The Only Option

The Only Option

Megan Derr

A desperate dragon. A lonely necromancer. A marriage neither wants.

When he is summoned to the royal castle, Rochus anticipates nothing more than a particularly difficult assignment. The bothersome journey is almost made worthwhile when he is propositioned by a young, beautiful dragon, Tilo, who seems untroubled by the fact that Rochus is a necromancer.

When Rochus arrives at the castle he is ordered to marry the very same dragon he spent the night with. Though Rochus would rather sign papers and return home, he is helpless against Tilo's pleas for help, even if it means spending more time around a man he is desperately drawn to but who doesn’t seem to want him.

eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement of the copyright of this work.

THE ONLY OPTION

Dubious Series

Copyright © 2016 MEGAN DERR

ISBN: 978-1-943576-78-4

All Romance eBooks, LLC Palm Harbor, Florida 34684
www.allromanceebooks.com

This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or business establishments, events, or locales is coincidental.

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever with out written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

First All Romance eBooks publication: April 2016

Rochus pulled off his spectacles and wiped them clean as the door of the tavern slammed shut behind him. Noise washed over him, along with the smell of cheap food and too many unwashed people, an undercurrent of smoke, and the faint tingle of magic. He stared through the large, open archway into the dining hall, the need for food warring with a need for solitude and a reluctance to endure the stares that would come when everyone realized what he was.

But he detested hiding in his room like he was something to be ashamed of, and hiding wouldn't stop the rumors or whispers. So he slipped his spectacles back on and approached the counter, pushing back the hood of his cloak. He set two worn, gleaming coins on the counter, ignoring the wide eyes and gaping mouth of the man behind it. “A room, a bath, supper, and breakfast.”

“Supper and—” The man snapped his mouth shut. “Of course, magus. Um…” He picked up the coins, eyes flitting about nervously. So close to the royal castle, one would think they'd be more used to the likes of Rochus, but then again, most of his kind preferred to avoid undue attention, and the rest were spoiled brats who'd never settle at a cheap tavern when the royal castle was only a few more hours away.

Stifling a sigh, Rochus answered the question the man couldn't quite get out. “Pig or cow blood will work fine, and chicken or some other fowl if that's the best you can muster. A full pitcher of it, though merely a cup will suffice if more cannot be found. Not horse.” They were far too expensive to drain, and the taste wasn't worth it.

“Y-yes, magus. Um.” The man licked his lips. “Will you want to see the room first or go straight to the dining hall?”

“The room, and I'll take the bath after I've dined.”

The man murmured another affirmative, tucked the coins away, and slid a key across the counter. “Up the stairs, all the way at the very end of that first hall.”

“My thanks,” Rochus replied and resettled his saddlebags on his shoulder before heading up the dark, creaky steps and down the long hallway. It branched off in three places, but as promised, his was the room at the very back of the first, main hallway.

It smelled of dust and disuse, with a slight tingling-tang of old, faded magic. Powerful magic, likely wards or some other cage meant to keep something in. But the inn had once been a castle in its own right, before it had been torn down and rebuilt, changed to something less expensive and more profitable than an empty fortress. It wasn't surprising remnants of the fortress remained in more than the old stones.

He dropped his saddlebags on the bed and quickly sent his heavy travel cloak after them. Removing his spectacles, he combed fingers through his short, sweat-damp hair. In the dark room, with nothing but slips of moonlight to lend visibility, his hair appeared black. Better lighting would prove it to be blue, so too his nails and teeth. It was the teeth that always made people most uncomfortable—dark blue, some more pointed than they should be, all the more stark against his too-white skin.

Rochus briefly considered changing into fresh clothes, but there was little point until after he'd had a bath—and no telling what would happen in the dining hall. It would hardly be the first time some country bumpkins or foreign nitwits wailed superstitious nonsense and tried to kill him, nevermind he reported directly to the crown.

He smoothed out his robes, frowning at a small tear in the right sleeve. He'd have to stitch it later after his bath.

For the moment, it was time for supper, and hopefully he'd get to enjoy it in peace.

Heading back downstairs, Rochus walked into and through the dining hall, keeping his head up even when the whispers started.

Necromancer.

Half-dead.

Blood-drinker.

His lips curled briefly when he heard someone ask their companion if Rochus was a vampire. As though he was one of those needle-teethed, full-dead mongrels. He drank blood and his teeth were meant for hunting, but it wasn't the same thing. His teeth were more like those of a wolf—teeth he did not use thus because he was a civilized, capable necromancer of forty-three, not some ravening monster.

Rochus sat down at a table in the corner where he wasn't too close to the fire but would still be warm and would be able to see anyone who tried to approach him.

A couple of minutes after he sat, a pale-faced young man brought him a pitcher and cup with faintly trembling hands. Rochus slid a coin across the table, nodding for him to take it. The boy took it and skittered away, and the whispers increased as Rochus poured himself a cup of blood and sipped it. Pig, which he preferred, save for those rare occasions he was able to get something as decadent as human.

He took several more sips, savored the way it warmed him through. There was nothing he hated more than being cold, but it was the one thing he would always be due to what was called his half-dead state. He wasn't actually dead, half or otherwise, but necromancy demanded a high price, drained away half his spirit, replaced it with those unique spiritual energies he needed to wield his strange magic. The physical effects—the corpse white skin, the death-black bones, the need for food replaced by a need for blood—were what earned necromancers the reputation of being half-dead.

But many a threat came from death, and only those who could manipulate death stood any chance against them, and so every generation, lots were drawn from the newest magi and the chosen became necromancers.

He sipped more blood as he kept one eye on the restless, whispering crowd. They didn't feel dangerous, but that undercurrent of tingling magic remained, which made him nervous. Though all magic started the same, and it was pure chance who would become a necromancer, still they were set apart—because of their power, their reputation, their
otherness.
Where necromancers walked, they most often walked alone. Even family usually backed away. Rochus had always been grateful his family was not so fragile, that he was not the reason his mother had moved far away; that instead she was happily wreaking havoc while his stepfather looked on with adoration and amusement.

Turning away from the crowds, he pulled out the small book hidden in the folds of his robes and opened it to the marked page. The faded letters were hard to read in the flickering firelight, but it was a book he'd read numerous times; he knew the words even when he couldn't read them. Removing his glasses, he settled into reading, a whisper-soft smile curving his lips.

He'd just refilled his cup and resumed reading when a discreet cough interrupted his solitude. Dragging his eyes from his book, Rochus looked up—and froze. A dragon. There was no mistaking those banked-coal eyes, the faintly sweet, smoky scent of dragonfire that surrounded him. He was also young, mid-twenties or so. His light brown skin was covered in freckles, especially over the broad, slightly flat nose. The hair was a touch overlong, the stiff, springy curls tousled like he ran his hands through them frequently. It looked dark brown, but Rochus would be willing to bet there were hints of red in it.

Strangely, the dragon was plainly dressed. There wasn't anything even remotely shiny anywhere on his clothes—no jewels, gold, silver, not even polished wood or bone. Rochus had never met a dragon that didn't try to wear half their hoard, but he supposed there was a first time for everything. “What do you want, kit?”

“I'm not a kit,” the dragon replied, mouth curving. “I'm more than old enough to know my mind and go about getting what I want.”

“If you're hoping for a fight, I suggest you try the drunks in the opposite corner. They seem that particular type of bloodthirsty. My bloodthirst is much more mundane.”

“I'm not one for fighting,” the dragon said and helped himself to an empty chair, pulling it over to Rochus's table and sitting so close he may as well have been in Rochus's lap. He smelled even better up close, earthy and smoky and
warm.
But he was half Rochus's age if he was a day, so whatever the reason for the clumsy flirting, it wasn't actually about flirting.

Rochus hadn't been that lucky when he'd been younger and still good looking enough his strange appearance made him exotic to some. Nowadays he was merely strange on a good day, creepy on most, terrifying on the worst.

The dragon's fingers rested on his arm as he leaned even further into Rochus's space. “What's your name, magus?”

“Try giving yours first,” Rochus replied, tucking his book away and shoving his spectacles back in place. “Brazen I will tolerate. Rude I will not.”

Laughing, the dragon replied, “Fair enough, my apologies. I'm Tilo Landau of Rothenberg Kill.” He touched the center of his forehead and dipped his head. “Honor to make your acquaintance, magus.”

Rochus touched his forehead. “I doubt it's much of an honor. Magus Rochus Kraemer. What do you want, kit?”

The hand still resting on his arm tightened, and Tilo leaned in close enough that his lips brushed Rochus's ear as he said, “Things that wouldn't interest little kits.”

Rochus jerked away. “I sincerely doubt that. If you are hoping to lure me away so you and your friends can beat me and set me aflame, you are toying with the wrong necromancer.” He'd fallen for that once, only once, and spent weeks recovering from the mistake. The shame and humiliation—those had taken years to overcome. “Leave me in peace or you will regret it.”

“No game,” Tilo replied. “I've been searching for someone interesting all night, was about to give up and take care of matters alone. Then you walked in.”

Rochus snorted and drank a deep swallow of blood, hoping it would remind Tilo exactly what he was talking to and drive him away. But if he noticed or cared, Tilo made no sign of it. “I'm not so old I'm feeble or gullible, kit. You are not very good at coaxing men into alleyways, whatever your motives. You are half my age if you are a day; I find it hard to believe I am the only interesting prospect this room has to offer. Go find someone your own age to fuck and leave me to my reading.”

In reply, Tilo grabbed the back of Rochus's neck, turned his head, and kissed him hard. But it wasn't the kiss that was immediately distracting—it was the sweet smoke and hot metal taste of dragon blood. The little brat had bitten his own lip. Rochus had never tasted anything like it. The warm pig blood was ice cold by comparison. Tilo's blood left him feeling like he was filled with boiling water; it banished the inescapable cold like fire melting ice. Rochus gasped, tried to pull away, but Tilo seemed to take his reaction as permission and kissed him harder, shifting closer so the long lines of his body pressed against Rochus's side. He wasn't just warm, he was hot, even through all the layers of cloth between them.

Rochus managed to get his mouth free, but somehow, instead of pulling free entirely, he just wound up with a lapful of dragon, his spectacles gone, and two hands buried in his hair. That mouth dropped right back on his, hot and wet and greedy, plundering like a mercenary come upon a forgotten tomb full of untold riches.

So far as convincing Rochus to do something stupid, it was a much more effective method than Tilo's previous efforts. Despite himself, Rochus responded, curling an arm around Tilo's waist, fisting the other hand in those lovely curls, holding Tilo still while he showed the little brat how it was done. He slowed the kiss, gentled it, tongue exploring Tilo's mouth in leisurely strokes and sweeps. He didn't relent until Tilo was trembling in his arms, and then only because he didn't like to make more of a spectacle of himself than necessary and this had gotten quite out of hand.