Chapter 1: The Dragon Rider's Solitary Vice
The door slammed shut behind him, the sound reverberating off the cold stone walls like a war drum. Dain stood in the center of the cramped cell, chest heaving, leathers clinging to his skin with sweat that had long since cooled. His hands were still trembling. Not from the drills. Not from the six hours he'd spent on the sparring floor, pushing his body past the point of reason.
No. This was her.
He dragged both hands through his hair, tugging at the roots until his scalp burned. The torch on the wall flickered, casting his shadow in jagged pieces across the cracked floor. He should eat. He should sleep. He should do anything other than stand here replaying every infuriating second of that godsdamned dinner.
"The formation's wrong," she'd said, leaning across the table like she had any right to challenge him in front of the other riders. Like she hadn't been a cadet for barely six months. "You've got the fliers positioned too far back. They'll be cut off from the main force if we're flanked."
He'd told her she was out of line. She'd smiled—that sharp, cutting smile that made him want to shake her—and said, "I'm just pointing out what everyone else is too scared to say."
And then she'd bitten her lip. Right there, in front of him and half the quadrant, she'd pulled that plump bottom lip between her teeth and held it while she waited for his response. Like she had no idea what she was doing. Like she hadn't been doing it all night.
Dain's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.
He tore at the buckles of his leathers, fingers clumsy with fury and something far worse. The chest piece hit the floor with a heavy thud. Then the underlayer, peeled off his overheated skin and discarded somewhere in the darkness. His boots followed. His socks. Until he stood bare in the cold, torchlit room, skin prickling with gooseflesh and something else entirely.
The cot creaked as he sank onto it, the thin mattress sagging under his weight. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes until he saw stars. Maybe if he pushed hard enough, he could blind himself. That would solve this problem. No more watching her across the dining hall. No more tracking the sway of her braid as she walked away from him. No more catching her eye and feeling his chest tighten like someone had wrapped a fist around his lungs.
But even blind, he'd still hear her voice. That low, defiant tone she used when she argued with him. The way she said his name—Aetos, never Dain, always with that mocking little edge—like she knew exactly what it did to him.
His cock stirred against his thigh, heavy and insistent. He looked down at himself and felt a fresh wave of self-loathing crash over him. This was pathetic. He was a grown man. A dragon rider. He'd faced down wyverns and enemy fliers and the kind of death that made lesser men weep. And here he was, hard as a rock because a cadet had bitten her lip at dinner.
Gods help him.
He spat into his palm. No point pretending this wasn't happening. He'd been fighting it since the moment she'd walked into formation that first day, chin high, eyes blazing, looking like she'd rather die than bow to anyone. And every night since, he'd found himself here. Alone. Miserable. Fist wrapped around his cock and her name burning on his tongue.
The first stroke was rough, almost punishing. His hips jerked off the cot, and a sound escaped his throat—low, guttural, wounded. He squeezed his eyes shut and there she was. Vaella. That smirk she wore like armor. The way she looked at him during sparring, like she was cataloging every weakness, every opening, every place she could strike.
He pictured her braid wrapped around his fist. Tight. The way she'd gasp when he pulled her head back.
"Fuck," he breathed.
His hand moved faster. Harder. Twist at the top, exactly the way he liked it. Except in his mind, it wasn't his hand. It was her mouth—that sharp, wicked mouth that never knew when to shut up—wrapped around him instead. Her dark eyes looking up at him, defiant even now, even on her knees.
His back arched off the mattress. The cot groaned beneath him, metal legs scraping against stone. He didn't care. Let the whole fortress hear. Let them know exactly what kind of man their precious Dain Aetos really was.
He thought about her legs. The lean muscle of her thighs, visible even through her training leathers. He thought about what it would feel like to have them wrapped around his waist. Thought about her underneath him, that braid spread out on his pillow, her mouth open, his name falling from her lips in pieces.
Dain. Dain. Dain.
Not Aetos. Not when she was coming apart beneath him. Not when he was buried so deep inside her she couldn't remember her own name.
His hand was a blur now, precome slicking the way, the obscene sound of it filling the small cell. The torch spat and flickered, shadows dancing across his flexing abdomen. He could feel it building—that tight, burning pressure at the base of his spine, coiling tighter and tighter with every stroke.
He pictured her mouth against his ear. That sharp tongue tracing the shell of it. Her voice, low and demanding, telling him things no cadet had any business saying to a rider.
Is that all you've got, Aetos?
No. No, it wasn't. Not even close.
He bit down on his fist to muffle the groan that ripped out of him. His release hit him like a physical blow, hot and violent, splashing across his scarred knuckles and stomach. He rode it out with his teeth sunk into his own flesh, hips jerking, breath ragged, every muscle in his body locked tight.
And then it was over.
The silence that followed was deafening. Just the sound of his own ragged breathing and the distant echo of boots in the corridor. He stared at the ceiling, at the water stains mapped across the stone, and felt the shame settle over him like a second skin.
He'd touched himself thinking about her. Again.
Tomorrow, he'd see her in the sparring ring. She'd smirk at him. Challenge him. Bite that lip, and argue, and push every single one of his buttons with the precision of someone who knew exactly what they were doing.
And he'd have to stand there, blade in hand, and pretend he hadn't spent the night fucking his own fist to the thought of her.
Dain wiped his hand on the edge of the cot and sat up. The cold was starting to seep in now, raising goosebumps along his arms. He needed to wash. He needed to sleep. He needed to figure out how to get her out of his head before she destroyed whatever was left of his sanity.
But even as he reached for his discarded shirt, he knew it was useless. She was already under his skin. Burrowed so deep he wasn't sure where she ended and he began.
The worst part wasn't the wanting.
It was that he was starting to suspect he didn't want to stop.
A knock at the door made him freeze.
"Caleb?" A muffled voice. Not hers. Someone else.
He exhaled slowly, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Go away."
A pause. Then, softer: "Your sister's looking for you."
His sister. Right. The real world existed outside this room. Outside the fever dream of her.
He stood, pulled on his trousers, and didn't bother with the shirt. When he opened the door, the corridor beyond was empty. The messenger had already gone.
Just as well.
He had a feeling no one would recognize him tonight anyway.
Sleep didn't come.
Dain lay on the cot for hours, staring at the ceiling, listening to the distant sounds of the fortress settling into night. Boots in corridors. Muffled laughter from somewhere above. The occasional roar of a dragon, distant and primal, echoing off the mountains.
He should have gone to his sister. Should have dragged himself upright, splashed water on his face, pretended to be the man everyone thought he was. But his body felt wrung out, hollowed, and his mind kept circling back to the same impossible place.
Her.
Always her.
When dawn finally bled through the narrow window slit, he was already dressed. Leathers. Boots. Blades strapped to his back and thighs. The armor felt good—familiar, solid. Something to hide behind.
He found her in the training ring an hour later, exactly where he knew she'd be.
Vaella stood alone in the center of the sparring circle, rolling her shoulders, testing the weight of a practice sword in her grip. Her braid was tighter than usual, pulled back so severely it made her cheekbones look sharper. There were shadows under her eyes. She hadn't slept well either.
Good, some petty part of him thought. Misery loves company.
"You're late," she said without turning around.
Dain stepped onto the sand, boots crunching. "You're early."
"Couldn't sleep." She finally faced him, and that smirk—gods, that smirk—curled the corner of her mouth. "Kept thinking about how I embarrassed you at dinner."
"You didn't embarrass me."
"I absolutely did." She raised her blade, settling into a ready stance. "You had that vein in your forehead popping. The one you get when you're trying not to yell."
He didn't dignify that with a response. Just drew his own blade and circled her slowly, watching the way she tracked his movement. She was good. Better than most cadets. Better than some riders he'd trained with. She compensated for her smaller frame with speed and precision, turning her size into an advantage instead of a weakness.
"You're staring," she said.
"I'm assessing."
"Same thing." She lunged.
He parried. Steel rang against steel, sharp and bright in the morning air. She pressed forward, forcing him back a step, then another. Her footwork was clean, economical. No wasted motion.
"Your guard's dropping on the left," he said.
"Your footwork's slow."
"I'm twice your size."
"Excuses." She spun, blade cutting low. He jumped back just in time, felt the wind of it ghost across his shins.
They traded blows in silence for a while. The rhythm of it—strike, parry, retreat, advance—was almost meditative. He could feel the tension bleeding out of his shoulders, replaced by something cleaner. Focus. Purpose. The simple, honest work of fighting.
Then she got inside his guard.
He didn't see it coming. One second she was three feet away, the next she'd ducked under his swing and hooked her leg behind his knee. He went down hard, back hitting the sand with a grunt, and then she was on top of him.
Straddling him.
Her thighs bracketed his hips, knees digging into the sand on either side. Her blade pressed against his throat—not hard enough to cut, but enough to make a point. Her braid had come loose during the fight, dark strands framing her face. Her chest rose and fell with quick, shallow breaths.
"Yield," she said.
Dain stared up at her, and his brain short-circuited.
She was so close. Close enough that he could see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes, the faint scar on her jaw, the way her lips parted slightly as she waited for his answer. Close enough that he could smell her—leather and sweat and something faintly floral underneath.
His body reacted before his mind could catch up. Heat pooled low in his gut, blood rushing south with alarming speed. He was hard in an instant, cock straining against his leathers, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.
She shifted her weight. Just slightly. Just enough.
And then she felt it.
Her eyes went wide. Her breath caught—a soft, sharp gasp that hit him square in the chest. The blade at his throat wavered, her grip faltering for just a fraction of a second.
She didn't move.
Neither did he.
They stayed frozen like that, suspended in a moment that stretched and stretched until it felt infinite. Her pupils dilated, dark and hungry. Her lips parted again, and this time it wasn't to speak.
Dain's hands moved on instinct. One grabbed her wrist, twisting the blade away. The other found her hip, fingers digging into the leather as he bucked upward, rolling them both.
She landed on her back with a startled oomph, and then he was on top of her. His hips settled between her thighs like they belonged there, and—
Gods.
The pressure. The heat. Even through their leathers, he could feel her. Every inch of her. And she could feel him. There was no hiding it now, no pretending. His cock pressed hard against her core, and she arched beneath him, a tiny, involuntary movement that made his vision go white at the edges.
She didn't push him away. Didn't tell him to stop. Instead, her hands came up to grip his shoulders, nails digging into the leather. Her head tilted back, exposing the long line of her throat. Her hips rolled—just a little, just enough—and a sound escaped her lips. Something between a gasp and a moan.
"Vaella." His voice was wrecked. Rough. He barely recognized it.
She looked up at him, and there was no defiance in her eyes now. No challenge. Just heat. Just want. Just the same desperate, consuming hunger that had been eating him alive for months.
"What are you waiting for?" she breathed.
He didn't think. Couldn't think. His hips rolled against hers, slow and deliberate, dragging his cock along the seam of her leathers. She gasped, back arching, fingers tightening on his shoulders. He did it again. Harder this time. The friction was maddening, even through the layers of clothing, and he could feel how wet she was, could feel the heat of her through the leather, and he wanted—
Reality crashed into him like a bucket of ice water.
He scrambled off her so fast he nearly fell, pushing himself backward on his hands and knees until there was a full three feet between them. His chest heaved. His cock throbbed, painfully hard, and he pressed the heel of his palm against his thigh in a desperate attempt to make it stop.
"I—" He couldn't look at her. Couldn't face what he'd just done. "That was—I shouldn't have—"
She sat up slowly, sand clinging to her braid, her leathers. Her cheeks were flushed, her breath still uneven. And her eyes—gods, her eyes—were still dark with want. Still hungry.
Still fixed on him.
"You didn't do anything I didn't want," she said quietly.
He shook his head. "You're a cadet. I'm your—"
"You're not my superior." She stood, brushing sand off her legs with hands that weren't quite steady. "Not in here. Not when we're training."
"That doesn't matter." He finally looked at her, and immediately regretted it. Because she was standing there, disheveled and flushed and so beautiful it hurt, and all he wanted to do was cross the distance between them and finish what he'd started. "I'm older. I'm a rider. You're—"
"I'm an adult." She stepped closer, and he took a step back. "I can make my own choices."
"This isn't a choice. This is—"
"What?" She tilted her head, studying him with that sharp, knowing gaze. "A mistake? You think I don't know what I'm doing?"
I think you have no idea what you're doing to me.
He didn't say it. Couldn't. Instead, he turned away, grabbing his discarded blade from the sand and shoving it into its sheath with more force than necessary.
"We're done for today," he said.
"Dain—"
"Done." He walked toward the edge of the ring, toward the path back to the fortress, toward anywhere that wasn't here. "Clean up. Get something to eat. We'll resume tomorrow."
He didn't look back. Couldn't.
Because if he did, if he saw her standing there in the middle of that ring with sand in her hair and want in her eyes, he'd break.
And he was already so close to shattering.
Behind him, she didn't call out again. Didn't follow. Just let him go, which was somehow worse than if she'd argued.
He made it to the corridor before he had to stop. Pressed his back against the cold stone wall, closed his eyes, and just breathed. His heart was pounding like he'd run a mile. His hands were shaking.
He was so completely, thoroughly, irrevocably fucked.
And the worst part—the absolute worst part—was that he couldn't stop replaying the feel of her beneath him. The sound she'd made. The way her hips had rolled, meeting his thrust with a hunger that matched his own.
She'd wanted it. Wanted him.
That knowledge burned through him like wildfire, and no amount of self-control could put it out.