The Dragon King's Hated Bride
Chapter 81: Who’s The Pervert?

Chapter 81: Who’s The Pervert?

>>Ariston

The moment I wrenched myself free from Drakkar’s grasp, I should have bolted. I should have run far, far away. But, unfortunately, luck has never been on my side.

"I didn’t take you for a pervert," Drakkar hummed, his golden eyes glinting with something devious.

I froze mid-step, nearly tripping over my own feet.

What?

I turned sharply, only to find his hands still where they had no right to be.

"What—? WHO is the pervert here?" I seethed, grabbing his wrists to remove them from under my skirt.

But the bastard didn’t seem the least bit ashamed. If anything, he enjoyed it. He smirked down at me, entirely unrepentant, and purred, "I love those red eyes of yours so much."

!!!

I went rigid.

I didn’t know why, but those words threw me off balance more than anything else he could have said. They burrowed into me, carving out something that felt like warmth—but not the good kind.

Not when I’d spent my entire life being told those same eyes made me look cursed.

"Get your hands off of me," I said, my voice sharp as a blade.

Drakkar’s smirk widened, and for a split second, I thought he might disobey just to annoy me. But, thankfully, he let go.

However—

"Alright," he said, stepping back, "but first, tell me..." His gaze flickered down, lingering far too long.

No.

Absolutely not.

There was nothing to tell. I’m sure he’s going to ask me something stupid.

"Why are you wearing lace underwear?" He smirked

I turned to stone.

My entire body ignited in flames.

IT CAME WITH THE DRESS!! Hell!!! He did it on purpose, he slid his hands under my skirt to check that!!!

I wanted to scream it, but my mouth opened and closed, no words coming out.

Drakkar grinned. Oh, he knew what he’d done. He’d sniffed out my embarrassment like a damn hound on the hunt.

"Well, it suits you! You should wear it more."

"It does not suit me," I gritted my teeth.

"It does," he shot back effortlessly. "You look ravishing."

"Shut up."

"On the contrary," he mused, tapping a finger to his chin like he was deep in thought, "I don’t understand why you insist on wearing men’s clothes. You look so much better in these."

"Shut. Up." I warned him as I turned around to leave.

"Why?" He tilted his head, faux innocence dripping from his voice. "It’s not like you’re a man."

That was it.

I whirled on him, grabbed his collar, and yanked him down to my level. His eyes widened slightly, caught off guard, but the surprise quickly melted into amusement.

Leaning in close, I met his gaze head-on and whispered, "And we both know I’m not a woman either."

His smirk twitched.

For the first time in this entire conversation, I saw his cockiness falter—just a fraction.

Good.

I let go of his collar and turned on my heel. "Now leave me alone."

Drakkar recovered quickly, falling into step beside me as if I hadn’t just tried to scald him with my glare.

"...Still," he murmured, glancing me up and down again. "That doesn’t change the fact that you look quite enticing in that dress."

I didn’t just see red—I became it.

"You—!!" I wanted to say something but I knew it would do nothing. So I turned around and,

I ran.

Drakkar laughed as he followed after me.

***

>>Aelin

The festival had only just begun, yet it already felt like one of the best nights of my life.

Draegon returned with food in hand—something golden and spiraled, skewered on a stick. The scent alone was enough to make my stomach growl, though I tried to keep my excitement in check.

He held it out to me. "Try it. They call it tornado fries."

I took the stick hesitantly, eyeing the crisp, curling layers of potato. I had never seen food prepared this way before. But when I took a bite, the crunch melted into something warm and soft, perfectly seasoned with salt and spices.

My eyes widened. "This is amazing."

Draegon smirked, his purple eyes watching me with amusement. "Good."

He wasn’t eating, but he looked content—pleased, even—as I devoured the rest of the snack. A thought crossed my mind, one I wasn’t sure I wanted to entertain.

We’ve been avoiding things.

Ever since he returned from the war, there had been so much left unsaid between us. So many unspoken words.

But should I keep dwelling on that?

I glanced at Draegon, at how effortlessly he walked through the crowd, his presence commanding without him even trying.

Maybe I should just enjoy this moment.

Maybe instead of thinking about what wasn’t being said, I should think about what was in front of me—this festival, this night, the simple fact that he brought me here.

I took another bite, letting the warm, salty flavor melt on my tongue.

Maybe I should just move forward from other stuff. Wouldn’t mentioning things from the past cause rifts between us?

I had barely finished that thought when my body suddenly froze.

My eyes landed on a figure across the street.

A black figure. She was all black from head to toe and some edges of her body seemed to dissipate like clouds and it looked like she was wearing a dress but I couldn’t be sure because it was merged. The only thing distinct about her body was how it looked like she was like the night sky, her whole body was.

A witch!

A strangled gasp left my lips before I could stop it.

My hands trembled. My knees locked into place. I could barely breathe.

No, no, no—

Pain surged through me, raw and familiar. A memory slammed into my mind so hard it nearly brought me to my knees.

Asha— The agony of losing her. The moment when I realized she was gone, and that I had been too late to stop it.

My lungs squeezed tight. I couldn’t get enough air. The sounds of the festival blurred into a dull ringing in my ears.

I was hyperventilating.

I gripped my chest, my pulse hammering wildly, but I couldn’t calm down. I couldn’t think. The witch turned slightly, and for a split second, our eyes met.

I choked on my breath, stumbling back.

I needed to get away. I needed to—

"Aelin."

A hand caught my wrist—firm, steady, grounding.

Draegon.

His presence broke through the haze, and when I finally looked up, his eyes were sharp with concern.

"What’s wrong?" His voice was low, quiet enough that no one else could hear, but heavy with authority. I couldn’t answer. My body still shook, and my breaths came too fast, too ragged.

Draegon didn’t hesitate. The moment he saw my face, the panic tightening my chest, he grabbed my hand and pulled me away from the festival’s liveliness.

The sounds of laughter and music faded as we moved through the crowd. His grip was firm but not harsh—just enough to keep me tethered as I struggled to breathe. My legs felt weak, my heart racing wildly, but Draegon didn’t let me fall. He guided me past the bustling streets, past the glowing lanterns and the scent of roasted food, until the noise of the festival was nothing more than a distant hum.

By the time we stopped, we were at the edge of a quiet riverside.

A stone bench sat beneath the overhang of a willow tree, its branches swaying gently in the cool night breeze. The river stretched before us, reflecting the light of the moon in shimmering ripples. It was calm. Still. A stark contrast to the chaos inside my mind.

Draegon turned to me, his crimson eyes filled with something unreadable before he gently guided me down to sit.

"Just breathe," he said, his voice low, steady.

I forced myself to inhale, but the air still felt too tight, my chest still too heavy.

Draegon knelt beside me. "In through your nose. Slowly. Hold it."

I did as he said, drawing in a slow breath, even though my body still trembled.

"Now out."

I exhaled shakily. The air left my lungs in a ragged sigh, but something about the sound of his voice—the certainty in it—helped ground me.

"Again."

I repeated the process. In. Hold. Out.

The panic began to ease, little by little. My hands stopped shaking so violently, and the burning weight in my lungs slowly faded. The world around me came back into focus—the cool night air against my skin, the gentle rustle of the leaves, the quiet lap of the river against the shore.

Draegon waited.

He didn’t speak, didn’t rush me, didn’t press me for answers right away. He simply stayed by my side, his presence solid and unwavering, until my breath evened out and my body no longer felt like it would collapse in on itself.

When he finally spoke, his voice was soft. "Aelin."

I turned my head slightly, meeting his gaze.

His eyes searched mine, not demanding, but patient. "What happened?" He sat beside me on the stone bench, his body warm even in the cool night air. His presence was grounding—strong, unwavering. But I could still feel the tremors in my hands, the tightness in my chest.

He let the silence stretch between us, but I felt his eyes on me, watching, waiting.

"There has to be a reason why you reacted so badly," he finally said, his voice careful.

I looked away, staring at the rippling water. The festival lights in the distance reflected against the surface, distorting, shifting, like something fragile and untouchable.

"It’s in the past," I murmured.

Draegon let out a slow exhale. "But the past doesn’t disappear. It’s part of you." I clenched my hands into fists. "And if something bothers you this much—till the point of hyperventilating," he continued, "it’s not something ignorable."

I swallowed hard. My throat felt tight, as though the words were stuck there, fighting to stay buried.

Draegon didn’t move. He didn’t push. He just sat there, waiting.

And somehow, that made it worse.

I had spent so long carrying this pain alone, so long burying it deep beneath everything else, but now, with him sitting there, waiting for me to speak, it clawed its way to the surface.

"You got like that when you saw the witch," He said, "Why?"

I knew the witch I saw today wasn’t the same one but seeing her made me look very bad.

I pressed my hands against my stomach. The place where she had once been.

"Asha," I finally whispered.

Draegon stiffened beside me. "Asha?" He frowned, the name unfamiliar to him.

I turned to look at him, meeting his gaze, and I knew the moment realization set in—that he had never heard this name before, that he didn’t understand what it meant.

A sad smile curled my lips.

Broken.

Hollow.

I pressed my palm more firmly against my stomach, as if I could still feel her there, as if some part of her still remained.

"That was the name of our daughter," I said softly. The world around us seemed to still.

"Our unborn daughter," I continued, my voice cracking, "that your sister killed."