“A chef? Wait, wait, wait.” I rub my head, trying to sort out what I remember about the day he took me. “You had wings.”
“I do.”
“And we traveled…. You flew with me in your arms. You’re not human.”
He shakes his head and feeds me another bite. “Nope. Not human. The wings are real—I just keep them tucked away when I’m not using them. It’s easier that way.”
“You called yourself a dragon.” I search his face. This isn’t a joke. It isn’t an elaborate con.
“Are we going to replay our entire conversation?” He studies me, one of his eyebrows lifting. “You really don’tknow anything about the Saint’s Order or dragons, do you? You were marrying Roman Cifarelli, the son of the grandmaster himself, but had no idea who he really is?”
I shrug. “Honestly, I think you’ve got the wrong guy. Roman is too busy running his companies to be involved in a secret society. You are definitely wrong about him being in any way involved with killing Lucy Vale. He was in the south of France when she was murdered.”
“He was with you? Physically with you at four a.m.—the time she was murdered?” he asks through his teeth like the very thought disgusts him.
I want to tell him yes, but again, I find I can’t lie to him. “Uh, well, no. Actually, he was working. I hadn’t seen him in two days.”
He scoffs and cuts another bite of pancake. “I don’t have the wrong guy.”
Why couldn’t I just say I was with him? Now he’s convinced Roman’s involved. “Or maybe you’re just some whacko, genetic freak who’s trying to shake him down for a payday.”
A growl reverberates through the room, through me, and it’s like when you hear a bird sing and realize the loudest sound is coming from the tiniest bird body. The growl resonates, much bigger than a man of his size should be able to produce while perched at the end of my bed. Louder than a lion’s roar. It’s a growl that speaks to that same primordial thing in me that responded to him before. I may not have ever heard of dragons, but I know in that moment that he’s dangerous. I gulp and realize I’ve unconsciously pressed myself into the pillows, putting room between us.
He holds out another bite of pancake. “I’m not going to hurt you. But this is not about money. I have plenty of money. More than I could ever spend.”
I eat the bite. “So, like,dragonsare just living among us? You’re a chef. Are there dragon doctors? Lawyers? Teachers?”
He redirects his attention to my pancake. “Yup. And now you’re in on the secret. How’s it feel to know that battle-ax of an eighth-grade teacher you had in middle school might have actually been a dragon?”
I slowly reach for a slice of bacon, picturing the nun who taught me algebra. “Actually, that would explain some things.
“Cream or sugar?” he asks, pointing at the coffee.
“Just cream.”
He pours in the perfect amount, which is weird because I prefer just a splash and normally people overpour. I bring it to my lips and take a long sip. He helps me place the mug back on my tray. “So if it’s not money you’re after, what do you want from Roman exactly?”
“Not him actually. Stefan. The grandmaster. I want Stefan to meet with me to discuss Lucy’s murder. She was one of us, a dragon hybrid.”
“A what?”
“A hybrid. Her father was a dragon. Mother was a human. She was murdered in a public place in violation of our peace accord. I want him to either claim responsibility for it or help us find the person responsible.”
My eyes narrow even further. “What makes you so sure this order is even responsible? I heard that the police in Paris are blaming satanists based on the inscription.”
“The inscription, written in blood above her head, wasAstra inclinant, sed non obligant.”
“The stars guide us, they do not bind us.”
“You’re familiar with it?” It’s his turn to narrow his eyes.
“I’m a writer. It’s a famous quote.”
“And inscribed on your fiancé’s ring.”
I give him a confused look.
“Big platinum number with a Saint George Cross on the face?”
