The architecture of Drummond Island’s Roost was starkly beautiful and sky-high. A hive of stone and latticework, it was a fortress guarded not only by a net of wards and advanced security equipment, but the barracks of dragons and other beings who made up the highest levels of the military.
It was not the only capital — Manhattan was their secondary Roost and financial center, of course, as well as where the Isand stayed several months out of the year — but it was theirhome.
Most importantly, it wasTaevas’sroost.
His dwelling towered over the hive. It was a spire of black glass and smooth, polished stone; at once ancient and new, embracing tradition even as it integrated the modern. An elegantly wrought dagger that sliced through the dome of the sky, as sharp and hard as the Isand himself.
Vael was one of the few who had blanket permission to land on the Isand’s perch. His tattoos were not just the symbols of rank, nor designed to identify his body in case of the worst, but sigils that allowed him through the choking web of wards that kept the Isand and the rest of the island secure.
He landed on the wide perch and stood there for a moment, scanning the massive wall of windows that spanned the entire floor. He knew that Taevas would sense him there and would be out when it suited him.
Shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans, Vael fought to keep his wings from betraying his nerves. The brisk wind ruffled his hair and a sour taste lingered on the back of his tongue. Not because of bitterness, but because of worry.
This was right. He had to give his mate time to live her life. He didn’t resent that. But what would happen to Taevas when he wasn’t there to watch his back? The other members of the Wing would keep him safe. He knew that. But Vael owed Taevas his life, and that was not a burden easily shed.
And more than that, he wondered whohewould be, if not the shadow of the Isand? Vael didn’t have any answers there, only the conviction that he was doing the right thing for the tiny clan that owned him, heart and soul.
Movement drew his eye back to the windows. The familiar, broad shouldered shape of his Isand stood just on the other side, a cup of coffee in one hand. The other raised and, with a lazy flick of a wrist, welcomed Vael inside.
He’d been to the Isand’s roost hundreds of times over the years. He’d even crashed there once or twice after a long, exhausting trip or a few too many drinks. The grandeur still hit him every time he saw it.
The interior of Taevas’s home was all black marble, dark wood, and leather. Every surface was polished, and the sitting room he stepped into was vast. A sleek bar spanned one side of the room and a sunken living space took the other. It was big enough to fit at least two dozen people — though Taevas only ever hosted family and members of the Wing, and never anywhere but in that room.
Their Isand shared much with the world — his time, his energy, his love, even hisblood— but when it came to his roost, he was deeply private.
As it should be,Vael thought, stepping over to the bar to make himself a cup of coffee like he had a thousand times.The nest is sacred. If he should keep anything to himself, it’s that.
“So,” Taevas drawled, “I hear you owe Alex a cellphone.”
Vael looked up from the machine to find his Isand leaning against the bar, his long black hair slightly damp and his white dress shirt partially unbuttoned. Like everything else he wore, it was liberally dotted with rich embroidery around the cuffs and collar. Today, sprigs of what appeared to be olive leaves curled against the white fabric in pale blue-greens and browns.
It didn’t take a dragon’s keen eye to notice that it was craftsmanship of the finest quality, nor that it was imbued with a humming power — an extra layer of magical protection that had to cost the Isand many thousands of dollars per garment.
It was always a relief to see Taevas in his rich embroidery, though Vael did sometimes wonder about his taste in design.
Clearing his throat, Vael looked back at his mug just in time to see the last steaming drops of his coffee splash. “Yep,” he answered gruffly.
“Uh-huh.” He felt Taevas’s eyes on him as they both took long sips of their coffee. “Do I get to know why?”
“Sure.” Vael eyeballed his Isand from over the rim of his mug, weighing his words with cold-hearted calculation. “Alex set Hele up on a date with a junior member of the EVP’s embassy staff namedJacques du Soleil.”
Taevas took another sip. Maintaining steady eye-contact, he asked, “And is Jacques du Soleil alive?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting. Why?”
Vael had to work very hard to keep his voice level when he answered, “Because he wasn’t there when I tracked her down. He ditched her.”
“Ah.” Another sip, then, pleasantly, “Looks like I’ll be having a word with Mr. du Soleil this afternoon.”
“Thought you might want to handle that.”
“Yes,” Taevas replied, smiling wryly, “I suppose it is less of a mess than if I’d had to text dear little Teddy‘sorry, one of my men tore your diplomat limb from limb’.”
“I was fucking tempted.”
“Rightfully so. Little prick is luckyIdon’t plan on roasting him alive.” Taevas’s normally faintly amused expression hardened, revealing the man underneath the mask: a ruthless predator who would andhaddone anything to protect those in his care.
