“I didn’t lose control,” I said, my voice rising. “I corrected it?—”
“After you almost crashed into the North Sea.”
“But I didn’t!” My dragon pushed harder under my skin. “I pulled up. I fixed it. You’re acting like I’m some helpless idiot who can’t?—”
“Youarehelpless when your beast takes over, but you refuse to acknowledge it. You fly to those damned stones, you shiftin front of humans, and you risk everything because you’re too stubborn to admit you need help.”
“I don’t need?—”
“Your recklessness is a curse,” he snapped. “One that will get you killed if you don’t learn to curb your impulses.”
Silence fell. My chest was so tight, I struggled to breathe.
Curse.That word had meaning for us. We never used it lightly. How could we, when my great-grandfather had cursed all the women of our species to die? The word was loaded with significance. With history and centuries of sorrow.
And now my father used it to describe me.
Mum made a soft noise, then reached across our chairs and took my hand. “You’ll get control eventually, sweetheart. I know it in my bones.”
She’d said it since I was a child. My mother was confident I’d stop being the family embarrassment with my wild, temperamental dragon that refused to be tamed. The beast itched under my skin constantly, demanding release. The urge to twist into smoke or scales never went away. It just built and built until I could think of nothing else. And when I was stressed or angry, the itch became fire I couldn’t ignore.
But I couldn’t tell my mother that. I couldn’t admit that her precious child, conceived by a miracle and delivered with the help of a magical elixir, was defective.
Dad’s golden eyes were gentle as he leaned on his desk. “We’re not trying to punish you, lass. We’re trying to keep you safe.”
“By spying on me?” I asked.
“By ensuring you don’t accidentally expose us to the human world,” Father said. “Or get yourself killed by ancient magic you don’t respect.”
“I respect it. I just—” I broke off, frustration rising with my voice. How could I explain the pull of the stones? The tug thaturged me to shift and sit at their base with the smell of grass in my nose and the murmur of magic in my ears? The contentment I found when I dragged my fingers over the rock? The peace that flooded me, sending my beast to sleep and briefly soothing the itch under my skin?
I couldn’t. Sharing those things would only make my father redouble his efforts to keep me away.
A knock on the door shattered the silence.
“Yes?” my dad called.
The door cracked open, and a guard named Hendry stuck his head inside. “The guests have started to arrive, Your Majesty.” He shifted his gaze to my mother. “Your Majesty,” he added. Then he looked at my father. “Consort,” he said.
Finally, his gaze landed on me, and his eyes brightened. “It’s a big group, Your Highness. I wouldn’t be surprised if you find your mates tonight.”
The knot in my stomach threatened to rise into my throat and strangle me. A fierce itch built under my skin as my dragon grew more restless. “Great,” I managed through clenched teeth.
“Thank you, Hendry,” Dad said with a glance at me. “We’ll be down to greet them in a bit.”
Hendry left. As soon as his footsteps faded, I looked at my dad.
“I’m not going,” I said, the itch spreading under my skin.
The embroidery of my father’s barasta caught the light as he shifted his feet. “Your attendance isn’t negotiable, Portia.”
I looked at my mother. “I don’t want to mingle with a bunch of men who only want me because I’m…”
A prize.
A possession.
The only available female in a species desperate for them.
