“I guess… what the couple likes? The um… the power dynamic between them.”
I give a sharp nod. A much better answer. “And the duration? How long is a typical session?”
“Um… shorter?” Her voice rises as if it’s a question. “Usually shorter.”
Interesting. Dragons are well known for our stamina, so this is clearly another area where we’re far superior.
After a few more questions, I get to the one I really want to ask. I need to word my query so as not to influence her answers. It won’t work to ask if humans always end their encounters with emotional vulnerability, because that will predispose her to discuss the issue in a way she might not have otherwise noticed. I decide to work up to it by starting with a broad question.
“Is that what human sexual relations are alwayslike?”
“That was, um… that was pretty normal. Though better. And there isn’t always… butt stuff.” The last two words are the faintest of whispers, her cheeks flaring pink. She bites at her lip, her hands fluttering over her rumpled clothes, which are, interestingly, the skirt and top she wore to dinner instead of the outfit she had on when we were snatched from the library for the dance lesson.
My brow furrows, my mind racing down a new, easier path, eager to leave the more painful one behind. What other items created within the book might be brought back into the real world? Her magic is even more powerful than I previously expected to create such permanent transformations.
I record my observations, making sure to be meticulous. Eventually, I look up to ask Skye if she wore the pink underwear all day or if it was another of the book’s creations.
She’s not here. I’m uncertain as to how much time passed as I worked, but it can’t have been that long—I’ve got barely two pages of notes on her clothing change. I didn’t even get to the most pressing matter. What fuels the human desire to confess vulnerabilities after sex? My wings rustle, tapping against the back of the chair they’re draped over, and my tail lashes from side to side.
They freeze in place. Is this what made her run—seeing me with horns, wings, and tail? Did seeing me in my weredragon form make her realize she just slept with someone more beastly than human?
“Skye!” I bellow and stride after her.
“Wait! What about me?” Princess Buttercup darts out from under some wisteria and comes to a stop directly infront of me. “That washorrible. There were chicken smells and funny noises and all kinds of interesting things, and I missedallof it, because Skye locked me in a bedroom! I got so bored, I fell asleep.”
“Skye didn’t do that. The book character did.” I try to step around the familiar. “This isn’t about you right now.”
“Yes, it is! Everything I just said iscompletelyabout me.” She darts right back into my path, swiping at my pants leg with her paw. “Didn’t you hear? I’m bored, and I don’t have chicken!”
She blocks another sidestep, so I use my flying magic to lift into the air, leaping over her to land in the hallway.
Yet I’m too late. There’s no sign of Skye. I stalk along, following her scent trail, which leads me up the stairs and to her door. I knock and get no response, then test the handle, only to find it locked. I could batter down this door or burn it to ash to get to her, but what good would any of that do? It would only convince her I’m a beast.
It would only make her run harder.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Skye
I soak in the decadent garden tub, letting the warmth seep into my muscles. Every breath smells of a riotous mix of flowers. I poured three different scented bath oils into the water, needing to wash the smell of Luke from my skin.
Needing to wash away the reminder that the most amazing sex of my life was little more than a science experiment for him.
His voice still echoes in my head: “Isthatwhat human sexual relations are like?” I’ve gotten good at reading his various levels of grumpy face, and this one blew past all the frowns to land on a level three scowl, his how-dare-you expression.
My cheeks burn with mortification as I sink under the water, staying where everything’s muffled and far away for as long as I can hold my breath. The aunts always say that I havea squishy jelly heart: super sweet but easily bruised.
But the difference between the book hero’s emotional openness after sex and Luke grilling me on human sexual relations feels stark. No wonder he said yes to the sex. There I was, offering myself up on a platter for him. What better way for him to do “research”?
When the need for air forces me to surface, I shove my hair out of my eyes, my fingertips dragging over my skin, wrinkled into prunes. The magically heated water never cools, so I have no idea how long I’ve been in here, but dried-fruit fingers tell me it’s been long enough. The bath has done all the good a bath can do.
I blot myself with one of the oversized towels, the luxurious fabric soft against my skin, which feels silky smooth from the bath oils. I expect those same oils to make my hair greasy, but even damp, it feels soft and light as if I used a luxury conditioner. The snuggle-soft robe wraps around me like a hug, and I let out a sigh. A girl could get used to all of this.
When I first got to the castle, I thought he got me all of these luxurious items because he likes me, but what if he’s simply being a good host? Dragons are very regal and concerned with being “superior”—it feels like something he might do as a point of pride.
The romantic in me misinterpreted everything, just like I always do, seeing love and romance instead of reality. It’s like the time during senior year when Scott made reservations at the nicest restaurant in our college town, and I assumed he’d propose. I bought a new dress and everything. When he refused to pick me up, I thought he wanted toget to the restaurant early and set up everything with the waitstaff, picturing a dramatic proposal with the ring hidden in my dessert. Instead, he sauntered in ten minutes late, waved away the waiter, and broke up with me. Here I’d been dreaming of marriage and love, and he wanted a public place so I wouldn’t make a scene and the quick exit of not needing to drive me home.
I tighten the robe’s belt and square my shoulders. It’s time to stop daydreaming and leave the big romantic gestures inside my books, where they belong. No guy is ever going to make that much effort to woo me, and I need to get used to it.
