23: Chapter 23 Teeth Pierced Flesh

The moment teeth pierced skin. The muffled sound of flesh being punctured. It wasn't loud. A soft thwip. But it exploded between the two of them. Like muffled thunder. Like the heavier beat of a heart after skipping a rhythm.

White Mane could not suppress a cry of pain. It was soft, but painful enough. Her body spasmed. From her neck to her spine, every muscle went rigid.

The leg wrapped by the dragon tail kicked desperately—not struggling, but a reflex. Her heel gouged a trench into the sand. The trench was filled with churned-up sand and gravel.

Drogon did not let go. His teeth sank deeper. The tips pierced the dermis, touching the muscle fascia. He could feel her muscles contracting beneath his teeth—desperately trying to push out the foreign object.

But the curve of dragon fangs is barbed, biting tighter the deeper they go. It's the same principle as a shark's teeth.

Blood gushed out. Hot. Salty. Carrying the scent of rust and a sort of indescribable sweetness. Not the sweetness of sugar. It was a more primitive, more complex flavor. Proteins. Hormones.

The "marking pheromones" unique to dragon saliva injected into her bloodstream through the wound.

It wasn't venom. It was a chemical signal used in dragon society to mark a mate. A complex pheromone, containing sixteen different proteins and hormone precursors. It would leave a permanent scent brand on the target that only dragons and certain creatures could smell.

The scent was like scorched dragonglass. Mixed with obsidian dust. Mixed with the ozone in the air after a thunderstorm. As soon as a dragon smelled this scent, they would know—this female was already claimed.

Dark golden markings emerged from the wound. Like wandering dragons and snakes. Spreading along her veins.

The first one appeared on her collarbone. It wrapped around her shoulder blade, and a second one appeared. It climbed up to the back of her neck—the third one. Finally, they converged at the center of the back of her neck, forming a faint scar resembling a dragon claw print. Four claws. One thumb. The lines of every claw were clearly visible. Dark gold. Glowing faintly against her bronze skin.

The markings lasted for a full ten seconds.

Drogon could feel her pulse jumping beneath his teeth. From fast to faster. One hundred forty. One hundred sixty. One hundred eighty. From faster to—mixing with something else. Pain? Yes, pain.

But it wasn't just pain. The hormonal composition in her blood was changing. Adrenaline was dropping. Something else was rising. Dopamine. Oxytocin. And something else Drogon couldn't name—receptor proteins for dragon pheromones.

Her body was responding to that mark. Not on a conscious level. On a cellular level.

Her body was trembling. Her leg stopped kicking. But her muscles were still spasming. The inside of her thigh pressed tightly against his waist—it didn't feel like struggling. It felt like convulsions. Involuntary convulsions. Just like the muscle reaction after an electric shock. The intervals between each convulsion grew longer and longer. Weaker and weaker.

Then Drogon released his teeth.

A thread of blood stretched between the corner of his mouth and the back of White Mane's neck. It snapped.

Fresh blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. Staining the collar of his windbreaker black. He licked the blood from his lips. His expression was one of unprecedented satisfaction. And greed. Those golden slit pupils shone blindingly in the sunlight.

He looked down at White Mane, who was trembling all over from pain and some strange sensation. His voice was hoarse. The draconic guttural tone was heavier than before.

"Now—you are mine."

His tail released her leg. But the tip of his tail lightly brushed against her lower leg. Not constricting. Just brushing. Sliding from her calf to her ankle.

"Your cavalry. Your blade. Your loyalty. And you—"

He paused for half a second. His slit pupils scanned her body from top to bottom. From the bitten back of her neck, to her disheveled braids, to the waistline exposed through the gap in her armor.

"—everything."

In White Mane's amber eyes, several emotions were twisted together.

Anger—still there. Humiliation—heavy. Pain—the wound on the back of her neck was throbbing. And—a strange submission she couldn't understand herself.

That submission didn't come from her mind. It came from her body. It seeped out from the wound on the back of her neck that was still burning. It flowed through her blood, spreading throughout her entire body.

She wanted to keep resisting. But her body wouldn't obey. The wound on the back of her neck no longer hurt. In its place was a tingling, shameful warmth.

Spreading from the wound to her limbs. To her fingertips. To the tips of every braid. That warmth wasn't as sharp as pain—it was dull. Deep. Like being soaked in hot water. Like that tipsy state after drinking too much prairie mare's milk wine.

She could smell the scent on Drogon.

Blood. Fire. Metal. And a deeper scent. One that made her soul tremble. It felt like a breath from an ancient ancestor. It wasn't a human scent. It was a dragon's. It was the scent of a predator older and more powerful than any beast.

It wasn't the fear of being oppressed by dragon might.

It was another kind—the sense of security of being embraced into a nest. Just like returning to her own tent and smelling the fire and furs. Safe. Belonging. Claimed.

She hated this feeling. Hated it until her teeth ached. But she couldn't resist it. Her body was no longer hers. It belonged to that brand on the back of her neck.

Drogon released his suppression of her. He stood up. His knees left her waist, and his palms moved away from her wrists.

His tail loosened from her waist. But the tip of his tail lightly brushed against her lower leg—brushing from the back of her knee to her ankle. A final contact. Unconscious. Or intentional. Drogon himself couldn't tell.

White Mane slowly sat up. Her movements were very slow. One hand covered the wound on the back of her neck. Fresh blood seeped through her fingers, trickling down her wrist and dripping onto the sand. One hand supported her on the ground. She kept her head down. Her silver-white braids were completely loose, draped over her shoulders, obscuring her face.

There was silence for a full thirty seconds. Not a single person in the field spoke. The armies on both sides watched. There was no sound from the walls of Yunkai. The Dothraki Mercenaries were silent. The Unsullied were silent.

Then she wiped her mouth with a blood-stained thumb. Wiping away the half-dried bloodstain. She raised her head. In a hoarse dothraki language. Word by word.

"White Mane—has never been defeated. Today—I have been defeated."

She stood up. Half a head taller than Drogon. But the way she looked at him was no longer looking down. It was level. Even slightly bowed. Not out of fear. It was because she acknowledged—in the hierarchy of predators, he was above her.

"My cavalry. Is yours. I—am also yours."

A pause. A trace of final stubbornness flashed in her eyes.

"—not hers. I only fight for you. Long-tailed man."