I’d spent the night in Varyth’s bed. Again. Had his hands on my skin, his mouth on my throat, his voice rough in my ear saying things that made my entire world tilt sideways. Then I’d volunteered myself for a political meeting that could get me killed, discovered that Cindrissian and Fenric were brothers, and fled Varyth’s chambers before I could do something catastrophically stupid.
Like kiss him.
Or ask him to finish what he’d started before Darian and Fenric had interrupted with their terrible fucking timing. And now I was spiralling through pre-dawn sky trying to outrun guilt that tasted like betrayal and want that felt like drowning.
“I’m fine,” I said, which was maybe the biggest lie I’d told all morning.
Brynelle snorted. “Right. And I’m the Queen of Summer. Try again.”
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again and found I had absolutely no idea what to say that wouldn’t sound completely unhinged.
“It’s complicated,” I finally managed.
“Complicated like ‘I need to murder someone’ complicated?” Brynelle asked. “Or complicated like ‘I need to talk before I explode’ complicated?”
“Yes.”
Shaelith laughed. “Why don’t we find somewhere to land? Talking while flying is somewhat limiting.”
“There’s a clearing about two miles northwest,”Kaelen supplied.“Private. Good sightlines. Perfect for emotionally unstable conversations.”
“You’re not helping.”
“I’m always helping. You’re just not appreciating my methods.”
But he adjusted course anyway, banking left with the other two dragons following, and maybe—maybe—having them here wasn’t the worst thing.
We landed in a clearing bordered by ancient oaks, their leaves catching the first golden light of full dawn. The other two dragons settled with practiced grace while Kaelen touched down with just enough dramatic flair to make his point about being the superior flyer.
I slid down from Kaelen’s back the moment we landed, my legs unsteady enough that I had to grab his side to keep from face-planting into the dew-soaked ground. The other dragons settled nearby—Brynelle’s a sleek silver that gleamed like polished metal, Shaelith’s a deep bronze that caught the light like burnished copper.
“Alright.” Brynelle dropped from her dragon’s back with an easy grace I envied, landing in a crouch before straightening. “Out with it. What’s got you looking like you haven’t slept in a week?”
I stared at her, trying to figure out how to explain that I’d somehow managed to catastrophically complicate every single aspect of my existence in the span of twelve hours.
“I volunteered myself for a diplomatic meeting with the High Lord of Nyxaria,” I said finally, because that seemed like the least emotionally devastating place to start.
Shaelith’s eyebrows climbed toward her hairline. “You what?”
“It gets worse.” I sank down onto a fallen log, my legs finally giving up the pretence of being steady. “Apparently I have some kind of gift that manifests under extreme stress, which Varyth has been managing by keeping me calm and contained like I’m a weapon he doesn’t know how to use.”
Shaelith settled cross-legged on the grass with fluid grace, her violet eyes warm with understanding.
Brynelle whistled low. “That is... significantly worse than I expected.” She dropped into Shaelith’s lap with a dramatic sigh.
“And then there’s—” I cut myself off, because talking about what had happened in Varyth’s chambers was somehow infinitely more terrifying than either of those disasters.
“And then there’s what?” Brynelle prompted, though the edge of teasing had faded.
I buried my face in my hands. “I slept in his bed again. Varyth’s. And when I woke up—” The words stuck in my throat like broken glass. “Gods, when I woke up, his hands were?—”
“On you,” Brynelle finished quietly.
I nodded, not looking up. “And it felt right. Natural. Like I belonged there. Like I was supposed to wake up in his arms.” My voice cracked on the last word.
“How long has it been?” Shaelith asked quietly. “Since Navaire died?”
“Sixteen months.” The number fell from my lips like a stone. “Sixteen months, three weeks, and two days.”
