**A dragon princess joins forces with a scarred prince to escape a competition for her hand in marriage, unaware he is hiding dark secrets of his own in the first of a new romantasy duology from the author of

Swept from her quiet life as an apothecary’s apprentice to the treacherous court of the High King, Rosie Harpwood is shocked to discover she is the long-lost daughter of the demonic Dragon Queen. Reawakening her dormant magic is the kingdom''s only hope for salvation, but the journey is perilous, and she''ll need a champion to guide her. So the High King hosts a series of trials to determine which prince is worthy of the honor — as well as claiming Rosie''s hand in marriage.

Rosie, however, has other ideas.

A talented healer and lover of small, fluffy creatures, Rosie wants nothing to do with demon queens or saving the world. Determined to escape this fate, she joins forces with one of the champions to plot her getaway. Prince Valtar may be enigmatic and a little bit terrifying, but something about him makes her blood burn in ways that have nothing to do with her dragon heritage.

Trained from youth to serve the Dragon Queen, Valtar has proven himself a ruthless assassin. Posing as a suitor to get close enough to his target shouldn''t be a problem. But Valtar wasn’t planning on his target being Rosie, the girl he failed to assassinate years ago . . . who has haunted his dreams ever since.

Autorentext

Sylvia Mercedes makes her home in the idyllic North Carolina countryside with her handsome husband, numerous small children, and the feline duo affectionately known as The Fluffy Brothers. When she’s not writing she’s . . . okay, let’s be honest. When she’s not writing, she’s running around after her littles, cleaning up glitter, trying to plan healthy-ish meals, and wondering where she left her phone. In between, she reads a steady diet of fantasy novels. But mostly she’s writing.

Leseprobe
1

Rosie

If this is going to work, the kiss had better be believable.

I mean, it doesn't have to be the most passionate kiss in the history of kisses. Not the sort of kiss one hears about in ballads when the more lovelorn minstrels wander through town, plucking at their lute strings and sighing soulfully at passing maidens. Those kisses were always a bit much for my taste, though perhaps I would think differently were I one of the participants and not merely hearing about them thirdhand.

But if I'm going to convince Prince Taigan that he does not, in fact, own me-that I am free to do what I like with whomever I like, and it's none of his dragon-eaten business-I can't very well look as though I'm kissing a statue. Which is what this kiss feels like in the first moment of contact when my lips crash against the stranger's.

To be fair, I can't blame the poor man. I'm sure he did not take up position in that shadowy alcove, half-hidden behind a curtain, expecting to be collared by a frantic young woman and dragged out of hiding, only to have her whisper a hasty "Excuse me, but I need to kiss you now," just before smashing her lips on his. It's not the sort of thing one anticipates when going about one's day.

I'm not even sure which one of my half dozen unobtrusive guardsmen he is. With my luck, I'll step back from this embrace only to discover I've amorously assaulted poor old Captain Norlan, whose mustache droops well past his upper lip and who smells overwhelmingly of stale tobacco. Worse still, what if it's the weaselly one? The one with the spots and the larynx, who spits gobs when he thinks I'm not looking?

Not that I care. To prove my autonomy to Prince Taigan, I'd kiss a goblin if I had to.

One might think, as far as kissing is concerned, Taigan himself would make an excellent candidate. For one thing, I know his name and what he looks like, which is more than I can say for my current partner. And I'll be honest, when it comes to sheer charisma, it would be difficult to find any man Taigan's equal, what with his sweeping tangle of golden curls and those vivid green eyes shadowed with just enough delicious darkness to be intriguing. No doubt he leaves blushing maidens swooning in his wake wherever he goes.

But I don't like the way he looks at me. As though he already owns me. It was bad enough being stolen from my home in the middle of the night, carried off to this gods-forsaken subterranean fortress in who-the-hells-knows where. To be told I belong to a stranger? I don't care how broad his shoulders or how warm and throaty his voice. It's not to be borne.

"Don't you go bestowing your favors on any other champion," he said just last night, mere moments after our introduction. With the confidence of a man inspecting a newly acquired mare, he trailed a lazy knuckle down the curve of my cheek. My skin crawled in response, but his smile only broadened. "You're mine. I won't stand for anyone else laying a finger on you."

Oh really? You won't stand for it, won't you?

That's about as much thought as flashed through my head when, about thirty seconds ago, while strolling along the dim passage on my way back from an eye-achingly long lesson in the court library, I'd spotted the prince climbing the stairway toward me. He strode with all the purposeful force of a dragon-slaying hero. Which is what he is. And why he is the First Champion and the odds-on favorite to win the upcoming tournament and claim my hand in marriage.

But he's not won anything yet.

A thrill of panic raced through me at the sight of Taigan. He hadn't spotted me, and I cast about for an escape. My gaze landed on a nearby windowed alcove where a bit of curtain stirred in a . . . well, not a breeze. There aren't many breezes this far underground in the subterranean dwarven palace of Stromin; I've learned that much in the week since my arrival. There aren't many windows either, considering the distinct lack of view. Perhaps someone thought it would make the place feel homey to hang up curtains and pretend we're not all living under several tons of solid rock.

Regardless, there was a man standing behind that curtain. I couldn't see who. It didn't matter; at sight of him, inspiration struck. He was male. He would do.

And now I'm kissing him.

He doesn't smell of stale tobacco. I'll give him that at least. Instead, there's a not-at-all-unpleasant aroma of burnt cedar about him. If he is the weaselly guardsman, neither his spots nor his larynx seem to interfere with his lip skills, so perhaps I shouldn't have been so hasty to judge. Because this is . . . a nice kiss. Unexpectedly nice. Startled, yes. That first moment of lips meeting felt rather like kissing marble (this I can state with confidence, having practiced kissing on an old carved bust of King Glorindal before graduating to live subjects).

But then a hand slips around my waist to the small of my back, pressing me against a warm, hard slab of manly chest clad in a leather cuirass, all of which is quite unlike anything in my past experience.

This is a mistake. Isn't it? Yes, it must be. After all, kissing a stranger isn't going to make Taigan any less determined to possess me. And it might cost this poor, unsuspecting guardsman his job. There are rules among the ranks, surely. Fraternizing with the Dragon Queen's daughter is probably frowned upon, even if the Dragon Queen's daughter started it in the first place. I should take a step back, put a little distance between us, and murmur a quick apology before Prince Taigan reaches the top of the stairs. Yes, that's what I'm going to-

His mouth moves against mine.

It's not a lot of movement. Just enough to make me suddenly aware that I am not actually kissing King Glorindal's stony visage. This is a living person. A living person who knows what to do with his mouth. It's amazing what a dif…