Married To The Cursed Dragon Lord

Keeley POV:

The cheap carriage groaned to a halt.

Through the grimy window, the iron gates of the Mccarthy estate loomed. The family's dragon crest was intricately carved into the black metal.

My father's butler was already outside, bowing and scraping to the driver of another carriage. That one was lacquered, gleaming, with golden dragon patterns inlaid on its doors. It cast a harsh, mocking light on my own shabby ride.

I didn't wait for the butler to remember his duties and open my door.

I pushed it open myself, the wood protesting with a squeal. My boots hit the gravel, a faint sting shooting up my ankle as I landed. I ignored it.

"Miss Keeley!" the butler called out, his voice a mixture of surprise and disapproval.

I walked past him, my gaze fixed on the heavy oak doors of the main house. The air that hit me as I pushed them open was a suffocating wave of expensive spices and the cloying sweetness of pastries. A warmth I hadn't felt in years, and one that no longer felt like home.

In the drawing room, my stepmother, Marian, and my stepsister, Clarissa, were taking afternoon tea. Their silk gowns, embroidered with elaborate gold-thread patterns of dragon-flames, shimmered in the sunlight. They were the very picture of high-born ladies with dragon blood.

Clarissa saw me first.

She dramatically covered her nose with a lace handkerchief. "What is that wretched smell? Oh," she said, her voice dripping with venom, "it's you, Keeley. You're back."

Her eyes raked over my travel-worn, rough-spun clothes. A contemptuous sneer twisted her lips. "Look at you. And that cold skin of yours. Truly our family's one and only 'cold-blood'."

The term for the Dragonless. The ultimate insult.

I didn't bother responding. My eyes went past her, to the portrait of my mother, Lady Elara, hanging on the wall. Her smile was gentle in the painting. There was a time this house held warmth.

My silence seemed to embolden Clarissa. She stepped closer, her voice a conspiratorial, gleeful whisper. "But you've returned just in time. Father has arranged a splendid match for you. The one and only Lord Cornelius Stark."

At the mention of his name, a collective gasp went through the servants in the room. Fear flickered across their faces.

Clarissa savored their reaction. "Yes, the Lord Stark," she continued, her grin widening. "Cursed with the Dragon-Scale Blight, of course. Not long for this world, they say, and brutally cruel. But he is a Dragon Lord of the House Stark. It's the highest honor a Dragonless like you could ever hope for."

My gaze finally shifted from my mother's portrait. My ice-blue eyes met Clarissa's. I said nothing.

Stepmother Marian gracefully set down her teacup, which was rimmed with dragon-crystal, a luxury our family could barely afford anymore. "Keeley," she said, her tone oozing false sympathy, "it is the family's decision. The bride price from House Stark will solve our recent financial crisis. You should be proud to contribute."

Her words were like vipers, coiling in my ears. Financial crisis? The vast fortune my mother left was what they had squandered.

A cold laugh built in my chest, but my face remained a mask of calm. "Was my sister, Kamilah, also 'contributing' to the family when she 'accidentally' fell from the castle cliffs?"

The names—Kamilah, the cliffs—hit them. Marian and Clarissa's faces paled. Their eyes darted away.

"Silence!" Marian snapped, her composure cracking. "That was an accident! How dare you speak such nonsense here?"

I took a step forward. The raw, predatory energy I projected made Marian, accustomed to a life of soft luxury, instinctively recoil.

"Was it?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper, yet it cut through the room's perfumed air. "I've returned to find out exactly what kind of 'accident' it was."

My eyes swept over them both, mother and daughter. "As for the marriage," I said, each word a chip of ice, "my answer is no."

Clarissa shrieked. "You dare refuse? A Dragonless refusing a Dragon Lord? Father will break your legs!"

Marian's face hardened. She stood, drawing herself up to her full height, the lady of the manor. "You don't have a choice. The contract is set. You will marry him, whether you wish to or not."

I looked at her hypocritical face and my patience snapped.

The next second, I moved.

Faster than anyone could react.

A flash of cold steel appeared in my hand. The razor-sharp edge of my dagger was pressed against the soft, powdered skin of Marian's neck.

Her body went rigid. The icy touch of the blade stole the breath from her lungs and the blood from her face.

Clarissa let out a short, strangled scream and stumbled backward, knocking over the tea table. Fine dragon-patterned porcelain shattered on the floor.

I leaned in close to Marian's ear, my voice a low hiss only she could hear. "I will say it one more time. My life is mine to command. If you wish to test whether your order is faster than my blade, I would be happy to oblige."

I could feel the violent tremor that seized her body, could smell the fear that overpowered her expensive perfume.

I straightened up, sheathing the dagger as if nothing had happened.

My cold gaze swept over the wrecked drawing room, the terrified servants, and finally settled on Marian's ashen face.

"I will speak with my father tomorrow," I said calmly. "Now, prepare a room for me. As far away from you as possible."

Without another look, I turned and walked toward the grand staircase, leaving their shock and disarray behind me.