"You fed her," Cassius points out, the words carrying accusation that suggests he's been wanting to mention this for a while. "In the library. Food. Magical food that probably had enough Fae essence woven through it to jumpstart her awakening."
Koishii's expression shifts through something that might be guilt before settling into defensive indifference.
"She was hungry," he protests. "And the food helped her recovery. If I gave her blood too, her Fae magic would only amplify further. I'm not going to feed my Queen substandard sustenance just because you lot haven't figured out how to manage hybrid nutrition."
The argument makes a certain kind of sense, even if I don't appreciate being caught in the middle of it.
"So she needs blood from either Cassius or Atticus," Nikolai concludes, apparently deciding that solving the problem matters more than assigning blame for it.
Cassius or Atticus.
Blood from someone whose essence my vampire nature recognizes.
Someone bonded to me, whose power might balance the Fae dominance that's currently controlling my form.
Cassius moves before anyone else can volunteer.
His approach is direct, purposeful, carrying the particular weight of someone who has decided they're handling this regardless of what anyone else might think. He stops before me, void-dark eyes meeting my transformed pink gaze, and offers his wrist with the casual intimacy of someone who has fed me before.
I look at the offered limb.
Then I look at him.
Really look—past the gesture, past the immediate practicality, to the tension I can see in his shoulders. The way his jaw is set. The particular energy radiating from him that speaks to emotions he's not expressing verbally.
"Hold on."
The words emerge before I can think better of them.
I reach out and grab his hand—not his wrist, not the feeding position, but his actual hand with my fingers intertwining through his in a grip that demands attention.
"Come with me."
I tug him away from the others.
Atticus's voice follows our retreat.
"Where are you going?"
Zeke's calm response provides cover.
"Maybe they want privacy."
Koishii laughs—the sound carrying implications that make my cheeks heat despite my focus on other concerns.
"Privacy on a dragon's back?"
Mortimer roars—the sound carrying agreement with Koishii's skepticism that seems strange coming from the dragon I'm using as a platform for this conversation.
I ignore all of them.
We walk—carefully, given that we're navigating scales on a creature currently flying through volcanic eruptions—until we're closer to Mortimer's tail. The distance doesn't provide true privacy, but it creates enough separation that I feel comfortable having the conversation I need to have.
I stop.
Turn to face him.
His expression carries the careful blankness that I've learned to recognize as his version of emotional armor—shields raised against conversations he doesn't want to have, defenses established against vulnerability he doesn't want to show.
