22: Chapter 22 Riding on His Back

Drogon did not speak.

He looked up at her, from a bottom-up perspective.

Her heaving chest. The tear in her sand-worm armor. The bronze skin beneath the tear.

Beads of sweat rolling down her skin—sliding along her collarbone, slipping into the deeper shadows.

Her waist. Riding on his waist. Pressed tight against him. Her thighs gripping his ribs.

The feel of her muscles could be felt through his windbreaker—hard, hot, and slightly trembling.

Not from fear, but the soreness of muscles after exhausting all their explosive power. Like the legs of a horse that had run ten miles.

Her face. Looking down at him. Her amber pupils dilated. Her nostrils flared. Her lips were slightly parted from panting. Her teeth were clenched tight.

Her silver-white braids hung by the side of his face, the tips brushing against his scales—itched.

The old scar at the corner of her mouth was stained half-red with blood. The blood hadn't dried yet. It caught the light.

Those eyes that remained captivating even in anger.

Drogon's mind went blank.

Then a thought emerged. It wasn't something he thought of himself. It was instinct surging up from the depths of his spine. Scalding. Tainted with a metallic, rusty taste. It shot up from his tailbone along his spine, burning all the way to the back of his head.

Fuck.

This perspective. This woman. This position.

"System. I might be about to make a mistake."

The System was frantically popping up windows deep in his consciousness. Red warnings flooded his entire mental space, dense and overwhelming.

"Warning! Warning! Warning! Host heart rate has exceeded two hundred beats per minute! Dragon conquering instinct is overriding rational thought! Dopamine levels exceed normal thresholds by three times! Adrenaline levels exceed combat state thresholds! It is recommended to immediately use Dragon Breath or other skills to end the battle! Otherwise—"

Drogon didn't finish listening.

He laughed.

Not the pretentious fake smile from before. It was a heartfelt, thoroughly infuriated, and simultaneously thoroughly teased—beastly smile.

The curve of his mouth widened twice as much as usual, exposing all four of his fangs.

A deep, guttural growl that only a beast could emit rumbled from the depths of his throat.

His golden vertical pupils suddenly flared with light.

Dragon Might.

Not a wide-area suppression. It was a precise release. Targeted solely at White Mane. The air between them compressed into an invisible sphere, then exploded.

White Mane's body stiffened. For the first time, fear appeared in her amber eyes—not the fear of death. It was the fear etched into her genes, the fear of being targeted by a predator at the top of the food chain.

Her limbs refused to obey. Her fingers loosened. The dagger fell to the ground. Clang. The crisp sound of metal striking echoed across the arena.

The paralysis lasted only a fraction of a second.

It was enough.

Drogon's tail shot out like lightning. It wrapped around her waist. Wrapped twice. Tightened. Then yanked violently—pulling her off him.

The moment she was pulled up, her braids whipped a silver-white arc through the air. He immediately flipped over, pinning her to the ground in return.

One hand pressed down on her wrists, pinning them above her head. Her wrists turned white under his grip. Her fingers opened and clenched, clenched and opened—wanting to grab something, but unable to.

His other hand transformed into a dragon claw. His five fingers clamped around her throat. The tips of his claws sank into her skin. They didn't pierce through. Just enough to make her unable to breathe. He could feel her windpipe pulsing beneath his claw tips. One. Two. Three. The rhythm of her heartbeat.

His tail wrapped around one of her legs. From the base of her thigh down to her knee. Tightened. Locked.

He could feel her thigh muscles spasming beneath his scales—still trying to exert force, but locked tight, unable to move.

Looking down from above. His golden vertical pupils reflected her face. The three white war marks on her face had been blurred by sweat, the pigment running down the curve of her cheekbones.

He leaned down. His lips brushed against her ear. His voice was extremely low. Extremely dangerous. A breathy whisper. Every word wrapped in the low-frequency vibration of a dragon's guttural tone.

"Now—who is on the bottom?"

White Mane struggled desperately. Her wrists pinned. Her legs locked. Her waist pressed beneath Drogon. Only her head could move. She slammed her head up, aiming for his nose—her forehead aimed straight at his bridge of his nose. The speed was so fast the air tore.

Drogon tilted his head to dodge. He pressed his chin against her forehead, forcing her back down. The back of her head hit the sandy ground with a dull thud.

She was pinned to the ground. Unable to move.

Dragon Might still remained. That fear suppressing her at the genetic level still remained. His dragon tail still remained. The weight of this youth on her body—over three times heavier than a human of the same size. It was simply not the weight of a human.

It was the weight of a dragon. His bone density was three times that of a human, his muscle density twice that of a human. The feeling of him pressing on her was like being crushed by an obsidian statue.

She stopped struggling.

She stared straight into Drogon's eyes. No begging for mercy. There was no fear in her amber eyes. Only anger. Unwillingness. And something she herself didn't recognize.

Her pupils were violently contracting and dilating—her body was sending out fear signals, but her consciousness was fighting back. Resisting hard.

She squeezed a few words through her teeth.

"Kill me."

Drogon shook his head. His black hair brushed against her cheek.

"No. I said—I'm going to beat you until you submit."

His fingers moved away from her throat. His claws turned back into fingers. His hand opened. His fingertips slid down her skin—sliding past her throat, sliding past the hollow of her collarbone, sliding to her shoulder.

He gripped her chin, forcing her to turn her head. Her neck tightened, cords of muscle bulging beneath her skin.

Her silver-white braids came undone, revealing the left side of her neck. Bronze skin. An artery pulsed there. He could clearly see the rhythm of her pulse—fast. But steady. She wasn't afraid. At least not on the surface.

Drogon stared at that patch of skin. His pupils dilated.

It wasn't him making the decision. It was instinct. Dragon instinct. Surging up from the depths of his bloodline. Scalding. Irresistible. That urge didn't come from his brain—it came from his spine.

Shooting up from his tailbone. It was exactly the same process as Dragon Breath surging from his chest to his throat.

What is this? Why do I want to do this?

No—my instinct tells me—bite down. Bite her nape. This is the highest ritual of the dragon race when conquering a mate. It wasn't invented by humans. It is the dragon's bloodline memory. Older than any language.

Wait. Mate? She is not a mate. She is a captive. No. Captives are the same. In the dragon's system, there is no difference—conquest is conquest.

Bite down. Make her yours. Make her remember your scent forever. Make her legs go weak when she smells your aura. Make her—

The System windows flickered frantically. Red warnings flooded the entire mental space. Even more than before. So many that the system interface began to lag.

"Warning! Warning! Warning! Host is about to perform the dragon 'Mark of Domination' ritual! This action will inflict an irreversible psychological and soul brand upon the target! This action cannot be undone! This action will establish a permanent master-servant link! Please confirm—"

"Confirm."

Drogon didn't even finish reading the dialogue box. The action of pressing confirm was completed in an instant within his consciousness.

He opened his mouth, revealing four fangs several times sharper than a human's. His canines reflected the sunlight.

Aiming at the softest patch of skin at the junction of White Mane's nape and shoulder. Beneath that patch of skin lay the branch of the carotid artery. Densely packed with blood vessels. Densely packed with nerves. Viciously. Mercilessly. He bit down.