Bare to her embarrassment and shame – that she had no control over her Dragon and now everyone knew it.
Her cheeks were burning as they made it to the veranda. Tears stung Layla’s eyes as she blinked at the cold stars, shining bright in the stark winter sky. Her breath hitched and she set her jaw. But Reginald felt it, for he shifted, clasping Layla’s waist and guiding her gently away into the barren topiaries. Out in the shroud of winter darkness, Layla smelled only the cold night and Reginald’s fresh ocean scent. But past a thick copse of hedges, she couldn’t hold it in any longer.
With a sob, she sank to a stone bench – losing it.
CHAPTER 4 – FURY
Reginald sat beside Layla, tucking her close to his body as she cried. Cradling her, he made soothing sounds as he rocked her quietly on the stone bench out in the cold nighttime gardens. It was the most tenderness he’d ever shown her, and it made Layla cry harder, hating it and needing it at the same time. Moving behind her, Reginald turned them diagonally on the bench so he could pull her close and cradle her back to his bare chest.
Sobbing hard with fury and embarrassment, Layla’s breath hitched. Reginald said nothing; simply held her. Layla had a sudden vision of a quiet harbor in a sheltering cove filled with Viking ships with smoke rising from thatched-beam farmsteads. Reginald was her safe harbor as the stars shone bright above, as a chill wind snaked through the hedges. Kissing her temple, his embrace warm, they shared a deep moment as Layla’s lust and fury at last blew away.
“Thank you,” she finally sighed, relaxing back into him. “For the third time tonight.”
“You’re welcome.” He murmured, brushing her curls back so he could kiss her shoulder. Layla breathed quietly, feeling Reginald’s warm, strong chest still pressed against her. Broken strings of beads draped at her sides from his fast action, but her slinky dress managed to stay on. He’d not relinquished their contact, and Layla burrowed back into him, relishing the quietude.
Her nose turned into his neck, breathing in his mild ocean scent above the high collar of his embroidered coat. He raised his chin, letting her smell him. Breathing him in, Layla could see sunlight on the sea again; boats casting fishing-nets and lines. She heard him sigh as the vision was washed away in a curling white tide.
“Those are not your memories, Layla,” Reginald spoke. “Best leave them alone.”
“I’m seeing your memories?” She asked, confused.
“Being a Royal Dragon Bind means you have resonant magic similar to Dusk’s,” he murmured, stroking her curls from her neck again. “I’ve had to thrust my power deep inside you tonight. You are reading my power, my emotions. My memories.”
Reginald slipped into silence. Time faded as Layla sat with him, watching glimmering fairy-lights dance like slow fireflies through the winter hedges. The garden was beautiful tonight, but she barely registered it, her mind pouring back over the disaster that had happened inside the Blue Pavilion. Reginald must have felt it, because at last he heaved a sigh, then rose from the bench, extending his hand.
“Come. You need to blow off steam. Let us retire to the Guardhall for the remainder of the evening. There is no need to return to the party.”
Layla didn’t know if Reginald’s statement was a chastisement or simply an acknowledgement of futility. But as she gazed up at his austerely handsome face, she saw no anger in it. He was simply fatigued, with that same mixture of emotions that he’d only begun to show her tonight.
Taking his hand, Layla rose. Without any further talk, Reginald led her back to the Hotel, though nowhere near the Blue Pavilion. Moving down a number of stairs to a stone door that led to the rear of the Guardhall, Reginald stepped into a foyer, Layla behind him. The stone foyer led into a vaulted dressing-area for the underground catacombs of the Guardhall, an auxiliary entrance that Guard personnel often used. Well-built men and women of different Twilight Lineages idled at lockers and benches, donning workout gear or crimson 1800’s Guard uniforms. A few looked up as Layla and Reginald entered, but soon went back to dressing.
Layla understood their nonchalance. She was a fixture down here in the Guardhall these past weeks, training daily with Rikyava or Dusk and sometimes both to blow off magical steam now that her hamsa-cuff was gone. Reginald had encouraged her to train in fighting since they’d become partnered, and he was encouraging it yet again as a solution to the debacle tonight. As Layla moved through the underground catacombs after his fencer’s grace, Guardsmen and women in crimson uniforms gave the Head Courtier curt nods. Layla couldn’t help but feel curiosity as she moved to her locker and pulled out a dark green tank top, charcoal yoga pants, and black ballet flats. Reginald had never come down here before with her, and she wondered if he was going to join her in sparring.
But he didn’t move to a locker of his own, just idled near Layla and nodded for her to dress. She did, shucking the ruined gown and trying to fold it neatly into her locker. It was salvageable, and she intended to ask the Head Clothier Amalia DuFane to repair it. It was something Dusk would have done, and Layla smiled a little as she donned her yoga gear. Since their Bind, she was thinking more like Dusk – saving everything in a strangely frugal way, yet enjoying every delicacy as if there would never be any more.
It softened her wrath, but not by much. Layla still simmered as she pulled her long curls back into a ponytail and slipped on her flats. She wasn’t feeling embarrassed anymore, just furious. A seething sensation like hissing surged through her and where it went, Layla’s fury boiled. Bastien Durant was so on her shit list. If she ever saw him again, she was going to unleash all her wrath on him, Hotel Owner or not. But Layla couldn’t do that if she had no stopping point. And even as she seethed, that thought pushed her determination.
She would conquer her magics, or exhaust herself trying.
With a brisk nod to Reginald, Layla grabbed a sweat-towel from a stand nearby and flipped it over her shoulder, indicating she was ready. She saw his lips quirk as he took her in, dressed for a fight now rather than a party. Layla supposed the party had been its own kind of battle. But the real battle was still taking place inside her, as her Dragon rioted through her veins with rage.
Making even seasoned Guard personnel nearby raise their eyebrows and edge back from her stinging heat.
“Are you ready?” Reginald asked.
“Ready to fuck some shit up.” Layla growled, reaching up and pulling her ponytail tighter.
Reaching out, Reginald gestured her towards the dressing-hall exit, though he didn’t touch her. Layla felt a growl boiling inside her as she stepped towards the exit, needing some fight-training badly now. As she hitched a hard sigh, rage flaring her cheeks as she pushed out the stone door of the dressing-area, which pivoted smoothly beneath her hands, Reginald glanced over with a far less austere smile than usual.
“That was quite a show back at the party.” He spoke casually.
“That was a disaster!” Layla growled, pissed. “How am I ever going to be able to show my face among the Hotel Owners again? And now they think Adrian can’t control this branch!”
She thought Reginald might chastise her for language, but he only escorted her calmly, moving like a gentle surge of the ocean beside her. “I think you’ve raised their interest, actually. What was a disaster in the moment may actually prove a benefit, Layla. It is always better to make an impression like a thunderstorm than a limpid breeze. They willallremember the Royal Dragon Bind now. And the Owners who were not there, many of the more powerful ones, will hear tales of you. They will become wary of the Bind’s power – even if they don’t know what that is quite yet.”
“I don’t feel powerful.” Layla grumped as they turned a corner into the wide main catacomb, moving into a bustle of Guard personnel going briskly about their duties. “How do I show the Owners power if I can’t control any of it yet?!”
“You will, eventually. And the brute force of barbaric, untamed magic is often more frightening than a honed blade.” Reginald reached out absently, stroking her back, his fingers brushing one of her sable curls at the end of her long ponytail. Even though he was tightly controlling his magics, his touch made things low in Layla’s body clench. Heat simmered between them and her breath caught, feeling his steady fingers caress her. She felt Reginald realize what he was doing and adjust his magics – pouring an oceanic calm through her instead of his ardor.
