His young cousin Artem had told him horror stories about his Chosen’s dwelling, which had needed to be nearly torn down to the studs to be suitable for a dragon’s mate and young, but Taevas suspected Alashiya’s home was far, far worse off. It was a good thing he wouldn’t be wasting his time repairing it, since she’d be much better off in the ’Riik.
Trying not to show his disgust, he turned away from the dark hallway to cross into the living room. Hiding his opinion on the state of things got harder.
He’d only been able to inspect it from the doorway while herecovered in her kitchen, and from there it hadn’t seemed so bad. Stepping over the threshold changed his opinion.
The only saving grace was that it was, without a doubt, entirelyher.The very walls were saturated with her scent. He could see her touch in every square inch — from her cozy nest to her chaotic workbench to the antique armchair in the little nook by the window and the stack of ancient paperback novels at its feet. It was a cozy little burrow for a woman straight out of a fairytale.
Unfortunately, it was also entirely unacceptable.
Dragons took tremendous pride in their roosts. In fact, a dragon could not be considered grown until they’d left their parents’ nest and made their own dwelling. The quality of their roost told the world how much they valued that which was most precious: their nest. The nest was the heart of the home, where Chosen and young were kept safe. One could not have a Chosen without a good nest, and they couldn’t have a nest worthy of a Chosen without a fine roost.
A good roost was required to be high up from the ground, for ease of take-off and landing as well as security. They needed to have strong walls, preferably made of stone or more modern materials like steel and concrete, to keep out the weather and enemies alike. Of course, they had to have a nest — the primary bedroom — which came with even stricter requirements like dragon-grade bedding, low light, easy access to a nursery, and more.
Alashiya’s home met exactly none of those requirements.
The walls were flimsy wood and chipping plaster. It was a single level on what could only generously be called a hill. Electricity had clearly been added after it was built, because the wiring was on the outside of the walls and evoked old memories of the transition from gas to electricity. What little insulation it possessed appeared to be supplied primarily from fanciful quilts that had been strung up via pins in the plaster. The only source of heat was an old iron stove in the center of the room, which was such a terrible idea it nearly drove him to madness.
Not only was it dangerous merely in its design — the gods knew the last time the chimney had been serviced — but Alashiyaslept beside itin a pile of flammable bedding. The walls of the home itself were covered in fabric. The room was full of piles of yarn, thread, and just about every flammable thing he could imagine.
As a dragon, fire couldn’t harm him, but he balked at the damage that could be done to Alashiya with one stray spark on a blanket. He knew what it was like to lose everything to flame, the complete devastation of one’s entire life being reduced to ash. To think that might happen to her was utterly unacceptable.
Taevas surveyed the room with a clenched jaw, his claws curled into tight fists, and tried to get a handle on his revulsion. It was then, of course, that he realized what he’d been too distracted to notice: Alashiya wasn’t there.
He turned on his heel and, one hand on the door jamb, swung into the hallway. The door to the bathroom was open, the inside dark. The kitchen was empty. He held very still as his heart began to pound. Straining to listen to a sound,anysound, Taevas held his breath.
Nothing.
“Shiya, where did you go?” Dread made his tone harsh, very much the bark of the Isand, when he demanded, “Answer me!”
There was only silence. Alashiya walked with featherlight steps, but even they would’ve been heard in the complete quiet. He was attuned to any slight rustle of cloth, the rasp of breathing, the shift of weight on old floorboards. There was nothing but a whistle of wind from down the hall.
Ignoring the rising discomfort in his battered body, Taevas took off. The home got stranger as he went, but he barely noticed anything beyond the closed doors as he chased the lingering scent of her in the air. He barreled down the hall, through the door at the far end, and past another string of closed doors. Moonlight came through a ragged, barely covered hole in the ceiling — nodoubt a result of the tornado that could’ve killed Alashiya before he ever got the chance to meet her.
The length of the hall seemed to be somewhat U-shaped, with the kitchen and the living room at one end. At the opposite end there was a tiny entryway with the patina and cobwebs of an abandoned room. The front door, with its peeling paint and rusted fixtures, was left open.
Taevas stood there for half a heartbeat, too stunned to do much else besides stare into the darkened treeline, before instinct kicked in.
His focus narrowed into a familiar point. It was the mindset of a dragon who’d spent his formative years fighting for his life in the sky, where an enemy could appear from above or below in an instant. He didn’t think aboutwhyshe might’ve run, only that she was out there in the dark woods, alone and defenseless. Distantly, he also recognized that she couldn’t be allowed to tell anyone of his presence, but that concern took a backseat to his immediate worry for her safety.
Her scent was a faint thread in the air. It nearly blended in with the smell of sun-warmed soil, green things, and fresh air. But even diluted by the summer air, he had no trouble picking it up.
He followed that instinctively, the claws on his toes digging into the soil with the force of every step. She’d gone for the trees. Taevas hissed with pain as he tucked his wings close to his back, wary of getting them caught on spindly branches. Dragons were shit in tight places. Their wings were exquisitely sensitive, and his were injured, making the hunt through a birch forest even less desirable.
But he forged ahead, chasing that wild scent. Her name bubbled up his throat and pressed against the backs of his teeth, but he suspected calling for her would only send her deeper into hiding.
He couldn’t risk that. All he had was his nose and the hope that she’d slip up. Nymphs were wild creatures built for thisterrain. If she hunkered down somewhere, he doubted he would ever find her.
He hadn’t spent ten years pining after her ghost only to lose her the very moment he finally held her in his claws. Taevas Aždaja didn’t give up. He didn’tlose.The needy beast in him refused to let it happen.
He was the motherfucking Isand, and she belonged tohim.
Chapter Thirteen
Crashingthrough the undergrowth and heedless of the noise he made, he ruthlessly chased her familiar scent. It clung to leaves that had brushed her curls and the scraggly vines that had the privilege of touching the hem of her dress. There was no visible trail. She appeared to barely bend the foliage even when she must have walked directly through it.
While she apparently floated through tangles and over thorns, Taevas wasn’t quite so lucky. It was like the forest fought his every step. Vines snared his ankles, every small opening between trees seemed to shrink into nothing before his eyes. It wasn’t long before even his tough skin began to chafe from the constant abrasion of branch, thorn, and weed.
He lost track of how long he searched for her. Pain and fever ravaged his body. It didn’t matter. It’d been a long time, but he’d been through far worse. The war had seen to that.
