Surrender to the Sea (Lords of the Abyss Book 4) (8 page)

N
ew York Times and USA Today Bestseller

Michelle M. Pillow,
Author of All Things Romance™
, is a multi-published, award winning author writing in many romance fiction genres including futuristic, paranormal, historical, contemporary, fantasy and dark paranormal. Ever since she can remember, Michelle has had a strange fascination with anything supernatural and sci-fi. After discovering historical romance novels, it was only natural that the supernatural and love/romance elements should someday meet in her wonderland of a brain. She’s glad they did for their children have been pouring onto the computer screen ever since.

Michelle loves to travel and try new things, whether it’s a paranormal investigation of an old Vaudeville Theatre or climbing Mayan temples in Belize. She’s addicted to movies and used to drive her mother crazy while quoting random scenes with her brother. Though it has yet to happen, her dream is to be in a horror movie as 1. A zombie or 2. The expendable screaming chick who gets it in the beginning credits. But for the most part she can be found writing in her office with a cup of coffee in pajama pants.

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ichelle
Online

She loves to hear from readers. They can contact her through her website.

M
ede
of the Draig knows three things for a fact: As the only female dragon-shifter of her people, she is special. She can kick the backside of any man. And she absolutely doesn’t want to marry.

Mede has spent a lifetime trying to prove herself as strong as any male warrior. Unfortunately, being the special, rare creature she is, she’s been claimed as the future bride to nearly three dozen Draig—each one confident that when they come for her hand in marriage fate will choose them. When the men aren’t bragging about how they’re going to marry her, they’re acting like she’s a delicate rare flower in need of their protection.

She is far from a shrinking solarflower.

P
rince Llyr
of the Draig knows four things for a fact: He is the future king of the dragon-shifters. He must act honorably in all ways. He absolutely, positively is meant to marry Lady Mede. And she dead set against marriage.

Llyr’s fate rests in the hands of a woman determined not to have any man. With a new threat emerging amongst their cat-shifting neighbors, a threat whose eyes are focused firmly on Mede, time may be running out. It is up to him to convince her to be his dragon queen.

M
ede’s lungs
expanded with the effort of a hard run. Morning crept over the horizon, brightening the light of night. In one hand she gripped Rolant’s knife, and in the other, her prize. For a moment, she felt perfection in the burn of her legs, the pant of her breath, the rhythm of her feet. When she jumped over forest debris, she flew.

The exercise felt wonderful, but not nearly as wonderful as the sounds of cheers coming from the border. They had lit a fire to guide her back and she ran toward it. As she neared the group of dragons she leapt over the border. Lifting her hand, she yelled, “Dragons!”

“Dragons!” the men yelled, celebrating her victorious run.

Mede turned the hilt of the knife toward Rolant to return the blade. He took it. Instantly, his smile faded as he saw the blood. His eyes roamed her as she let the dragon-shift fade from her body. Before he could ask her about it, she proudly lifted her fist balled around the fur. “Victory!”

“Victory!” the men yelled, clearly well into their cups. While she had her adventure, they’d partied.

“Our lady found the still,” Arthur said, with a laugh as he sniffed the liquor fumes on her. The man had a crook to his nose from having been punched a few too many times. When he drank, he liked to brawl.

“How is the mangy cat?” Cynan asked.

“Owain remembers you fondly,” Mede answered, grinning. A round of shouts and laughter cut off the conversation. After it finally died down, she held out her hand. “My prize.”

A few of the men looked down at her outstretched hand, then a couple more. Their laughter died as they took in her achievement.

“That doesn’t look like…” Saben gave her a questioning look.

Dylan reached to pinch a bit of the fur. “It’s blond.”

“Mede?” Rolant inquired, clearly wishing she’d explain. “Didn’t you find the still?”

“Yes, but I wanted a harder target,” she said. “Besides, the still farmer was already missing a lot of tufts. I felt sorry for him.”

Rolant lifted the blade, showing the blood to the others. “Who did you fight?”

Mede thought of the stranger. There was no reason to tell them what had happened. They didn’t need to know the cat-shifter had kissed her. That would be her secret.

“We didn’t exchange names.” She gave a little shrug of dismissal.

“Test it, so none my challenge her claim,” Rolant said. There was a lot of fumbling as they searched for a particular satchel that held the genetic testing fluid. As the others were distracted, Rolant pulled her aside. “I sent you to the still farmer. What were you thinking? The only blond Var I have seen belong to the elite palace guard. That or the prince. How did you get it? Why is there blood on—?”

“It’s good!” Dylan yelled, lifting a small vial to pour testing liquid onto the ground. When the cat-shifter fur combined with the chemicals it turned the test liquid a pale blue color. “It’s Var.”

“Not now, Rolant,” Mede said. “I need a drink.”

A bottle was instantly shoved in her direction. She drank deeply of the liquor. It stung her throat and warmed her belly.

“Tell us of the run,” Cynan said.

“What’s this?” a male voice boomed over the encampment.

Mede was relieved for it saved her from having to tell that particular fireside story.

“Do you have permission to be on my land?” the stranger continued.

Mede lowered the bottle and wiped her mouth on her sleeve. She didn’t recognize the voice. Several of the men blocked her view. Since they were camped on palace land with Prince Rolant she wasn’t too concerned by the claim.

“Brother!” Rolant acknowledged. “You’ve returned. I thought you were hunting yorkins.”

“Gildas was injured. Nothing serious, but we decided to bring him home so he could have the proper medical attention,” Prince Llyr answered.

Mede changed her mind. She didn’t like the interruption. This was her victory morning. She didn’t want to meet a new male Draig, and certainly not the heir prince. The prince was not married and had already told Rolant he wanted to meet her.

“Hand me a drink,” Llyr said. “Whose victory are we celebrating?”

Like grasses being blown aside by a stout wind, the men parted to let Llyr see her. She stiffened and automatically lifted her jaw. “Mine.”

“You?” Llyr repeated in disbelief. He looked at Rolant for confirmation. “And she passed?”

“And we saw her fly,” Saben inserted.

“That was you who flew,” Arthur said.

“Oh, right.” Saben nodded. He lifted his cup and announced. “And I flew!”

“How is Owain?” Llyr asked.

“In need of a bath,” Mede said.

“She brought back blond fur,” Rolant stated.

“Blond…?” Llyr handed the bottle he held to his brother and stepped forward to look at her.

Mede was glad she smelled like a liquor still and sweat. And she probably looked like a wild beast after her run. She forced herself not to look at his chest to see his crystal. Looking at his face was worse.

In many ways he reminded her of Rolant, only his eyes were a brighter green—so bright they penetrated her, taking her in as if he could see all her secrets. Mede didn’t like to feel exposed. His light brown hair hung to his chin whereas Rolant’s was much longer. She thought of the kiss the Var had stolen from her. She had not been expecting it and really had felt nothing but surprise when it happened, but the memory caused her eyes to dart down to Llyr’s mouth.

“Finally we meet, Lady Medellyn,” he said.

Mede forced her eyes away from his firm lips. She swallowed nervously. “I am called Mede. And I am not a lady. Today I am a Dead Dragon.”

At the words the inebriated men cheered. “Dead Dragons!”

Llyr chuckled. More to himself than to her, he said, “I can see the liquor has not gone to waste here.”

“If you’ll excuse me, prince, I want my scar.” She made a move to leave his presence, still refusing to look down. The idea that a prince would be her mate terrified her. She’d never wanted this meeting.

“Wait,” Llyr said, being so bold as to grab her arm. “I should like to congratulate you on a good run.”

Mede arched a brow. The more she found herself mesmerized by his eyes, the more stubborn her demeanor became. When he didn’t speak, she said, “Well?”

“Congratulations on a good run,” he answered softly.

“Thank you, prince,” she answered dutifully before moving to skirt past him. The men had started to sing a bawdy song as they linked arms and began a noisy, drunken chain through the campsite. The prancing took them away from where she stood. She wished they’d circle back.

Llyr grabbed her arm again. “Did you really take the fur from a member of the royal court?”

At the time she hadn’t been nervous, but now, the way both Llyr and Rolant mentioned the fur color, made her suddenly a little sick to her stomach. Nerves bunched in her chest and she nodded once. “I suppose I did though at the time I didn’t ask for his name.”

“What did he look like?”

“A cat,” she answered, being difficult on purpose. His fingers lingered on her arm, the touch somehow intimate. Finally she got the nerve to look down. At first, she thought she might have seen a soft glow in the stone. Only on the festival night would it light to full power. She stiffened, until she realized that it must have been firelight reflection. He was not her mate. A sigh of relief whispered past her lips…followed by a sense of disappointment. The disappointment confused her and made her want to run away like a coward.

“Have you mated?” Llyr asked, eyeing her neck.

Always to that.

She lowered her eyes over her lashes. “I have no interest in marriage. I would like my scar though.” She tried to pull her arm.

He tightened his grip. “So it is true. You broke your own crystal. Why?”

Mede grimaced, remembering that day long ago. Her mother had wept openly for months over it. “So did you.” She reached for his chest, pinching the crystal from where it laid against him and gave it a little toss. It bounced against him. An almost microscopic thin crack marred the inside of the stone.

“An accident when I was a boy trick riding ceffyls,” Llyr said.

“My father is a ceffyl breeder. You should not be trick riding them,” she lectured. “They are in delicate supply and not for games.”

“I was a boy,” he stated, enunciating the words. His attitude infuriated her.

“No excuse,” she answered just as arrogantly.

“I broke my arm, if that helps.”

“It’s a start.” She again tried to pull her arm free from his grasp.

The singing had reached the forest and the men disappeared behind a colossal tree. Somehow being alone with him made her nervous.

“Unhand me, prince,” she said at last. “I earned my place here.”

Llyr looked at her arm in surprise, as if he didn’t know he held her. Instantly his fingers released her. “Tell me first, why did you crush your crystal?”

“What? I love me. I married myself.” She wasn’t sure why she was being obstinate or sarcastic. All she knew is that her arm tingled where he touched her. She glanced at his stone. It didn’t glow. Still, the urge to run from him was great. Her muscles felt weak. Surely her body shook from the long night of exercise, nothing else. Her mind felt fuzzy because she was tired. It had nothing to do with his smell or those eyes. Those damned green eyes.

“Somehow I don’t think you’re truly that narcissistic, my lady.”

“Very well. If you must know, it is because I make my own fate.” Mede gave a little hop past him and went to join the dancing men. Saben and Cynan broke the chain to let her in. As they pulled her away from the prince, she was glad for the escape. Something about the man drew her in and frustrated the netherworld out of her. She was pretty sure it was his eyes. No man should ever possess eyes like that.