"Jeez," he drawls, voice carrying the particular tone of someone who finds everyone around them tedious. "Overprotective paranormals. Do one good thing by bringing that princess back from the afterlife, and this is what I get."
He shifts within his bonds, testing their limits without actually trying to escape.
"Temporary captivity," he concludes, as if the word 'temporary' is the only acceptable outcome and he's merely waiting for us to realize our mistake.
"Temporary?" Mortimer's voice carries heat that has nothing to do with his dragon nature. His scholarly composure—already stressed by everything we've witnessed—finally cracks, revealing the warrior beneath the academic facade.
I watch his eyes shift.
The human appearance he typically maintains flickers, revealing vertical slits that speak of dragon heritage and draconic fury. His usually calm features twist with anger I don'tfully understand—as if this stranger's presence offends him on levels beyond simple territorial concern.
What does he know that we don't?
The question adds itself to the growing list of things I need to understand about this situation.
The stranger chuckles—a low, dark sound that carries no warmth whatsoever. He cracks his neck within the bounds of his restraints, the casual gesture speaking of flexibility that shouldn't be possible given how tightly he's bound.
Then he looks at us.
Reallylooks, with eyes that carry colors I don't have names for—shifting between hues that seem to exist outside normal spectrums, each shade bleeding into the next with the particular fluidity of something that refuses to be categorized.
The headbutt left damage.
A bruise blooms across his forehead—purple and angry, spreading across perfect features with the particular slowness of supernatural healing working against supernatural impact. His nose drips blood as well, crimson trickling down to his lips with lazy inevitability.
Wait.
I focus on the blood, something wrong registering in my consciousness before I can identify what.
That's not red.
The liquid that drips from his nose ispurple.
Not dark red that might be mistaken for purple in certain light. Not crimson with unusual undertones. Genuinely, unmistakably, impossibly purple—the color of twilight skies, of dying stars, of power that exists in the spaces between what should be and what is.
I see the unease spread through my companions.
Atticus's eyes narrow with the particular suspicion of someone who has spent centuries studying blood in all itsforms and has never encountered anything like this. Mortimer's anger shifts to something closer to wariness, dragon instincts recognizing threat even if scholarly knowledge can't categorize it.
Only Zeke seems intrigued.
Those feline eyes study the purple blood with fascination that borders on academic interest, as if he's witnessing a phenomenon he's only ever read about in texts too ancient to take seriously.
"Temporary," the stranger repeats, clearly enjoying our discomfort, "because you weaklings couldn't even tap into the afterlife to retrieve your bonded mate, but you're acting as ifI'mthe mortal enemy."
He shifts again within his bonds, somehow managing to look comfortable despite being wrapped in shadow and ice and fire.
"You should bepraisingme," he continues, indignation coloring his impossible voice. "I feel insulted. If you didn't bring my Princess, I'd just kill all of you."
My Princess.
The possessive pronoun makes my shadows tighten involuntarily, darkness pressing against his flesh with pressure that would crush normal beings. The stranger doesn't even flinch.
"But I suppose that would be a loss," he muses, seemingly unaware of—or indifferent to—my increasing aggression. "Since it seems as if she's bonded with you lot of weak immortals."
"Bonded mate?"
Atticus's snarl is pure vampire—territorial, possessive, carrying centuries of aristocratic fury. He's moved closer without me noticing, crimson eyes fixed on the stranger with hunger that has nothing to do with blood.
