Although, to what end?
Dragons mate. I know that. The concept exists in our culture—finding a partner whose fire complements your own, whose presence makes your dragon settle rather than rage.
But wolves? I know almost nothing about her kind, aside from what was necessary to subdue an enemy. And the fact that they take mates too. But like us?
I have no frame of reference for this. Dragon bonds are about fire recognizing fire, about two flames that burn brightertogether. Not this—whatever this is that makes my dragon claw at my ribs, demanding I claim what’s mine.
Except she’s not mine.
She came here to kill me for killing her mate.
The motel office is small. Just a counter and a weathered man in his sixties watching something on a small television.
“Morning,” Nadia says, all professional neutrality. “We’re here for the wire transfer. Room seven.”
He nods, turns down the TV. “Five hundred, right? Need to see ID.”
She glances at me. She doesn’t have anything with her. I produce identification that had been in my bag. He counts out cash with methodical slowness, makes me sign a receipt.
Three minutes. We’re back outside with money in hand, heading down the main street before either of us speaks.
“Wait here,” she says as we stop in front of a general dealer. I nod, sticking to my previous strategy of letting her make the decisions. She disappears inside, reappearing a few minutes later.
I raise an eyebrow when she doesn’t volunteer any information.
“Shoes.” She glances down at the new pair of sneakers she’s sporting. She’s been barefoot since the start of this adventure, and I’ve been so distracted by trying not to die that I’ve barely even noticed.
“There’s a diner,” she says, her gaze fixed on the storefronts ahead. “Two blocks down.”
“All right.”
That’s the extent of our conversation.
I follow her down the street. Timber Ridge. Population maybe a few hundred. The kind of place where everyone knows everyone, and strangers get noticed.
We’ll get noticed, but it can’t be helped. We need food, and there’s only one option.
The diner is classic small-town America: vinyl booths, laminate tables, a long counter with stools. Windows facing the street. Television mounted in the corner playing morning news on mute. Maybe a dozen people scattered throughout. Locals. Loggers, probably. A few older couples. A waitress who’s likely worked here for decades.
We take a booth by the window. Nadia sits across from me and immediately picks up the menu, using it as a barrier.
I study her instead.
Her attention stays fixed on the laminated pages like they contain vital intelligence. The set of her mouth is hard, her posture defensive even sitting down.
The waitress arrives. An older woman with a name tag reading “Deb,” her smile genuine but tired. “What can I get you folks?”
“Coffee,” Nadia says. “And the breakfast special.”
“Same,” I add.
Deb nods, pours coffee from a pot she’s carrying, and heads back to the kitchen.
The quiet that settles between us feels deliberate. Weaponized.
Nadia sets down the menu and wraps both hands around her coffee mug. Drinks it black. Her focus shifts to the window, tracking the few people moving along the street.
I drink mine and try to figure out what to say. If there’s anything that won’t make this worse.
