T
his is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, events, or places is purely coincidental. Though if you should spot a cute fairy or a lecherous imp, say hi for me.

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The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patent Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

Published in 2015 by Jovee Winters, United States of America

The Passionate Queen

O
nce upon a time a dragon dared to fall in love with the
Queen of Hearts
...

Zelena Hermosa wants only one thing, to be free. But for a morphling like her freedom will never be possible. Bought by a witch as a baby, she’s been raised in a household that knows no kindness or love. She’s a broken, dirty child the day she meets her prickly little dragon boy.

Ragoth Nur, heir to the throne of Drakon has just stolen a golden apple from Zeus’s favored orchard. In order to make sure he doesn’t have to face the wrath of the gods (but especially his mom) he runs off to wonderland to enjoy his treat and there bumps into the human girl who will change the course of his life forever.

There’s so much more to the Queen of Heart’s than the stories. So much more than the vindictive woman who shouts, “Off with her heads.” This is the true story of the woman, the legend, and the myth...

Dedication

This book was tricky for me. Remaining true to the spirit of the Queen of Hearts was a tough challenge. As a character, she’s not always the most palatable person in literature. I wanted a part of that essence to remain in this book. I wanted you to see the mad, sometimes mean-spirited woman, but I also hope that at the end of the day I could help you to sympathize with her character just enough to make you want to root for her to change and become the better person I always felt she could, and someday would, be.

This book was definitely a joint effort between my beta readers and myself, and I could not have done this without the dedication and effort you all put into helping me to “see” the bigger picture throughout.

So from the bottom of my heart, thank you...

L
ove is like a friendship caught on fire. In the beginning a flame, very pretty, often hot and fierce, but still only light and flickering. As love grows older, our hearts mature and our love becomes as coals, deep burning and unquenchable~ Bruce Lee

––––––––

T
he course of true love never did run smooth~ William Shakespeare

Forward

“O
ff with their heads!” she cries. A monarch of ungovernable passions and fury, she is raw and unmitigated rage embodied within the frame of a woman.

Or so it is said of Zelena Hermosa of the enchanted lochs. Blond haired, blue eyed, she is a creature of such allure that all who see her, want her. But hers was a cruel, difficult childhood, and it was that cruelty that made her into the woman of legend and myth.

But first appearances can be deceiving, as we well know from our previous tale. There is so much more to Zelena’s story, one never told before. But now, my friends, I share her story with you.

As always, this story begins as most good stories do.

Once upon a time...

~Anonymous, One of the 13 keepers of the
Tales
.

Chapter 1

Ragoth

I
’d stolen two golden apples from Zeus’ favored orchard. If father learned of my theft, he’d skin me alive and hang my hide out to dry.

For that reason, I’d snuck through the keyhole separating my realm from this one. An odd place I’d heard of in my lesson books called Kingdom. Where magic and monsters, like me, roamed freely, without the threat of tutors hauling me back by the scruff to teach me just how vaunted my family line was, what an honor it was to merely be me, to have the blood of my foremothers running through my veins...blah blah blah. If I’d not run, I’d have eaten one of them in a fit of temper.

I lay here, in a field full of flowers that bore faces. I’d heard of this wonderland before. That it was dangerous and not a place for one to go tromping through alone, lest the jabberwocky come and get you.

I snorted, taking a gluttonous bite of an apple, masticating like a cow would, just because I knew how much it offended my mother when I did it and she was not here to stop me.

I was a man.

Very nearly pledged into manhood now, only three more years left to go.

How dare they tell me how to eat!

Why, I’d seen the face of that fearsome beast. Wocky, as I now thought of him. He’d had a sensuously long neck, like that of a snake, with a massive head that looked like a very distant relation to my bearded cousins. It’d been a deep, heavy red in color, and could, I suppose, be viewed as something fearful to a weak human.

The beast had taken one look at me, sniffed the air with its rather broad nostrils, and let out a shriek that’d nearly made my ears bleed. It’d then turned tail and trotted off like a chicken with its neck lopped off.

Chuckling, I swallowed the first apple, core and all. The fruit was meant to feed the immortal bellies of the gods. One bite of it was said to be sufficient to sate your hunger for at least a week.

I was still hungry.

With a growl, I rubbed the second apple upon my vest and then snapped into that one with my large, menacing teeth.

Wonderland was entirely too benign for me. I’d hoped to have some monsters to fight, or at the very least be terrified out of my mind.

But even with the silvery clouds hanging ominously through the dark canvas of twilight, the fog rolling up from the ground, and the ghostly laughter of hidden creatures, I found myself rather bored with it all.

“This place is pitiful.”

I’d hoped for adventure, and all I’d gotten for my trouble was two apples and a soft place to lay my head on as I ate it.

Ready to end this ‘adventure,’ I prepared to toss the second apple down my throat, and leave, when I heard the strains of a ballad.

But this song was unlike the ghostly ones rolling through the forest. The voice was dulcet, soft, and extremely feminine.

I smiled. I liked girls. They were soft and pretty and tasted good to eat.

Biting my lip, I rolled to a sitting position but kept myself pressed tight against the base of a tree and watched the path ahead of me.

As I did, I could swear my head began to swirl dizzily. I was enraptured by the sound of the voice. The song had a desolate, haunting quality to it that made my ears itch to hear it.

Leaning forward on my toes, I was suddenly aware that the other voices in the woods had stopped completely. As though they, too, were listening to her.

I growled. She was mine. I wasn’t sure yet whether I would eat her or let her live. But as the song continued on, I found myself thinking it would be a terrible shame to silence that voice.

When the girl finally appeared over the ridgeline, my jaw dropped. I dug my fingers into the base of the tree trunk and watched, enthralled.

She was a dirty little thing. Skinny as a rail and wearing a dress riddled with holes and that looked two sizes too large, but I could not rip my eyes off her.

Her skin was as pale as moon opal and just as luminescent. It literally shone in the darkness a soft, radiant blue. And her hair, ye gods, spun of every shade of gold—from dark to light and every color in between.

Her eyes were such a pale blue, they appeared almost white, and the shape of them reminded me of a cow’s.

Wide and open and gentle.

I sniffed the wind, needing more of her. Wanting to fill my very soul with her. I smelled the dirt she was covered in, but beneath the grime was the pure essence of this enchantress.

It was the sweet, golden wash of the dawn. My favorite time of day, when the world was still and smelled of ripe, new beginnings.

But I frowned the moment I saw the tear slip from her eye. One, and then another, and another. With a heavy sigh that seemed to rip something from my own soul, she stared down at a field of flowers beside her. Those flowers had no faces.

Sitting down on the dusty trail, the girl reached for a bright-pink flower and shook her head.

“They can’t make me. I won’t do this. I won’t,” she muttered, and her voice was just as lovely in talk as it’d been in song.

My skin shivered, and my soul trembled, and I decided right then, I would not eat this girl—she was a treasure, and she was all mine.

~*~

Zelena

I
startled, jumping to my feet the moment I heard the movement of brush off to my left. They’d found me. Oh, dear goddess above, they’d found me.

They would toss me back into the darkness for disobeying, not feed me again. My heart beat so hard in my chest, I was sure fear would give my feet wings to fly.

But when I looked up, it was not my guard behind me, but a boy. Nine, maybe ten years old. Much younger than my thirteen to be sure.

I frowned. “Boy, why are you here?”

He said nothing for the longest moment, which gave me a chance to study him.

Solidly built for one so young. It seemed almost to me as though he were nothing but a mass of muscle already, and that one day, when he finally did come into manhood, he’d be a tower of raw masculinity.

Already I could see the budding of that power in the way he held himself. Chin high, shoulders back. His hair was black, like the deepest depths of a hidden cave. And his skin a very rich brown. Slashing cheekbones, and a nice square jaw. But his flesh held the appearance of youth. His lips were a tiny rosebud and slightly large for his otherwise handsome face.

I knew the moment he blinked, though, that he was not entirely human. His eyes were an unusual shade of greenish-blue, reminding me a little of sea glass, but it was the vertical pupils that held my gaze.

“What is your name?” he asked.

His voice was like the rumble of distant thunder, and I knew my initial impression of him had been correct. He might wear skin, but he was no human.

I cocked my head. Innately, I sensed he was a force. Something that should terrify me, but I felt no fear of him either. Somehow, I knew he’d not come out here to harm me.

Squaring my thin shoulders, I said, “Zelena Hermosa. And what is yours, boy?”

He took a step closer, and it was peculiar that I should feel suddenly as though I could not take a proper breath. He was young, but his presence commanded attention.

“I am Ragoth Nur”—he bowed deeply—“prince of the royal house of Drakon.”

I frowned. I could believe that he truly was royalty. And not by his bearing alone. His clothing was obviously crafted of the finest fabrics. I was keenly aware of my looks compared to his.

The shabbiness of my appearance, all the more obvious because of the resplendent quality of his own—he wore black silk pants, with a deep-purple button-down shirt, and a black silk vest over the top of it.

He held out his hand to me. And I didn’t want to touch him. Feeling suddenly shy and insecure. I’d been peeling potatoes all day. My fingers were wrinkled and tender from accidental nicks from my blade.

I rubbed my fingers across my sackcloth dress.

With a growl that emanated from deep within his chest, he grasped my wrist with one hand, and slapped my hand down on top of his other and shook.

BOOK: The Passionate Queen (Dark Queens Book 2)

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