest portrait on the wall.

Lor, Jason and Ponvelt approached with Elisabeta to admire the paintwork. Radu was certainly a beauty. Aptly nicknamed Radu the Handsome for good reason. Beside him, slightly taller and darker of hair, was Drax. He was younger then, his forehead less creased and his skin bronzed with the sun. He still captured her desires through paint.

“What have you all done since Radu’s sad departure?” Ponvelt asked politely, turning his attention from Jason to the woman.

“We make do,” she chuckled warmly. “Keep the fires going, clean the place. Make sure it’s prepped for his brother. We hear Radu left Bram to him?”

Ponvelt nodded. “He sends his apologies for not visiting sooner. He should be just behind us. He was caught up in Hungary.”

“Oh?” the woman said nosily, lifting her long chin to glare at him for more information. But Ponvelt shook his head at the notion of more.

“Just Ottoman business. Nothing to worry about.”

“Can I cook for any of you? Our kitchens can make a stew to warm your bones. Run you ladies a bath, perhaps?”

Jason grumbled but nodded kindly.

“Please,” Elisabeta said, smiling at the thought of a hot bath. Nothing sounded better. “And for the men too, if you could. I’m sure you wouldn’t like the castle to carry the stench of their horses.”

“Of course,” the woman said, clapping to the two curly haired women who dutifully stood behind, hands clasped behind their backs.

*

Dinner had been delightful. Beef stew with caramelised onions, dark leafy kale and plenty of thick bone stock. It was the perfect end to their arduous journey through the Carpathian mountains.

Though Elisabeta was in good spirits at the dinner table, there was a strange tension between Jason and Ponvelt.

Lor and Elisabeta spoke cheerily about the castle’s opulence, the tenderness of the beef and, amongst other things, books. Lor never went into detail about the ones he read, but gladly listened to Elisabeta’s opinions. Adding a ‘ah yes I thought the same’ and ‘that was my favourite part’.

While they spoke, Ponvelt ate silently, peering down at his bowl of half-empty stew and nudging a few clumps of beef with the back of his wooden spoon.

“Not hungry?” Elisabeta asked, watching his glum face spark with shock at being caught out in his sombre mood.

“No, no,” he said quickly. “Just, I suppose my stomach got used to the lack of food on the road. Always takes a while to adjust.”

“You really should eat,” Jason remarked, care in their eyes. “Get some strength back.”

“Hmm,” he added, refusing to meet their eyes.

Elisabeta frowned at Jason, nodding to the still sulking Ponvelt. Jason shrugged, guilt clear in their creasing eyes. They had spoken the night before last alone in Ponvelt’s tent. For hours and hours. So long that Elisabeta had fallen asleep waiting for news of the conversation. The next morning, when she enquired to Ponvelt how he was, he simply answered: all fine, Ma’am. How are you feeling?

“Velvet, we’re going to have a drink, will you join us?” Jason asked hopefully.

Jason had not given much detail either when Elisabeta pressed in the carriage. Saying they spoke of nothing of interest really. Just life.

Elisabeta did not believe that for one moment. She knew a broken heart when she saw one. Having had one herself for almost a year.

“I am quite tired after the journey,” he muttered, pushing his coolling bowl of stew away from him. “But thank you.”

“Please join us,” Elisabeta asked, pouting her lips at him.

That produced a small chuckle. “Someone needs to man the door, wait for that lovely Prince of yours,” he said.

“I can wait,” Lor said quickly. “Was hoping to finish my book anyway,” he gleamed to Elisabeta proudly.

“You’re very kind, Lor,” Elisabeta said gratefully.

“Have fun,” Lor chimed, getting to his feet and waving his worn copy of Song of Roland at the group. “I’m off to read about the knights of Charlie.”

“Charlemagne,” Elisabeta laughed. “Enjoy!”

They watched Lor leave with a jolly walk, giggling at his enthusiasm. Drax had wonderful companions. She felt very close to the two men – especially after their journey together. Lor was bubbly, caring and eager to educate himself and learn. He often cooked for them, and was always the last one standing guard at the end of the night, bow in hand, ready to impale any intruder with a famous arrow of his.

Ponvelt was a curious case. Inherently kind and fatherly to Elisabeta. Always courteous and polite. To Jason, he was like a doting suitor. Always holding a hand for them to take, offering them the first bowl of steaming food, prodding the fire their side so it offered them more warmth. Yet now, he could hardly look at them.

“Come,” Elisabeta said suddenly, reaching for her empty glass of wine and the rest of the bottle. “I finally have my hands on good Transylvanian wine, and I require splendid company to drink with me.”

“Oh my lady,” Jason mocked, standing with them. “Come on, Velvet, stop with this,” they muttered, pushing his shoulder with a strong finger as they passed them.

He mumbled something incoherent, but stood all the same, following them to the silk cushions spread out by the grand fireplace.

Jason curled over three cushions immediately, accepting a good glug of wine from Elisabeta.

Ponvelt sheepishly sat on a single seat, shaking his head at the offer of drink.

“Right,” Elisabeta said at once. “What’s going on?”

Ponvelt’s cheeks immediately turned a rosy shade of pink while Jason groaned.

“Can we not speak of something else?” Ponvelt asked. “Do you miss Drax? I’m sure he misses you awfully.”

“I do,” Elisabeta said, folding her legs as she sat closest to the fire. “So much that I require distraction. Now, I ask you again. What is this tension between you both. Speak to me like you would speak to a confessional booth.”

Jason and Ponvelt looked to one another shyly, Ponvelt averting his eyes quickly. Like it hurt too much to look at them.

“I expressed my wish to be friends,” Jason finally said, draining half of the cup of wine. “Velvet said he wasn’t sure he could do that.”

“Ponvelt, is that true?” Elisabeta asked now.

He nodded. “I respect that you told me, Jason. And, with time, I’m sure I can be your most loyal friend. Only…”

“Only it’s hard at the moment for you,” Elisabeta finished for him.

“I wish I could be like you, Lizzy,” Jason sighed. “Accept my breasts and live the life I was born to. I would marry you happily Ponvelt, push out a few pups. It would be so easy,” they said, biting at their bottom lip.

“But it’s not what your heart desires,” Ponvelt said, a tone of admittance but sadness to their voice. “I understand. Truly.”

“Ponvelt,” Jason said slowly, their voice halting.

A large bang and Lor’s hissed swearing echoed down the halls. Ponvelt rolled his eyes, smiling at both Jason and Elisabeta for the first time. “I’ll be back in a moment,” he said, heaving himself up. “I’m fine, really?” he said weakly, leaving the two friends to enjoy the warmth of the fire.

“He lies,” Jason said. “I feel awful, Lizzy. Absolutely awful. Why do I have to be like this!”

“Hey,” Elisabeta shushed, noticing angry tears forming around Jason’s sweet brown eyes. She moved closer, holding their hand. “Never apologise for being yourself,” she said softly, catching their tear before it could fall. “We love you for you. Ponvelt didn’t fall in love with Judit. He fell in love with Jason. You don’t need to be anyone else, understand?”

“He never said the word love,” Jason snarled, huffing into their cup.

“He doesn’t have to,” Elisabeta said. “I think… I mean I don’t know, but I think he’s simply worried about losing you. As you are with him. Just talk to him. For me, will you?”

Jason watched Elisabeta angrily, but the moment soon passed. Their wide eyes turning soft as they noticed Ponvelt had returned.

“Lor dropped a candelabrum,” Ponvelt chuckled, sitting back down, appearing to be in a more pleasant mood. “Scorched the floor a little, hopefully Drax won’t notice.”

“It’s not him I’d be worried about,” Jason said. “The staff here are all… weird.”

“Hmm,” Elisabeta agreed. They were kind and attentive, sure. But they did have a strange air about them. Bowing to the portraits of Radu as they passed. Asking too many questions. Perhaps they were simply curious. It was likely they didn’t get out too much, and since their master’s death, had found a strange lost life in limbo of looking after his castle. It was clear they missed Radu, their eyes always lighting up at mention of him.

“Anyway,” Elisabeta yawned. “I bid you goodnight. A hot bath is calling me, and you two need to talk properly.”

“Lizzy we–”

“Uh uh,” Elisabeta shushed. “Goodnight my loves.” She kissed them both on the crown of their heads, and passed her leftover wine to Ponvelt, who sheepishly thanked her.

“See you in the morning!” she shouted.

“When the Dragon returns!” Jason hollered back.

*

The bath had done wonders for Elisabeta’s back. Warming her cockles and aching muscles where she sat stiffly in the carriage for three weeks. Full of stew and freshly clean cottons, she slipped into the grand bed that once belonged to Drax’s brother – now his, the plump woman confirmed, laying an oil lamp on the side close to her.

Content that she could see her sweet Prince soon, Elisabeta drifted off. Comfortable, despite missing Drax awfully.

*

She wasn’t sure what time she woke. It was still dark – the moonlight offering a little cool, silver light to the otherwise dark room.

Squinting, Elisabeta tried to figure out what awoke her from such a lovely dream. Drax and her, sitting by the plum tree in Hungary. Eating the fruits from it then making love on the soft green grass.

Peering around blindly, she suddenly gasped as a huge shadow formed before her eyes at the door. A foreboding sight, tall, strong and dark. So very dark.

It was only when the shape of his jaw came into the moonlight that she sighed with relief. It was only Drax. He was back.

Joy bloomed in her and she reached for the oil lamp, turning it to allow warm light to spill into the opulently decorated room.

Only, when light warmed his face, she gasped again. It was almost Drax… someone who didn’t know the intricacies of his face would have easily assumed so. But she knew the shape of his brow, the pout of his full lips, the crease of his smile. This man held none of those things. He was like a pencil outline of the man she loved.

He approached slowly, bringing more of his features to light as he drew closer.

“Wh-who,” Elisabeta choked, sitting straight in the bed, her heart pounding so hard in her chest she was sure it would burst through.

“You’re in my bed,” he said gently. His voice so low it reverberated around the room.

“You… you’re,” her eyes caught on the wall. The portrait. But it couldn’t be. He was dead?!

“Radu,” she whispered.

“Elisabeta,” he said.

“But, you’re dead,” she muttered, drawing the furs high over her body to hide the soft cottons that clung to her naked body.

He shook his head and opened his arms to a wide wingspan. “A miracle, it seems.”

“Are you… are you a ghost,” she squealed, cursing her voice for showing so much fear.

He chuckled deeply, and pressed a warm hand to her cheek. She flinched at it, scurrying to the other side of the bed.

“Very alive,” he said. “I won’t hurt you, Elisabeta.”

“He’ll be back soon,” she managed, clutching her chest, willing her heart to slow.

“I know,” he said softly. “That’s why we have to be quick.”

He reached for her with no warning, but she leapt away. Dashing out of the bed, her back to the arched window.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said gently, walking towards her, an almost kind look on his face. He looked so much like Drax. The same gentle eyes of blue, the same wave to his hair. He told her once he was a great man. He clearly loved him and missed him dearly. Perhaps this was one big misunderstanding.

“What, tell me what you mean,” she said boldly, forcing her chin to rise.

“You need to come with me.”

“Where?” she frowned.

“Drax is waiting.”

“No,” she hesitated. “He said he would find me here.”

Radu sighed, pinching his brow with two fingers. Drax did the same often. Only when he held his brow, his silver scar shined beautifully. Radu held no marks – he was imperfectly perfect.

“I’d rather stay,” she said.

“I’m afraid,” he stepped closer. “You need to come.”

“Well, let me get my friends at least, they’ll want to accompany me.”

“No,” he said fast. Smiling to mask his impromptu worry. “No, sorry. We have to leave now. Alone.”

“No,” she said again. “I’m sorry, Radu. But… I’m staying put.”

“I wanted you to come with me willingly,” he sighed, his eyes darting to her thin linens, then back to her wide eyes. “Last chance.”

She opened her mouth to scream, but he covered it fast with a huge hand pressed hard against her mouth. The realisation that this was not a friendly visit sunk in her stomach like a heavy rock. Elisabeta made to run, but he lifted her off the ground, fighting gently to still her.

He didn’t know how determined she could be. How easily she could twist her body when she danced. With some effort, she untangled herself from his grip, ignoring his grunts and curses, his promises that he would not hurt her.

Out of his grasp, she leapt to the door. Falling when he gripped at the hem of her skirt to stop her.

She tumbled, rather ungracefully, to the floor. Banging the tip of her nose on the hard wood. Elisabeta groaned in pain, but blinked through it, determined to escape. She would find Jason, or Ponvelt. Lor was waiting at the entrance, he would have a sword ready on him? So long as she could find a blade, she could protect herself.

Lifting herself off the ground gingerly, she spun to face her handsome attacker. The man who looked like Drax but wasn’t.

His eyes caught on her lip. A metallic taste was on her tongue. Touching her nose, she felt wetness. Looking to her fingers, she saw her own scarlet blood glazing the tip of her skin.

“You’re bleeding,” he said. “Let me…”

Shaking her head, willing strength and speed to her body, she pounced for the door.

Radu was regrettably faster.

Holding her tight and wrapping an ungodly strong arm around her neck, he locked her in a chokehold, his firm forearm constricting her fast.

She choked in his grip, trying to scream. To make any sound. Only a gurgle escaped. Her breathing became hoarse as she desperately tried to pull air into her lungs. Radu only gripped harder, squeezing at her throat. The room blackened around her, as her knees gave way, lifting to the air in his vice-like grip. The last thing she saw before sleep found her was the beam of the moon through the window. The moon her Prince likely looked to this night on his journey to be with her again.

How silly she had been to hope. Life was cruel. Something she had quickly forgotten being so lost to love.

Chapter Text

PART 3

Drax

Waste of fucking time, Drax thought, flying through the rocky mountain path that circled close to Bram Castle on the back of his steed, Lany.

Two days that bastard Ottoman Veli had tried to squeeze a tribute out of him. Though Veli hesitated to make direct request for Elisabeta. He certainly hinted.

"Oh but a girl is not much to ask, is it my dear."

"You know, women are treated like royalty in our culture, if you were to reconsider things?"

"Where is that pretty thing who joined us a few days ago? Is she ill?"

That had been the excuse they upheld for Elisabeta’s absence. A fever had taken her and she simply couldn’t leave her bedside all week. They had no claim so didn’t argue the point too much. Instead, they asked for men. Well, him. Veli specifically requested his aid. Drax, of course, refused. After much discussion over two excruciatingly long days, they came to the agreement that if Hungary called for Transylvania’s aid, the Dragon would fight. No ‘but what if this?’ or ‘assuming we are low on men of our own’. Hungary he would help, and that was that.

Veli grumbled his acceptance and left promptly to join the rest of the Ottomans who still camped at the borders. Since then, Drax had set off for Bram Castle. He had the aid of a faster and stronger horse, no carriage to be pulled either. Luck was on his side this time. 

He thanked God on the twenty-first night as the sharp peaks of his brother’s once-home shone in the cool moonlight.

It appeared they had already arrived, deduced by the worn carriage parked at the entrance to the castle. It was late. Past midnight surely. So, instead of the front door which was awfully heavy and loud to open, he crept to the back entrance. The door that led to the kitchens that he always took in his youth when he stayed with his uncle before Radu took ownership.

The smell of freshly stewed beef filled his senses as he stepped through the familiar threshold. Hunger pangs that had bothered him for hours returned with a vengeance as he spied a hearty pot of leftover meat. He peered inside, biting his bottom lip at the view. Tender chunks of local cow. They always found the best beef in Bram, being so close to a vast field of Pinzgau cow, famed for its fattiness. Unable to avoid the temptation he plucked a chunk, admiring how it fell apart in his fingers, and chewed it.

Five minutes later, the once heaving pot was almost bare. Sucking his thumb, he pulled a sprig of fresh mint from the pot by the window, chewing it for good measure before he could climb into bed with his woman. He very much planned on having a different kind of dessert. One he had thought of much of the journey there to get him through the chillier nights. 

Ponvelt and Jason were sat snoozing by the fire in the living area, a half-empty glass of wine still clutched in Ponvelt’s arm like a grapey, alcoholic teddy bear. Drax chuckled at the sight, passing them quietly.

He approached the dark entrance hall, and, through the dim candlelight, spotted Lor sat on a chair, his head lolling to his shoulder. Another titter from Drax as he approached. Their sleeping guard, attentive as ever. Growing closer he noticed a book lying open on the floor, wine covering the cream pages. He tutted, kicking at his leather booted toes to wake him.

“Lor,” he hissed. “Wake up.”

He watched curiously as Lor’s head flopped more to the side, his jaw hanging open unnaturally. Realising something was not right, he shook his shoulder, catching him quickly as his body flopped to meet his waist.

“Lor?” He shook him again, pushing him back into his chair and squinting through the darkness. “Lor!” he said louder, panic now rising in him. Holding his cheeks, he pulled one of his closed eyes open, cursing sharply when he only saw white.

He reached for his chest, feeling a cool dampness through his black shirt. A stab wound. The fact that he was cold to the touch was not a good sign. He shook him more desperately this time, swearing when his efforts to revive him were in vain.

“Fuck,” he muttered. Spinning on his heels, he looked to the upstairs, a dull ache bursting through his chest and falling to the pit of his stomach.

Elisabeta.

*

Drax didn’t run through the castle. He sprinted.

Skidding through the corridors, banging like murderous hell on the wooden doors, roaring her name before he burst through the thick doors of the master bedroom.

The first thing he smelt was the scent of plums and ambergris in the air. She had been here.

His mind pumped with anxiety as he ransacked the room, looking for any sign she was simply hiding. He put a hand to the bathwater in the tub by the fire. Cold as ice.

Ripping the furs from the bed, he made one last futile attempt to find her, praying she was curled in the covers, fast asleep. None the wiser.

“Dragon!” Jason cried, a smile still on their lovely face. His heart broke all over again that he would have to tell them the news. Seeing the anguish on his face, theirs dropped. “What’s wrong?”

“She’s gone,” he said, pulling her discarded dress from the bottom of the bed. No signs of ripping, that was good at least.

“What do you mean, she’s gone?” Jason choked. “What… she was just here?”

“Well, she’s not now,” he spat, frantically tracing the room for any direction or clue to her whereabouts, to what happened. His eyes caught on two dots of red on the wooden floor.

Bending, he dipped his fingers in the tiny puddle, bringing them close to his eyes. “Blood,” he snarled. Straightening, he looked at Jason with more fire than the furnaces of hell.

“I’ll kill them,” he snarled. “I’ll rip their hearts from their chest and tear their throats unti-”

“Calm down,” Jason gasped, grasping his shoulders hard. “We’ll find her.”

“I…” Drax’s words caught in his throat, tasting like ash. “We were so close,” he whispered.

“Dragon,” Jason said softly, reaching for him.

He dropped to the floor before they could. Staring at the small pool of blood by his knees. Dissociating. Every thought in his mind spiralled. A faint ringing echoing through his ears. His hands felt numb, his stomach aching like he had eaten something rotten.

“Lor’s dead,” he said coolly.

“WHAT?!” Jason cried, holding the door as if they were about to sprint through it. They caught their heels before they had chance, held the frame and quietly sobbed.

The two friends were silent for a long minute, the only sound echoing from the walls the soft weeping from Jason.

Finally, Jason pulled their trembling hands through their hair, which was long at their sides for once, having not had the time to plait it and tie it down like they usually did. Their eyes thinned, noticing something on the bedside table. Lifting the parchment, they read it quickly, muttering foul words. Walking to Drax, they slowly passed him the note.

He didn’t look at it right away. Instead he willed his brain to find a solution. A way out. He threaded through each possible outcome like he was riffling through a dozen tightly packed drawers. Finally, he glanced at the note, crumpling it in his shaking fists and dropping it to the floor.

“Do they want a bloody war?” Jason hissed.

On the floor, the paper sprung back like when you prod at a dead spider's leg. The words mocked him.

Our tribute. With thanks.

“Like it or not, they’ve got one now,” Drax said.

Chapter Text

Elisabeta

When she first woke, blundering down a rocky hill on horseback, Elisabeta could only assume the hard arm that hugged her waist steady belonged to her Prince. 

Blissfully unaware and void of recent memory for a second, she rubbed her tired eyes, blinking through the blisteringly cold air hitting her face as the horse pounded onwards. 

Breathing in and adjusting her posture, she noticed the scruff of mane she instinctively gripped was not onyx in colour like Drax’s mare, but a grey-white, like three-day-old snow. Her breathing hitched in her dry throat - recollection of the previous evening flooding back to her brutally. 

Radu. 

Peering down, the soft hands that gripped her now were just as large as her Dragon’s. Only, unlike his pale skin, he had a bronzed tan. His fingertips felt too soft on her dress, not catching on the light fabric like Drax’s calloused fingers of a soldier did. 

Elisabeta automatically began to wriggle in his grip, squirming away to loosen his hold. It was silly really. If she fell from the horse, she would tumble onto the uneven road and - more than likely - fall ungracefully into the sharp ragged rocks that carved the underbelly of the Carpathians. Still, the touch of a man that was not her Prince disgusted Elisabeta to her core. 

“My brother would not be so happy if you were to die in my care,” a deep voice rumbled from behind. 

The light hair on the back of her neck stood rigid as he dared to chuckle. His warm chest vibrating a little against her back. 

“Your care?” she mocked, pulling away from his chest. 

He didn’t speak again. Only pulled the reins closer to her hands so she could get a good grip herself. Not having to rely on his hold. 

On the third treacherously sharp turn around the mountains, Elisabeta began to slip. He reached for her gingerly, but she batted him away in a heartbeat, clasping her thighs more tightly around the steed. 

“W-w-where ar-are we going?” Elisabeta shouted, unable to keep the questions festering inside her. 

“Later,” he said. 

“No!” she continued. “You kidnap me, Sir. I have a r-r-right to know why.” A new shiver travelled through her body as they cleared the shelter of the taller mountains. In the open rocky fields, the wind was icy and harsh on her skin. Ripping through her like little knives. 

“You’re cold.” 

“Wonderful observation s-s-skills,” she mocked. 

“I wasn’t pressing my body against you for affection,” he muttered, pulling the steed so it reared left on the path. “It was for warmth.” 

“I would rather die of a chill than have you touch me for a-a-another moment.”

“Fine,” he said. “We’re coming up on Brașov anyway. My men are waiting. If you can hold on a little longer.” 

Elisabeta nodded curtly, peering around the field without turning her head and drawing suspicion. She was looking for a way out. It was a wide open area. No buildings, no cabins. She had no knife at her waist. Under the oversized cloak that she wore (which smelt of juniper and cedar, a scent that clung to Radu like barnacles on brine-rich rocks) she still wore her silken nightie. Her legs were so chilled, they felt numb on the side of the horse. The glum realisation that she had no way out at this moment settled at the pit of her stomach. 

Even if she managed to escape Radu, there was no way she could find refuge anywhere close. The very town they rode towards - ironically the same town she was once captured from a year ago - was under Ottoman rule. When she stayed there, she was in the manor for Hungarian politicians to learn a new bout of literature that only the Ottomans had access to. One could only assume she would not be granted the same lodgings as before. 

“You’re slipping again,” Radu snarled, pushing her hips forward so she sat more firmly on the horse. 

“Will you stop touching me,” she spat back. 

“There,” he said, reaching his long arm out to point at the town just over the horizon. “Minutes away. If you could grant me the favour of not freezing to death before we reach it. My brother would be awfully upset, I’m sure.”

“He’ll b-b-be furious regardless,” she breathed, her teeth chattering as she spoke. 

Pulling into the town, she slapped his hand off her waist as he pulled her off the great horse and only the muddy ground. Elisabeta scurried back, almost slipping on the slick ground. She caught herself before she could make more of a fool of herself, and scowled at Radu, who seemed horribly amused by her. 

“Now will you tell me why you took me?”

“In a moment,” he answered, gripping her arm and tugging her into the nearest wooden cottage to the right of them. Inside there were at least twenty Ottomans, all sprawled around in various positions of leisure. Their scarlet coloured robes were still damp from the outside - many had taken them off, and were taking turns fanning their fabrics by the fire. 

To her disappointment she noticed a few from the audience she had attending in Hungary. Her anger peaked as she spied Veli from the masses. His sharp black eyes found her at once, and unmasked joy filled his chiseled bronzed face. 

“What do we owe the pleasure!” he lamented, getting to his feet to approach. Kissing her hand with his cold, cruel lips. 

She pulled her skin from his grasp, rubbing it on her woollen dress. 

“A moment,” Radu said. “We’ve been travelling all night.” The brother turned to Elisbeta, his eyes oddly calm now. “Come.”

She could only grumble in response, tutting as he continued to harshly pull her up the wooden stairs beside them. He led her into the third room on the landing. Inside was a simple single bed, a jug of water and (one could only assume) wine, a wash bowl and fresh linens. Radu pushed her gently in, watching with indifference as she stared at the lodgings. 

“What is this?” she said, pacing a little before locking her eyes back on her captor. 

Radu the handsome, he was called famously. She had learnt much about him from the book she took from Dracul. They had grown up together, with their father and older brother before their untimely murder at the hands of the Hungarians (as a result of the Ottomans). 

Curiously, stories told that Radu had converted to the Ottoman religion a year into his capture. That his stay became one of leisure. Drax, despite some efforts, relented to sway his beliefs. His imprisonment was one of hardship, while Radu had a grand time. Many expected the younger brother to stay after the deal was done. That the brothers would part ways - with Radu staying with the Turks as Drax rode for Transylvania once more. 

To everyone’s surprise, he left willingly with his older brother. Continuing to fight for the God he no longer believed in. She had once questioned the matter with Drax. He said that Radu, despite their differences, always treated him with the love you’d expect from a brother. That, while Radu pressed the religion of Islam on him, never held it against him that he wanted to remain faithful to his God. Despite their differences, they were still brothers. 

“You know, Drax talks about you all the time,” she said. “He missed you.” 

Radu clenched his jaw, running a hand over the linens on the bed. “I’ll leave you to rest, change. Whatever you want to do.” 

“He spoke highly of you,” she said sharply. “You’ll disappoint our Prince so awfully. Take me back now, and perhaps he’ll forgive this. Please,” she added, hoping her words could somehow sway him. 

He didn’t meet her eyes as he opened the door. His hand stilled on the frame, pausing before he could leave. “I meant what I said before,” he turned so she could see his face - but still refused to meet her gaze, settling his eyes on the floor below. “I won’t harm you.”

“You know he avenged your death,” she said, sitting on the bed slowly. “Killed that man he thought ended you. He spoke about it at great lengths. He made you a martyr. And this is how you repay him.”

Radu called down the hall a name she had never heard before. A sharply dressed woman in scarlet kaftan appeared. Her bronzed skin and lush dark eyebrows were oddly familiar. Then it hit her, she was present in the hall in Hungary. Veli himself had referenced her. She was part of their army. 

“This is Safiye,” Radu said. “She’ll tend to any…” he paused, scratching at the dark stubble on his cheek, “womanly needs you have.” 

“Womanly needs,” Elisabeta repeated, her voice laced with sarcasm. 

“Dressing and such,” Radu waved his hand awkwardly, pulling off a leather glove and tucking it in his pocket. “Safiyre, she is to be treated with respect. Understand?” 

The handsome woman nodded, crossing her arms behind her back and observing Elisabeta with clear distaste. 

“Are you going to tell me why you captured me now?” she spat, turning her attention back to Radu. 

He sighed deeply, finally meeting her gaze. “This was the way that would bring the least amount of disruption to the courts. Drax won’t join me willingly. He never would. But… if he could just see how happy he would be living our way. How Allah looks after us here.” He paused, tracing a line of the doorframe with a long finger. “I missed the Ottomans. But it would have broken my brother’s heart to watch me return. It was a cowardly way out that I now regret.”

“You could have come to him freely. He would have embraced you.” 

“So unaware,” Radu chuckled. “I miss my brother, yes. But seeing him in that rat hole of Translyvania, it’s no place for a man like him. And with the regrettable capture in our youth, he would never return willingly to us. He’ll come to us now. Has no choice. And when he sees us - the beauty of our kingdoms, the way we have treated you so kindly. Surely that will sway him, will it not?” 

“You’re an idiot,” Elisabeta laughed, wishing to spit at his handsome face that so strongly resembled the Prince she loved. What a cruel thing genes were. Teasing her with misplaced affection. 

“We have a plan,” Radu said, turning to leave. “It’s no concern of yours. Just… sit tight for now.” 

“Wait… answer me one question. Please.” 

He stopped, thwarted again. “What?”

“My friends. The people who worked at Bram. You, you didn’t hurt them did you?”

Radu’s silence spoke louder than words. Again, he refused to meet her eyes. Like the coward he undoubtedly was. “There was… one… regrettable loss.” 

“Who?!” Elisabeta yelled, clutching the bed covers hard in her fists. 

Radu ruffled his thick, inky hair. “His name is unknown to me. He was reading. By the door. Opened his mouth to shout. I… regret I could not let that happen.”

“Lor,” Elisabeta whispered. “Leave me.”

“It’s not in my nature to kill unprompted. He wa-”

“Leave!” she said louder, feeling the tears that had bravely remained hidden spill to her cold cheeks. 

He left, shutting the door. 

All at once, every emotion she had bottled up, locked behind a bulging door in her head, flew open. 

She didn’t sniff like a noble woman. She wailed like a wounded animal. For the loss of Lor - such a simple but kind man - for the God who betrayed her again, but more than anything, for her loves. Drax, Jason, the castle she loved that was so close in her grasp. Such a savage thing to dangle all one's hopes and dreams and then snatch them away at the last minute. She would have rather not had the temptation at all. You only miss something if you have tasted it. Had she never eaten plums as a child, she would not crave them so. Blissfully ignorant was how she would have rather lived. Not knowing what it could be like to love, or to be loved. 

Elisabeta was so beyond herself with grief, she had forgotten entirely that she was not quite alone in the cramped bedroom. 

It was only when an awkward cough bouched off the wooden walls that she snapped her neck up, viewing the female soldier as she bent a dark brow at her distastefully. 

“You shouldn’t cry so loudly,” Safiye said plainly. 

Elisabeta wiped her tears away angrily, spinning on the bed to face away from her. She chose the window instead - though it was fogged awfully, she could see a little sunlight seeping through. A small robin had nested on the border. She envied it greatly at that moment. Having the freedom to fly away. 

“You won’t be harmed. Radu may be brutish, but he’s honest.” 

“I’m not frightened,” Elisabeta hissed, coughing into the last of her sobs. 

“Then why do you cry?” 

Elisabeta spun to face her, frowning at her stoic face. She was plainly beautiful - filtered with androgyny. Flawless bronzed skin, lightly freckled at the base of her strong nose. In her brows she wore the same dark pigment Veli did. Like all the Ottomans did. “You wouldn’t understand,” she finished, huffing away under the covers. 

“You really should wash, you know,” Safiye continued. “The men will expect an audience with you later this afternoon.” 

“I have no intention of attempting to impress. They can try and drag me out of this bed if they wish.” 

Safiye tutted and Elisabeta fought the urge to plunge out of the covers and give her a good lecture on empathy. 

A few minutes of silence passed. On the third minute, Elisabeta heard the unmistakable sound of flowing liquid, the clanging of a jug on wood and then, something pressed at her shoulder. 

“Drink, eat,” Safiye said. “You must be starving after your journey.”

“I’m fine thank you.”

“You’re a fool.”

“Excuse me?” Elisabeta said, drawing the covers back and scowling at the curious liquid Safiye tried to pass her. “Does it bring you joy to dig someone already in pain deeper into it?”

“I didn’t mean,” Safiye muttered, bringing the cup back to the table and resuming her position at the back of the room, arms crossed. Stone faced. 

“Pray tell. Why is your prisoner so foolish?” 

“Because you will live a life of luxury here. Not here, I suppose. But once we reach Constantinople, you’ll live like a Queen. Yet you sob like a spoiled brat.”

“Do you know what I was taken away from?” Elisabeta spat, eyeing the cup. She was very thirsty. Her lips were dry and cracking with lack of water. Yet, she was too stubborn to drink.

“It’s not poison.” 

“I cry for what I was ripped away from,” Elisabeta snarled, folding back into the sheets. “You stole me from my love.”

“Love,” Safiye cackled. 

“By your condescending tone, I assume you have never been in love,” Elisabeta said. 

Safiyre shuffled, the metal of her sword hitting the wall with a light clang. 

“I take that as a no. And as you have never loved like I do. You could never understand.” 

“One doesn’t need love to live a happy life,” Safiye replied. 

“Then you have never experienced true happiness. I pity you for that.”

“How rich. The Princess who sobs for a brutal and blood thirsty Dragon with a black heart feels sorry for me.” Her velvety laugh filled the air. “Stop being moody and drink. It’ll be me who’s throttled if you pass out later.” 

Elisabeta grumbled, watching the Robin pecking away at its scarlet and brown plumes. “All the more reason to persist.”

Chapter Text

Drax

The stone walls of Poenari shuddered as Dracul tore through, his fury storming as he walked faster than fear could catch him.

He had no time to reflect on being home - the journey from Bran Castle to Poenari was thankfully swift. On a fast steed like Lany, he made the trip just short of six hours.

Drax’s first trip was to the neighbouring Wallachian priests, who had taken home in an extravagant chapel bordering the castle.

Jason and Ponvelt ran swiftly behind him, trying to keep up with his furious pace.

“Dragon,” Jason grieved. “We can stop to eat, to breathe for God’s sake.”

“God’s sake,” Drax muttered slowly, bursting through the thick elm doors.

Three priests, who seemed to have been indulging in the holy wine, turned fast, clearing alcohol from their lips. The head of the table coughed awkwardly, touching his gilded golden cross that hung proudly on his chest. “Vlad, my son, we did not expect you back so soon.”

Drax didn’t stop until he met the Priest, Jacob’s, feet, towering over him and peering at his chubby, red-stained cheeks freckled with spidery veins.

“W-what is wrong, my child,” he gasped, feigning some kind of strange parental care.

Behind them, the skinny rake that was Theysar weaselled through the door, tutting to himself. “Mud all over our nice clean floors, no note. You barge in and-”

“If you want to keep your head I would shut up,” Jason hissed to them. “His love has been kidnapped, Father. Elisabeta of Hungary, my…” their voice broke off a little. “My friend too.”

“Our friend,” Ponvelt nodded. “We hoped that God would at least explain to us why.”

Drax chuckled, the deepness and low bass of it bouncing off the gold and jewel-incrusted walls of the chapel.

“He took her to test me,” he said sharply. “Our God is so cruel, is he not, Father?” He rubbed the priest’s thick chin with a leather-gloved finger and stepped back, his jaw ticking mercilessly. “I’m not here for penance. It’s a courtesy call,” he turned to glare at all three priests calmly. “We are at war with the Ottomans.”

“But we… we are in a truce, are we not? Our men are not ready. They just returned from the Hungarian war. It is not what God wills, not yet, my boy,” Father Jacob choked.

Drax waved his hand to him casually. “God willed the last war with them. He will understand. We knew there would be another in time, I'm simply speeding up what nature calls for.”

“To save your woman, she is not even your wife?” Theysar lamented.

Drax faced him, his chiselled features brutal as he stared coldly. “We fought the Ottomans before for God. Now I fight for both. For God and for her. With all due respect, Theysar, this is out of your hands.”

“O-out,” Theysar spluttered. “You are not even Prince. You’re not wed!” he yelled, waggling a skinny finger at him and pulling a thick leather-bound book from the inside of his cloak. “See!” He opened the dusty tome and pointed furiously at a passage. “Signed by your grandfather. You must wed.”

Drax took the book from his clutches, reading the lines with no reaction. He flung the heavy book into the fire beside them, watching Theysar carefully. “Rules of old. She is my wife - we have made a vow to each other. In my heart, that is true. God will know it too, won’t he Father?” he turned to Father Jacob, who shook his head with a nod violently, terror clear on his old face.

Drax stepped back, “and there we have it,” he said, lifting his hands to the group. “War. Gather the men and women, we ride at dawn.”

“To where, Prince?” Ponvelt asked sheepishly. “I mean, we’re with you. But what is your plan?”

“The Ottomans have camps trailing all the way to Constantinople," Drax said, approaching his two friends calmly. “Elisabeta will be in one of them. We ride to the closest camp or town, plunder, kill, whatever we need to do. And if she’s not found, we move on. By the third spree, they will surely give her back regardless.”

“Who is to be your second in command,” Ponvelt said. “I would offer my services but you know I am not good at tactics. And the horses, are they all here? What of supplies?”

Drax raised his palm to silence his worrying friend. “I’ll take care of this. We stay here for no more than twenty-four hours. That will give me plenty of time to prepare. Fear not.” He spun on his leather heels, facing Father Jacob once more.

“A warning, Priest. If I find her and she is…” the words tasted foul on his tongue. So horrible he could not speak them.

“I will pray to God for her safe return,” Father Jacob said, dipping his head. His ornate gold hat tumbled to the floor, revealing what little of the white hair he had left on the top of his large cauliflower-like head.

Drax tutted, bending to snatch it off the floor and roughly place it onto his head. “Don’t pray to him, tell him. Keep her safe. Or he will rue the day.”

“My boy, that is blasphemy!” the squirrely Priest to Jacob’s right gasped.

Drax said nothing. His scowl proved his sincerity. He would unleash hell and they knew it. Now God did too.

Heading for the door, Ponvelt and Jason glared at each other and sprinted to escort him out. Out into the vine-ripened, snow-bedded cemetery that circled the chapel, Jason reached for the bend of Drax’s arm.

“What?” Drax spat, shooting a venomous look to them. It softened when he noticed the hurt in their worried eyes. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive, we’re all frightened for her. We will find her, but you need to be thinking straight Dragon. Take this,” they pulled a small vial of black liquid from their pocket. “It’s a tonic we use in Hungary. Valerian root, sweetened with a little honey. Works a charm to sleep.”

He took it, thankful he didn’t have to say that sleep would be an issue considering how much his gut ached with anxiety and worry.

Jason nodded, motioning for Ponvelt to follow them.

“Wait,” Drax said, holding their arm now. “I have a question for you.”

“Yes,” Jason said, raising a sharp brow.

“Be my second in command?”

“What?!” Jason’s jaw dropped to the floor. Amazement pooling in their eyes. “N-no. You’re not thinking right. Besides, you only give me the title because of your affection for Lizzy. It wouldn’t be right. A sympathy title is not what you need. Give it to someone deserving. A… man, perhaps.”

“Jason,” Drax sighed. “There is no soul on this earth who has bested me, no man or woman. You, wrangled me to the floor that night when we camped. Pinned me. No one pins me. Yet, you managed it.”

“You didn’t expect a duel, it was luck,” Jason tutted.

“I have seen your strength. You’d make a fine second in command. My request is earnest. Ponvelt, would you agree?” he asked, glaring at Ponvelt who smiled warmly.

“You could choose no one better,” Ponvelt confirmed.

Jason hit the side of Drax’s chest hard, smiling for the first time since the news of Elisabeta. The glimmer of happiness quickly sunk on their lips, seeing Drax strain to show some feeling in his own.

“Thank you, Dragon,” they nodded, bowing low.

“Oh for fuck sake,” Drax hissed. “Never bow to me again. Now go, both of you. Sleep. We leave at dawn.”

Chapter Text

Elisabeta

Despite her reluctance, Elisabeta had in fact bathed on that first night. Not for the Ottomans, but herself.

After a few hours of awfully disrupted sleep, Safiye had roused her with a (not so gentle) shake to her shoulders. Reporting that her nose was bleeding all over their nice linens. A touch to her nose found the statement to be true. Where she had fallen before when Radu rudely captured her had resulted in an ungraceful tumble. With all the dramatics she had forgotten. And now, the blood staining her fingertips was a reminder that she was simply a weak girl. Unable to protect herself from her own feet.

Safiye had run her a bath, and, wearing a thoroughly unimpressed glare, mopped her face up with a warm flannel, finally leaving her be so she could bathe in peace.

The rest of the night was even more uneventful. Her knowledge of the Ottoman language was slipping. So, when she joined the room of two dozen tired men who planned to discuss what exactly they would be doing with her, Elisabeta understood shamefully little.

In the cramped inn, under the hazardly hung paintings of trees and rivers, Radu stood like a foreboding shadow in the corner. His tall, bronzed body slumped as he drank from his cup.

Veli, annoyingly, couldn’t take his beady eyes off Elisabeta, watching with great interest as she sat, twiddling her thumbs under the table; ignoring the plate of steamed meat and leafy greens that was shoved in front of her.

She pretended not to be listening. An unbothered woman. Truthfully, it was quite the opposite. As she peered to the polished wooden floor, her brain was whirring away, trying to remember the words and phrases she once knew a little better than now. Not to say that she was completely deaf to the language – simple words and phrases she knew. Amongst the fast talking of Veli and two other seemingly senior men, she made out words like: move, sultan, Dracul (of course) and horses.

Halfway through the meeting, Veli slinked closer to her, patting her knee under the table. The motion made her jump out of her skin. She promptly crossed her legs and glared at him.

“I thought you spoke our tongue,” he whispered in Hungarian as the men were talking amongst themselves.

“A little,” she replied sharply.

“So,” he chuckled, crossing his emerald cloaked arms and watching her through his owl-like eyes. “What do we speak of?”

“We’re moving somewhere.”

“Yes, where?”

“I…” she paused. “I don’t know.”

He leaned closer, pushing the bowl of food closer to her. “You should eat.”

“I’m not hungry,” she muttered, holding her chin high.

Veli laughed at that. “Nonsense, you must be starving.” He looked to the room. Men were stuffing their faces, patting their beef fat glistening lips. “We have no need for you to be here. Just a formality really. You can go.”

“Go?” she breathed, her eyes sparkling.

“Well, not go go,” he said. “You can go back to your room. We leave in a few hours.”

“To where?”

“You needn’t know,” he answered, nodding to Radu who was staring at him darkly from where he politely ate alone.

“Take her, will you?” Veli motioned for Safiye to approach. She bowed her head to him, tapping Elisabeta’s arm to stand.

“And make sure she eats,” Veli continued, picking up the bowl of lukewarm meat and shoving it into Safiye’s hands.

Back in her simple room, Elisabeta sulked to her bed, crossing her legs and pondering when she became so useless.

“You’re not proving anything by going on a hunger strike,” Safiye said, almost gently, placing the bowl of food to the bedside table and sitting in the empty chair by the side of the bed.

“How can I eat at a time like this,” Elisabeta said, eyeing the food hungrily. She really was starving. But somehow, it felt like she would be a willing captor if she ate their food. A rumble in her stomach betrayed her, and Safiye took the bowl off the side, placing it in her lap.

“Eat, please.”

Elisabeta grumbled, touching a piece of meat, then shying away. “Do you have any cutlery?”

Safiye laughed. “You don’t have to hold such manners here. No one is looking.”

“You are,” Elisabeta said.

“Well, I don’t count.”

Elisabeta ate quietly. Cursing herself for not seeing through her planned hunger strike.

*

They moved, as promised, in the morning. Elisabeta on the back of Radu’s huge snow-coloured horse, sitting as far away as safety would allow from the stiff stone wall that was Drax’s brother.

He said nothing. Not a word. For six hours.

A pillowing of tents drew shapes on the horizon as midday glistened in the sky. Still silent, Radu clicked his tongue, prompting his mare to ride faster.

Elisabeta was truly exhausted by the time she was lifted down to her feet, her legs wobbling with fatigue.

“You should sleep,” Radu said plainly, nodding to Safiye who was climbing off her own slim steed.

“Where are we?” Elisabeta said, peering around what seemed to be a makeshift camp in winter rich wilderness.

Radu peered at her for a moment. His navy eyes were so like Drax’s it created a pang of sadness in her stomach. She wished he didn’t look like her Prince so much. She worried her hatred for his brother would poison the way she would look at Drax one day.

Safiye dragged her to an empty tent. A plain bedroll waiting for her, along with a cup of curious liquid. She held it to her nose, scowling.

“It’s Sherbets,” Safiye said lazily, throwing her sword and cloak to the second bedroll beside hers.

“What?”

“A drink made of rose water, mint, lemon and pomegranate, you’ll like it.”

“How do you know,” Elisabeta said, drinking a little from her cup. God, it was good. Delicate on her tongue, the floral aromas adding a strange sense of calm to her busy mind.

“Because everyone does,” Safiye said, rummaging through her satchel.

Elisabeta begrudgingly gulped down most of the Sherbets drink, satiating her thirst, then sat on the bedroll, clapping her hands together and sighing.

“What am I to do now?” she asked, watching as Safiye pulled out a huge leather-bound book. She flung it over to Elisabeta’s side, sitting on her own bedroll.

“You read this,” she said.

“And what is this,” Elisabeta mocked, picking up the lengthy tome.

“It’s our book, the Quran.”

“And why would I want to read this. I don’t care for your God.”

“Shh,” Safiye hissed. “At least pretend. They’ll test you. You should really try.”

“But…” Elisabeta flicked through the pages. All written in Ottoman. “I don’t know your language.”

“You know enough,” Safiye said, laying her head down to the soft linens. “Just try.”

And so, Elisabeta read. Or at least tried to. Not for loyalty. But boredom. She was so very bored. So very tired. And so very unhappy.

Between pages, she sobbed a little, then slept. Woke, read, sobbed and slept more. All the while, Safiye snoozed peacefully.

The next day, when dawn crept up on the hills behind the land she was unfamiliar with, Elisabeta was shaken awake again by a fresh-faced Safiye.

“We’re moving again,” she said, throwing a bundle of Ottoman-coloured kaftans on the bed beside her. “Dress. Wash. We’ll be having breakfast out there when you’re ready.”

Once again, what could she do but follow orders? She washed her body with a warm cloth from the steaming bowl that was delivered to her. Dressed in the silky wool and joined the hundred Ottomans that ate their stews of soured porridge merrily.

Safiye ushered her over, pushing a bowl of steaming mulch in her hand, then turned to converse with three doe-eyed men who were far too polite for soldiers.

Elisabeta felt a dark shadow loom over her, blocking the morning sun. Turning to see what had shielded the light, she scowled. Radu had decided to sit beside her.

“Morning,” he said, not looking to her, but his matching bowl of breakfast.

“Hmp,” she managed, filling her mouth in order to not talk to him any more.

“Did Safiye tell you we are moving again.”

Elisabeta nodded.

“I suppose you wish to know why.”

“Does it matter that I know?” Elisabeta spat, covering her mouth to hide her chews of the gloopy breakfast.

“I suppose not,” he said. “Would you like to know?”

She watched him with thin eyes. Then, slowly, nodded.

“We’re on our way to Constantinople. The capital for my people.”

“Not your people,” she muttered. “You’re a Dracul.”

“Was,” he corrected. “These are my people now.”

She didn’t dignify his statement with a response and ate more of the foul porridge.

“You will see him again,” Radu said more softly. “I promised you we would not harm you and I mean it. You’ll understand in time why I had to take you.”

“Why not tell me now? I am not a fan of riddles, Radu.”

He chuckled at that. His large body shaking with the dark rumble from his chest. “Neither was my brother. Just sit tight. Read our book. Learn. Sleep. You don’t need to do anything. There are no trials. No tests. I just need you to sit tight, for now. Understand?”

“No,” she said, rolling her eyes and placing her bowl to the muddy grass beneath. “It’s like you people enjoy keeping me in the dark. One could call it cruel.”

“Cruel,” he said, spooning another mouthful of porridge into his mouth. “I suppose. But it’s for the best.”

*

Three days had passed now. Three days of moving from camp to camp. Eating foul food that was spiced too strongly for her stomach and reading a book that was so boring, it made her drift into a dizzying sleep.

The fear had left her quickly. All she felt now was emptiness. Elisabeta loathed being away from Drax and her people. But more than anything, she hated being lied to. They had a plan for her. For her Prince. It was the secrets that were killing her. If she knew of her fate she could at least accept it.

She prodded, of course. To Radu as they rode together in mostly silence. The only other person she dared speak to was Safiye – who was impassive as ever. Elisabeta was starting to think that her only purpose was to act as a babysitter to her. Every day and night she would watch her. Make sure she was fed, bathed and dried. Then, like every evening, would either sit and watch her, or sleep. It was getting rather tiresome.

Tonight was no different. Elisabeta sat, cursing the pages of the book she read from, shooting looks like daggers to her ever-unemotional minder. The only benefit of reading was that she had started to take in the language she had lost again. Not that it mattered, no one spoke to her. And if they did, it was always in Hungarian. Radu, Safiye and Veli spoke it fluently, and they were the only three who ever greeted her. The rest of the soldiers pretended she didn’t exist. If any of them caught her eye, they would promptly look away. Like it burnt their retinas to look at her.

“Curls.”

Breaking away from the book in her lap, Elisabeta looked to the opening of the tent. There, grinning mischievously, was Veli. Like many of the men, he wore a brown cotton tunic, with baggy trousers tied at his waist. He usually wore a kaftan when they travelled. His emerald one of wool now draped over his shoulders. The turban that covered all the men’s heads was for the first time discarded, held in the crease of his arm instead. He was, to her surprise, startlingly bald. His head glistening with the rays of silver moonlight outside.

“Sorry to break up such a stimulating conversation ladies,” he said, stepping inside. “Saffy, you can go.”

Safiye shuffled where she stood, glancing from Elisabeta to Veli, her lips drawing a sharp line. “I was told to stay.”

He walked to her coolly, pinching her cheek playfully. Safiye didn’t say anything, but the tick in her jaw told Elisabeta she did not like that one bit.

“And I’m telling you to go,” he said, raising a kohl-dusted brow.

Safiye turned to Elisabeta. She knew Safiye was hinting at something with her eyes. But Elisabeta couldn’t quite work out what she was alluding to.

“I’ll be outside,” Safiye said sharply; leaving Elisabeta alone with Veli in the tent.

It was not unusual that he spoke to her. He would often make passing remarks as they travelled. Nicknaming her Curls, for her wavy hair. Very un-Ottoman to have locks like hers, it appeared. 

“Not far now, Curls,” he would shout to her from the back of his horse.

“Any more stew, Curls? If anyone needs fattening up it’s you!”

“Curls, you must be a magnet for men in your country. Such fair skin and rosy cheeks.”

He was no poet with his words, unlike his books that she had once enjoyed.

“How’re you settling in?” he said, throwing himself onto Safiye’s unmade bed, raising his knee and resting his hand atop. He looked like a silly scribble of a painting, lounging, attempting to appear handsome, she supposed.

“Fine,” she replied, closing the hefty book.

“Ah,” he peered to what she read. “Remarkable, isn’t it?”

“I find it quite lacking, actually.”

“Oh, you are a naughty one, blaspheming Allah,” he said, tutting thrice.

“He’s your god, not mine.”

“I admit, it could be written in a more engaging way,” he said, picking at his cuticles. “You know, I was thinking about rewriting it myself. Adding a little more of an artistic flair to it.” He admired his manicured fingers.

“Really?” she sighed, fighting a roll of her eyes.

“Mm. I would be honoured if you would read a draft?”

“Why would…” she paused, catching her next words in her mouth. An idea sparked. “I would love to.”

“You know Curls, I have many books that I travel with, if you wanted a break from that,” he motioned to the Quran.

“That would be so kind,” Elisabeta said, forcing her most charming smile. “Do you have any of your works? I so enjoyed them.”

“You did?” he said, his face lighting up with the compliment.

Elisabeta nodded, relishing that men were, in fact, simple creatures. She had scorned herself for her uselessness for so long. Her lack of strength and muscle, her clumsiness. She had no clue about politics or geography, seduction or passiveness. In that moment she realised her strength.

She was smart. Well read. Careful and clever with her words. If she had any power, this was it. Elisabeta would find a way to outsmart them. And a plan was forming in that clever mind of hers now.

“I loved your tale of the bear and the bee,” she lamented, placing a hand to her cheek, pushing her best acting abilities to surface. “Such beautiful words.”

Veli’s cheeks grew rosy with delight. “I wrote that in a week you know,” he chuckled. “I had no idea you were such a fan.”

“Oh, I am,” she said. “I was embarrassed to say.”

“My dear,” he clapped, moving closer to her, twiddling his plaited dark beard in his fingers. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about. I adore meeting admirers.”

She echoed his grin and reached for her almost-empty cup of Sherbets.

“It’s good to see you embracing us,” Veli said. “Our drink, our books, my books,” he cackled.

“Your food and drink is splendid,” she lied. “Though, I do miss wine.”

“Hmm,” he hummed, tapping his knee with a long finger. “I’m sure I could find a bottle or two. While alcohol is strictly forbidden by our customs, some of us allow for… exceptions to the rules, shall we say,” he winked.

Before she could reply, Safiye entered, casting her brown eyes over the two. In her hand, she clutched a huge bowl of steaming water. “For your wash,” she said.

“Later, perhaps,” Elisabeta said, turning back to Veli to play her game.

“The water is hot now,” Safiye said firmly, placing it on the table footing the bedroll.

“Saffy,” Veli sighed. “We are having a splendid time.”

“And that can surely wait for after the bathing,” Safiye said softly, ushering him out.

Veli groaned, but got to his feet. “Dinner,” he said hopefully. “Tomorrow night, we arrive in one of the more lovely Ottoman towns. How about it?”

“Will there be wine,” Elisabeta gleaned.

“Perhaps, Curls,” he said, waggling a dark-nailed finger at her. “And books. It is good to meet a woman who appreciates the finer things in life, I must say.”

He bowed low to Elisabeta, scowling at Safiye and left.

“Safiye, that was quite rude,” Elisabeta said as Safiye dipped a fresh wash cloth in the bowl.

“You should be careful,” Safiye said quietly, wringing the soaked linen in her hands.

Elisabeta de-robed, having lost her embarrassment for being seen nude after the second day with Safiye. Between women, there was a strange safety in showing one’s skin. She was a little grateful, she had to admit, that the Ottomans allowed for a woman to keep her company.

Safiye gently tapped at Elisabeta's stern brow, and passed her the richly rose-scented cloth. Elisabeta grumbled and began cleaning herself.

“He’s…” Safiye looked quickly to the entrance to the tent, and pinched her chin. “I don’t want to speak out of turn.”

“What do you wish to say,” Elisabeta sighed, watching as her skin prickled into small bumps when the water cooled on her arm.

Safiye sat opposite her, holding her back straight. An air of dignity about her. “He’s not like the rest of the men. They respect women. Our religion assures it. Radu was not lying. You will not be harmed by us. Him… however,” she bit her lip, averting her eyes to the floor. “He walks among us, but he is not truly one of us.”

“How do you mean?”

Safiye leaned close, her face more serious than it had been before. “He sees women as playthings. Not to say us women have a plethora of rights at home. It is lacking but mostly we are treated with dignaty, we can vote, make laws, so long as we have male approval it is not so bad. The men are bearable. It's Veli... he is a Fâsık.”

“Fâsık?”

Safiye exhaled softly. “I have said too much.”

“What is a Fâsık?”

“A womaniser. Morally corrupt. There were stories, in Constantinople. The royal harem was split into pieces because one woman fell pregnant. She was banished. The women, they swore that it was Veli who made unannounced visits. But the Sultan sees him like a brother. He would hear nothing of it. Besides, Veli charms people. He is charming. I did not judge you to be so gullible.”

“Gullible?” Elisabeta choked, laughing. “I find him to be ghastly.”

“But yo-”

“But nothing. You needn’t worry about me, Saffy,” Elisabeta said, laying new linens over her shoulders. “I just wanted to talk to someone.”

“You can talk to me,” Safiye muttered.

“And why would I want to do that?”

“Because,” Safiye leaned into her, watching her carefully, like she was worried any minute Elisabeta would leap up. “Women look after each other. No matter what side we’re on.”

Elisabeta scoffed at the notion, turning to tuck into the furs on her bed. “You speak nonsense.”

“Fine,” Safiye snapped, dimming the candle and getting into her own bedroll. “I tried to warn you. And one more thing.”

Though she couldn’t see anything through the darkness of the bell-tent, Elisabeta could feel Safiye’s hazel eyes on her.

“Don’t call me Saffy.”

Chapter Text

Drax

Scowling at the dark blood that lay stubbornly in his nail crevices, Drax scrubbed more violently, ushering the little bat away that squeaked impatiently seeing good blood going to waste in the wash bowl.

“Ana, there’s plenty of fresh stuff outside the palace, you want dinner, there’s your feast,” he grumbled, splashing the pink-dyed water to his face.

Ana had appeared before he left his own castle in Transylvania, planting her small furry body on his shoulder and refusing to leave his side. It seemed, his little friend had missed him and did not like the idea of him disappearing again one bit.

What followed for the next twenty days en route to Matthias’ palace was carnage of the most delicious sort. To his dismay, there were no direct signs of Elisabeta. But there were clues. When they reached Brașov, Drax noticed the sheets in an inn smelt peculiarly of plums and ambergris. It could have been a coincidence, of course, but it gave him hope.

Three Ottoman camps dotted their journey into the capital of Hungary. And all three now lay in shreds, utterly destroyed by Drax’s men (and women). It was revenge, but also a message.

“Does she just follow you around now?” Jason asked, stepping into the room and plopping their hand on their hip.

Drax turned to raise a brow at them, then the small fluffy animal, and returned to pick the rest of the dried blood from his nails.

“You are a strange man,” Jason tutted. “Matthias is ready for you now.”

"Just him?"

"And a few other nobles. Ruxandra and László were nowhere to be found, don't worry."

“I’ll be there in a moment, I'm attempting to be presentable,” he sighed, glancing at his unruly reflection in the mirror. If eyes could be bloodstained, his were. Dark circles lined his face, not so subtly showing the signs of sleep deprivation. His body ached from brutal travelling and even more brutal fights. Drax was always a demon on the battlefield, but given a new incentive, he was relentless. Plundering through every Ottoman body that stood in the way of him and Elisabeta. They had managed to get a few words out of a survivor at the last camp – torturing them by his preferred method of slow impalement. Finally, the young lad squealed: they’re taking her to the city! Before rather rudely dying.

“Are you sure you’re up for a meeting, Drax,” Jason said, approaching him gingerly. “If anyone needs a good night’s sleep, it’s you, my friend.”

Drax spun to them, narrowing his dark eyes. “Sleep? How can I sleep when I don’t know where she is, Jason? Every waking second without her is torment. Can you sleep?”

Jason sighed, sitting on his bed, tapping the sheets with their surprisingly clean fingers. “No,” they admitted. “You’re not the only person who loves her.” They stood suddenly, a new wave of ferocity in them. “But you’re no good delirious. None of us are.” Marching to the door, they paused at the frame, relaxing their fury to a more gentle face. “Come on then, if you’re so hell-bent on this meeting, let’s get it over with and have some fucking sleep.”

“Wait,” Drax muttered, looking to his bloody hands. “Tell me something first.”

“Yes?”

“How do you do it?” he continued.

“What?”

“Wash the blood off?” he mumbled. “No matter how hard I try, it’s always left in the cracks.” He showed them his hands, proving the point.

“You could try soap,” Jason said, cocking their brow. “Works wonders to get rid of that god-awful stench of death and wet horse too. Just an observation,” they winked, leaving him.

*

Matthias was in tatters when Drax greeted him. He hugged him firmly, blinking away his worried tears.

“We’ve been looking for her,” he said fast. “My men, they’ve visited every camp near us. Found some in ruins, your doing, I suppose?”

Drax nodded sternly. “This is war.”

Matthias bit his lip firmly, pacing his private chamber. “Indeed, but… we must be careful. Not to say I don’t want her back, of course I do. Nothing would please me more. And I will help, of course I will help,” he slumped in his gold-gilded chair, knocking his crown from the table in front of him. He watched it roll to the floor, banging his fist to the wood. “I hate politics.”

“As do I,” Drax agreed, sitting opposite him stiffly. “But it’s your sister, Matthias. Our Elisabeta. And they stole her.”

“I know,” Matthias puffed. “I’ve been trying to think of a way to help without angering the Ottomans. I break that truce and we have a full large-scale war on our hands. We’ll be slaughtered. All my people that stay with the Ottomans to cement our truce,” he snapped his fingers. “Gone in a second.”

Drax could only clench his fist at his side. “So what do you suggest, my men are brutal but we are few, you know that.”

“I’ll give you men,” Matthias said, waving his hand. “We’ll paint their armour black to hide the Hungarian colours. You have my full support,” he nodded. “That is without question. But it has to be in secret.”

“Still so scared of them,” Drax tutted, reaching for Matthias’ own cup of wine and gulping it down. “You’re king for fuck’s sake.”

“A king who does not want to see his people massacred,” Matthias warned. “Mark my words, Dragon, they will suffer. I will not stand idly by and do nothing. I want her back. Now. But I’m a politician whether I like it or not. Half my men, Drax, no more, or it would raise suspicions. They will gladly ride with you on my command.”

“Thank you,” Drax said. He supposed he was lucky to get that. Hungary’s army was huge, at least two thousand men, that gave him a thousand of his own, more than triple what he had with him.

A small knock at the door grasped their attention. Matthias shouted for them to enter.

Out of the gloomy halls, a truly broken man stumbled through, regret and fear thick on his face.

“Dragon, you are here,” László said timidly, bowing his head. Drax watched him carefully, surveying his earlier work. He walked with a new limp, his face still dark and purple from where Drax had beaten him, his right eye was permanently closed and he clutched his side as he met him in the centre of the room.

“What do you want?” Drax hissed, casually lifting from his seat. Matthias shot up, joining them. The three nobles who stood quietly around the room exchanged worried glances.

“You shouldn’t have come,” Matthias tutted to the broken prince of Bohemia. “He’s in no state for this.”

“I-I had to,” László muttered, his speaking still messy from his healing jaw. “I wanted to say how sorry I am, Dragon. Truly. I have repented to our God. Asked for forgiveness. He has granted me that but now I ask…” he paused, itching his wiry chin. “I plead for forgiveness from you too. I was a fool. I can see that now.”

Every face looked to Drax, tension as thick as smoke in the air. “Shake my hand,” Drax said, stretching his black-gloved hand out and flexing his fingers in invitation.

László shuffled on his feet, glancing apprehensively to Matthias. He met Drax’s dark eyes and took his hand gingerly.

The men shook hands in silence. The quiet interrupted as László let out a deep exhale of relief.

“You say you prayed to our God for forgiveness,” Drax said coolly, clasping László’s hand firmly when he tried to pull away.

“Yes,” László said tentatively.

"Did he answer you?"

"Our God has no voice," László choked, his fear making itself known in his trembling drawl. "But he listens. He forgives."

"Does he now," Drax chuckled, pulling him closer. "I think it would be wiser to ask him for forgiveness in person, don't you think?"

"W-w-wha-" László's eye began to dart around the room, his panic clear as he shamelessly attempted to yank his hand out of Drax's vice-like grip.

"Ask him forgiveness," Drax snarled, pulling László close to his body, his hot breath bouncing off Lazlo's sweat-beaded brow. "If you can find him."

Fast as lightning, Drax reached for the curved dagger at his side and plunged it into László's side, ensuring he hit all of the major organs as he ripped it through his body ruthlessly.

László's wide eyes drew a single tear as the realisation of what happened hit him. Agony was interesting to observe in men that knew they were dying. Instead of hissing and crying in pain, they were oddly silent – using their last moments to simply stare into their attacker’s eyes with shock. Drax's face remained stoic as he released the dagger from his flesh, watching as his mouth overfilled with the blood rushing from his right lung into his windpipes.

"Drax!" Matthias shouted, pulling the Dragon from his prey and into the stone wall. No other would have dared touch him – he had to grant the King that, he was no coward.

Matthias shook him brutally to draw his eyes away from the crumbling body of László, who sunk to the floor, gasping his last ragged breaths.

"Are you insane?!" Matthias cried. "I know you are in pain, we are all. But this is NOT the answer, do you understand!"

"You would be wise to release me, friend," Drax finally said, peering at where Matthias firmly gripped at his arms. He could have pushed him off like batting away a butterfly, yet he showed the King some respect. He had, after all, just killed the only thread left of the mangled truce between Hungary and Bohemia.

"He was repenting! Why?" Matthias barked, drawing away from Drax, knotting his fingers in his charmingly soft brown hair.

"You know why."

"He didn't tell the Ottomans," Matthias said, kneeling to press a finger against László's still pulse and cursing. "He was in the infirmary for a month. Stupid fool couldn't even talk!"

"I am aware," Drax noted.

"Then, why?"

"Not only would we not be in this mess without him. Not only is he a coward and unjust. He dared to touch what is mine. Besides, he would have betrayed us in due course, I was saving you a future problem."

"You," Matthias' voice began to tremble, he gathered himself and ushered his nobles out, muttering to not speak of this to anyone. Spreading his palm like a spiderweb on the wood of the closed door, Matthias let out a mighty sigh. "You cannot decide matters like this with anger, my friend. I know you're in pain. And I'm sorry. Truly. My heart aches too. I beg you to think of all the innocents that will die if you continue this rampage."

"We're sending a message," Drax said coolly, clasping his shoulder before he could leave. "The blame is mine. If the situation ever gets sticky, you have my permission to turn them to me."

"Drax," Matthias spoke softly now. "Just find her for God's sake."

He nodded, leaving the king. Jason and Ponvelt were dutifully waiting by the other side of the grand oak door as he left and followed close at his heel.

"What the fuck was that commotion in there," Jason asked, chuckling as Ana flew from their shoulder to Drax's.

"You know, I almost felt sorry for László," Ponvelt said at his right side. "Poor guy could hardly walk."

"He won't have to worry about that anymore," Drax said, an air of calm still thick in his voice. A tranquillity that did not exist in his mind, which was buzzing with adrenaline, fury and worry.

"You mean he's…" Jason stopped in their tracks for a moment, but continued to walk with them, silence filling the gilded halls.

"We have a thousand men," Drax said, promptly changing the subject.

"Great," Ponvelt breathed.

"Did you really have to kill the man, Drax?" Jason asked, ignoring the shushing coming from Ponvelt. "You know he didn't tell the Ottomans anything."

"So who did?" Ponvelt interjected.

"I've dealt with it already. Just do your jobs. We leave next morning. Get some sleep, eat. This will be the last time in a while you can rest in a soft bed, so make it last."

"Dealt with what?" Jason stuttered, pulling Drax's arm to stop him in his tracks. "Drax, I'm sorry. We're all sorry. But you're behaving like…"

"Like what?" Drax asked, raising a dark brow at them.

"Like a Dragon, I suppose."

"Who was it then?" Ponvelt said, shooting daggers at Jason to leave it. 

Drax continued to walk his path slowly, nodding towards the palace gates. "See for yourself."

Jason and Ponvelt looked at each other, their faces squirming with turmoil at what was waiting. Ponvelt shrugged, pulling Jason ahead.

At the silver-gilded gates, the two friends could only stare at what hung from above, Jason wanting to cry in horror. They had heard stories of his cruelty in war but never believed them to be true. The Dracul she had seen watching over her Lizzy with soft admiration was capable of love and gentleness, they had seen it first hand. How the same man was capable of such violence was beyond them.

Ruxandra swung lightly in the winter air, her lifeless legs heavy at their side, their dress stained with black blood. But it was not her body that shocked the life out of Jason. But her head. Or to be more specific, the lack of one. Unable to stifle their gasp, they quickly saw where it ended up. There, beside the prim gates, stamped onto a sharp pole, Ruxandra's lifeless eyes glazed with blood and fear, her mouth lolling open in a permanent silent scream.

"Dr…" Jason stopped to hunch and vomit.

Ponvelt awkwardly tapped their back as they coughed, spitting to the bloodied ground. 

Pushing him away, they wiped their mouth with the back of their hand as they tried to fathom that a person so brutal could exist.

The dark prince peered down to his hands, flexing his fingers. His nails were stained with dark blood again.

"I've been too soft," Drax said. "It's time that changed."

Chapter Text

Elisabeta

The crisp cold snow had all but melted as they passed Târgoviște to head into the Wallachian Plains leading to the Danube crossing. It felt as if they had left winter entirely behind. The season of early autumn returning them back in time with auburn and crimson fall foliage and more rain than snow. The very air itself felt heavier, the humidity sticking to Elisabeta's woollen clothing.

She did not like it one bit, pinching her nose from the putrid smell of wet soil and river-soaked decaying leaves. Reaching the Danube proved no better. It was utterly grey, overcast and damp. As they reached the river crossing of the infamous Danube lake, Elisabeta struggled to recall the last time she had been thoroughly dry. Even in the shelter of the tents, the condensation clung to the walls seeping into her bones. 

“Surely our horses will not make the crossing?” Elisabeta hissed to the ever-silent Radu, stiff behind her as they rode through the squelching mud.

“We maintain ferries,” Radu said plainly. “Anyway, we’ll stop at Giurgiu first.” He raised his large hand to point through the fog.

Squinting, Elisabeta could make out what seemed to be a fortress. As they rode closer, Giurgiu rose out of the river-fog like a blunt, crouching dragon, its low Ottoman walls thick and earth-backed rather than tall like the towers of Transylvania. A single pale minaret pricked the sky above wooden barracks, and the ferries and pontoons that Radu referred to earlier rocked along the Danube’s edge, creaking softly in the current. The air smelled of mud and reed-choked water, a sharp change from the cold pine winds of home. Sentries in bright sashes watched from the ramparts as the fortress took shape through the mist. This was all so foreign and jarring.

The moving camp halted at the stronghold, jumping off their horses and unloading what they travelled with into the halls. Radu softly pushed Elisabeta along the rocky path to the centre of the fortress. There they entered the Commander’s house, who she supposed was the very man who eagerly greeted them.

“Hamza,” Radu chirped, shaking the man’s hand firmly. “Good of you to house us for the night.”

The short man gleamed at them both, his yellow-toothed grin widening when he cast his snake-green eyes over Elisabeta. He was rather round-bellied for a commander—his stomach bursting from the seams of his mustard-coloured kaftan. His turban, matching in colour, wobbled on his head when he hunched down to kiss her hand. His lips were wet. Elisabeta mumbled a greeting in the Ottoman tongue and subtly wiped the back of her hand on her dress, wincing.

Hamza leaned close to Radu, tiptoeing up to meet his ear. “You know, I have a lovely room for you both. I can make you quite… comfortable,” he chuckled, elbowing his waist playfully.

Radu’s jaw ticked with annoyance. “That won’t be necessary; Elisabeta will be staying with Safiye.”

Behind them, Safiye appeared, running stern eyes over Hamza. On her back she lugged two oversized satchels, her bronzed cheeks red from exertion.

“And who is this charming woman,” Hamza squeaked in glee, stepping towards her with greedy eyes. His sights, like most of the men, fell to her lovely breasts. Safiye was rather well-endowed, one could say, with a large round chest. Unfortunately for her, it meant that hiding her cleavage from the prying eyes of gentlemen was close to impossible with the armour they wore. The kaftans seemed to be cut for men, and therefore had a rather low chest. Convenient for the men, who were offered a less stifling set of clothing for strenuous travel. But not so grand for Safiye, who often grumbled with annoyance, hitching up her scarlet kaftan as high as humanly possible.

“A pleasure to meet you, Safiye,” Hamza purred, fingering his long black beard.

“The pleasure is all mine,” Safiye mumbled, clearly disinterested and uncomfortable.

Radu seemed to notice, following Hamza’s eyes. His own glare became stern when he realised what he peered at. Radu cleared his voice awkwardly, and motioned to the stairs ahead.

“Safiye, you should take Elisabeta to her room.”

“Will do,” Safiye said eagerly, pulling Elisabeta roughly away.

“Oh, I can give you a guided tour, ladies!” Hamza shouted, following the ladies as they left. Radu was quick to block his path.

“No need, Hamza. If you have a moment, could I bother you with some regrettably tedious questions on the ferries? My men are curious how they can carry us all in one piece. There are so many of us,” he chuckled. Behind Hamza’s back, Radu glared at Safiye to get lost.

Not needing to be told twice, Safiye ushered Elisabeta to hurry up the stony steps.

The room itself was fair. Warmed by a crackling fireplace and well garnished with furs, bowls of exported fruits and cold meats. If she were not a prisoner, she would have been grateful.

Safiye plonked herself on the bed, letting out a heavy sigh as she began to undress.

“Men are all the same,” Elisabeta offered lightly, catching the bundle of fresh clothing that Safiye threw at her.

“Yeah,” Safiye grumbled, pressing at the soles of her naked, tired feet. “It’s hard enough being a woman amongst so much testosterone. But when I’m forced to have these on display,” she trailed off, cursing her breasts some more.

Elisabeta could only chuckle, smiling earnestly for the first time in a while. In that moment, Safiye reminded her so much of Jason. All they collectively yearned for was to do their jobs in peace. To be taken seriously.

“Veli gave me those to give to you,” Safiye remarked, pointing to the heftier satchel on the floor.

Opening it, Elisabeta found a bundle of leather-backed books. She pulled them out and rested them on the floor, sitting cross-legged on the wood as she rifled through the pages with the greed for literature she had always possessed.

“On Allah, I have never seen a woman so infatuated with books,” Safiye laughed, standing almost nude as she fluffed out a new kaftan from the bundle of clothes on the bed.

Elisabeta peered up at her, noticing bruises and scrapes from the travels. Unlike Elisabeta, Safiye rode alone, and, like the men, had to carry much with her. Though Elisabeta despised her company on the great mare she rode, she at least had the luxury of being an unburdened prisoner. They gave her no responsibilities, no bags to carry. When the horses halted to free any cargo from the thick mud, it was Safiye who joined the men, squelching through the sharp rocks and mud to free it. She supposed she should be thankful for that luxury she held. Safiye was in bits.

Safiye seemed to notice this herself, tutting as she observed a deeper cut on her arm. She pulled a small vial from her bag and tapped a little to her finger, spreading the brown paste over the injury.

“Want me to fetch a warm cloth?” Elisabeta said, making a point to not sound too worried. “You should really clean it first.”

“You bathe first, princess,” Safiye quipped, mocking a curtsey.

A few hours later, bellies full of mutton and lentil stew, clean from the bath, both ladies sat in silence, dressed in thin tunics—Safiye lounging on the bed, knitting something with thick wool strands, Elisabeta sitting in her usual reading position, cross-legged on the floor.

The books were somewhat lacking, she had realised. Most of them were Veli’s own tomes of poetry. Great beasts. He had attempted to appear like Homer or Vergil with the epicness of them, but they were shoddily researched, overly pompous and, more than anything, rather dull. The few snippets of his more famous poems were good, well known for a reason. These were dribble. There was perhaps a justification that these books did not make her shelf in Hungary.

Still, she read on. Determined to absorb the information that she could later use to woo the very author who wrote the (not so) epic poems.

“Can I,” Safiye said quietly, popping her head over the bed to glare at Elisabeta as she read. “Are you really reading that?” she laughed, interrupting her own question.

“It’s good.”

“You are not a good liar, Elisabeta.”

“You wanted to ask me something,” she sighed, closing the book titled An Oud for Sweet Wine.

Safiye bit her lip, frowning as if she regretted speaking at all. “It’s silly really,” she said finally.

“What?” Elisabeta asked again, curiosity piqued.

“No, it’s nothing,” Safiye said quickly, looking oddly self-conscious.

“You know, you remind me of someone I know,” Elisabeta said, smiling a little at their memory of Jason. “They too have a hard time being taken seriously by men. They’re a soldier, you know, like you.”

“Really?” Safiye said, her lovely green eyes sparkling with interest. “I didn’t know the Hungarians let women march with them.”

“Well, they don’t usually, but made an exception for Jason.”

“Wait…” Safiye interjected. “Your friend, the one who stood by your side at the palace?”

“I forget you were there,” Elisabeta mumbled. “Yes, that’s Jason.”

“I remember now. The pretty brunette. You say they struggle being taken seriously, like I?”

Elisabeta nodded, lifting to her feet with a grunt to plop herself beside Safiye on the bed. “See, Jason is the smartest person I know,” she said proudly. “They didn’t want their breasts to stop them from being taken seriously. Hunks of flesh, that’s all they are! They would say.”

“Jason is a male name though, is it not?” Safiye said, cocking her head.

“Well, yes. Jason is… well I’m not really sure how to explain it. If there is even a word for it. They’re just Jason.”

“I don’t understand,” Safiye said.

“You don’t have to.” Elisabeta shuffled where she sat, gingerly looking to Safiye’s tunic. “What do you wear under that? When you wear your armour?”

“Nothing much,” Safiye huffed, her cheeks becoming rosy.

“You don’t need to be embarrassed,” Elisabeta gently. “Do you have a roll of linen? Bandages?”

“I told you, I mopped up all my cuts when I bathed,” Safiye huffed. “You are not my minder, Elisabeta. Quite the opposite in fact.” Her defensiveness lay thick in the room.

Elisabeta ignored it, reaching to pull the heavy satchel onto the bed, squeaking at how bloody heavy it was. Safiye truly was as strong as any of the men who walked with them.

“Ah,” Elisabeta said, pulling a roll of bandages from the bag and pushing the hefty thing to the ground. “Now, if you don’t mind undressing. Just the top half.”

“What?!” Safiye gasped, immediately covering her chest. She had never been shy before. The Safiye that presented herself when undressing casually, bathing, even riding amongst them exuded confidence that Elisabeta could only dream of.

“Trust me, Jason had this little trick,” Elisabeta said gently.

“Why should I trust you?” Safiye snapped, her slender face misting with trepidation.

“What did you say before? Women look after each other.”

Safiye still looked untrusting, but seemed to find something in Elisabeta’s gentle eyes that made her uncurl her arms away from her chest.

Adverting her gaze, Elisabeta pulled the bandages taught. Safiye quietly loosened her tunic and let it drop to her waist, looking away to the wall.

“Fine, what now?”

“Lift your arms,” Elisabeta said, motioning what she needed her to do with her own open arms.

Safiye rolled her eyes but did so.

With delicate fingers, Elisabeta began to wrap the linens around Safiye’s chest. “It needs to be tight, so it might feel a little uncomfortable at first,” she warned, smiling as Safiye grunted in reply. Pulling the bandage taught, she continued her work, wrapping and squeezing her rather magnificent breasts down, until, from the side, they appeared almost flat.

“There,” Elisabeta chirped happily. “Now, put that back on,” she motioned to her tunic.

Safiye slipped it over her shoulders and gingerly stood, glancing down at her hidden chest.

“Go on,” Elisabeta said. “Dress as you would do for travel.”

“But we’re not going anywhere?”

“Just… trust me,” Elisabeta smiled, adjusting the long mirror on the dressing table ready for her.

Fully dressed, Safiye frowned at her company, patting at her flattened chest.

“Look,” Elisabeta said, pointing to the mirror.

Safiye turned. Her lips that were almost permanently drawn into a sharp line broke open with glee and the stern woman actually squealed. Pressing her palms against her chest and moving back and forth to admire just how hidden her breasts were.

Slowly, gradually, she turned to Elisabeta, her eyes heavy. “Thank you,” she whispered. “It’s not that I don’t like them. It’s only, with the men, well, you know.”

“I do,” Elisabeta said. “Well, I don’t. One could only wish for breasts like yours. They really are marvellous.”

Safiye giggled shyly and reached for her hand, shocking Elisabeta to the core. “I mean it,” she said more firmly. “Thank you.”

“Women look after each other,” Elisabeta repeated, nodding.

Before more pleasant bonding could occur, a knock at the door startled both women.

Safiye shot her eyes to it, narrowing them as she approached. “Put on some furs,” she hissed. “Hide your lovely ones away, it’s almost certainly a man,” she laughed.

Elisabeta chuckled lightly, cursing herself a little for making an Ottoman friend. Fraternising with the enemy was not on her agenda.

Neither was he.

Veli slinked in, wearing his emerald turban this time. She was thankful for the covering; one could go blind looking at his baldness for too long. It reflected the light too well.

“See you’ve been busy,” Veli chuckled, looking to his books on the floor.

“Wonderful,” Elisabeta gleaned. “I loved them. Thank you so much for giving them to me to read. They have been my only escape.” She pressed her palms to her chest in thanks. My, she was a wonderful actor when she wanted to be.

Safiye, sadly, appeared to see right through her, rolling her eyes in mock.

“I have a surprise for you,” Veli said, holding the door frame and revealing a bottle of wine from behind his back.

Elisabeta pretended to be overjoyed. “You are too kind, Sir!”

“Pffff,” Veli said, wafting his hand that clutched the bottle towards her. “None of that. You, my dear, call me Veli. No titles amongst friends, am I right, Saffy?”

Safiye made a sound that sounded remarkably similar to the huffs horses made when they were annoyed.

“I promised dinner, would you be so kind as to join me in my room?” Veli asked, opening the crease of his arm in invitation.

Elisabeta smiled warmly. “I would be honoured.”

“We have just eaten, I’m afraid,” Safiye said sharply, casting an unmistakable look of warning to Elisabeta.

“Then perhaps, dessert?” Veli said, shaking the arm to entice her to approach.

“Well, I can’t say no to sweet treats,” Elisabeta chuckled, taking it, despite Safiye’s (almost certainly fair) warning.

“Neither can I, curls,” Veli said, leading them out. “Neither can I.”

Chapter Text

Drax

There was something delightfully natural about being in battle.

Watching your silver blade slice through unsuspecting sides, watching a man’s head crush like a grape under one’s leather-bound boot. Aside from being in the company of Elisabeta, this was where he felt home. Doing what he did best. What he was famous for. And rightly so.

Beheading had been his preferred method of attack today, as it had been for most of the trip. He was not usually so brutal. Sufficing with simple thrusts of his swords through one’s heart. Seeing a mass of beheaded Ottomans he found to be pleasing. It sent a message.

With a mighty grunt, Drax cleanly sliced the head off the last Ottoman in his way, watching his scarlet-turbaned head bounce dully on the soft bed of mud-stricken grass beneath his feet.

The Târgoviște field they fought on was once a placid green; now, a red hue met every inch of it. The blood from his enemies seeping into the fertile earth.

Above them, thunder began to boom, rising up the rocky hills. A foreboding warning from God, no doubt. Drax wiped the blood from his gloved hands to his side, kicking a mutilated body so he could see the gormless look of death on one of his own men. The armour they wore was painted black to match the colours of Transylvanian. But now, with a mist of heavy rain spitting down on them, the paint had begun to separate, revealing a silvery-gold glint of the Hungarian colours. It was just as well they left no survivors – it would be unwise to let the enemies know that Matthias had a hand in this carnage.

“My Prince,” a timid voice rang out through the plundering storm.

Turning in the squelching mud, he saw the black blood-stained face of his friend. He pretended not to notice the torment in his – usually gentle – eyes.

“Can we leave? The storm, it’s getting worse,” Ponvelt yelled.

Drax cast a look to the bloody field, narrowing his eyes. “Not yet.” He approached a body of an Ottoman, admiring how the scarlet shade of their kaftans matched the very same shade of his blood. “Put their heads on poles.”

“W-what?” Ponvelt replied shakily. “Have we not done enough?”

A growl rumbled through Drax’s chest. He strolled furiously to Ponvelt, staring into his eyes until he finally met them. “It’s never enough. Not until we find her,” he looked to the angry sky, cursing God for keeping her away from him for another day. “Get to work.”

*

Pacing in his tent, washed of all blood but not of his fury, he delivered a bowl of fresh blood to Ana, who squealed in appreciation, lapping it up.

“Dragon,” Jason entered without permission, their pretty face covered in small slices, their usually well-hidden black hair unruly in plaits on their shoulders. “You’ve gone too far.”

“Killing their men has done nothing to help get her back. It was time we took more… efficient measures.”

“Impaling heads on spikes is not efficient!” they yelled, shocking themself a little at their outburst. “It’s barbaric.”

Drax simply shrugged, watching as Ana curiously turned her attention to his pile of linens to be washed, burying her fluffy body inside.

“We all know you’re hurting, but we know where she’s headed. Can we not simply ride to Constantinople and talk to the Ottomans like honourable men.”

“Men? You speak like you are one.”

Jason fell poignantly silent, hurt blooming in their already broken eyes. They sat close to his humbly small dressing table, fiddling with a splinter on the damp wood.

“I’m sorry,” Drax huffed, threading his fingers through his damp hair. “I can’t think coherently without her with me. I’m going mad with worry.”

“It’s fine,” Jason said softly. “We’re all worried. I just… do you really think God would want to see you behave so brutally. Would Elisabeta want this? If she finds out the rampage you’ve caused. I hope that it would not make her frightened of you.”

“She could never be afraid of me. No,” Drax said firmly, though his gut churned at the truth of it all. Perhaps she would be. She had the blessing of only really seeing the charming side of him. Yes, she had witnessed him beating a few very deserving people, but he had sheltered her from the Dragon of war.

“What’s Ana doing?” Jason asked, approaching the pile of clothing.

There, the little bat was pulling one of his leather shoes from the pile, sniffing at the toe curiously.

“Ana,” he said, approaching and dropping to his knee to see what his little friend was so interested in. “That is my shoe.”

Ana squeaked with what could have been annoyance, eyeing a dark patch at the toe.

“You have dinner, over there,” he said, pointing to the ignored bowl of blood. “Those are ju–” he stopped. Those were the very shoes he wore when he arrived at Bran Castle. The mark: blood, from when he noticed the remnants of Elisabeta’s attack. That was Elisabeta’s blood.

“We’re going to find her,” Drax said gently, reaching out to pick up the fluffy creature.

The bat peered at him knowingly with those clever beady black eyes of hers, making a small noise. He stroked her head with the flat of his thumb, almost smiling at the way she leaned into the attention. She stretched her wings out, and looked out at the gap of the tent, then back at him.

“You can find her?” he asked.

She said nothing, of course. For how could she. Her intelligent face said all he needed to know. With a final squeak, she lifted to the air and shot out the tent.

“She can’t find her, can she?” Jason breathed in disbelief.

“Not sure. Would be funny, wouldn’t it. A small bat ends a brutal war.”

“You can end it,” Jason said. “You made me second in command, it’s my duty to tell you that I strongly believe we should end this bloodbath and ride for Constantinople. Our men are in shorter numbers, and those that are left are exhausted. Please, listen to me.”

Drax’s sights fluttered to the small pile of books that lay beside his bed. He had taken a few with him to help relax his busy mind at night. Elisabeta’s favourites. The Iliad, The Odyssey, Virgil’s works too. He remembered her saying she always preferred Patroclus to Achilles. The man who was smart, noble, gentle and kind. He was also, like Jason, second in command. If Achilles had only listened to Patroclus, the Trojan war would have never ended in such a mess.

“Fine,” he said on a heavy exhale. “But if they can’t be reasoned with, I’ll open the floodgates of hell to get her out of there.”

“I’ll allow that,” Jason said, stretching their hand out to shake Drax’s. “And I’ll be there fighting at your side should that happen.”