“Oh, yes. It took me years to pick up the knack, but I was well-practiced in it by the time I first met you. Your aura says much about you, but Snorre is far better at reading them than I am.”
Ian gave the room an appraising look. “Can you all see auras? The only one of you who’s a dragon besides Snorre is Erik. I don’t understand how you, too, can have magic. You’re just human.”
“No,” Aruna assured him, “but we all have our own gifts. I can help plants grow, if I concentrate. Vadim can shift his appearance somewhat, and change his eye color. Often to match his outfit.” Vadim stuck his tongue out at her and Aruna smiled back. “Yinju is good with money. Mostly gold, but he's been extremely clever with bitting coins.”
Geoffrey was baffled by that. Yinju supplied, “Bitcoin,” which wasn't much more illuminating, but Matthieu understood that it was a form of currency, and Geoffrey took his word-thought for it. “We all have our 'little’ talents, as do dragons.”
Nevertheless, Matthieu projected a sense of annoyance at being termed “just human,” as if he was lesser.
Geoffrey hastened to say, hoping to mollify Matthieu, “My brother has a theory on that, actually. According to him, Disgraces are dragons, just human-shaped ones, and are our mated pairs. They have magic, thanks to their dragon halves, but it’s much weaker, due to being held in an intrinsically non-magical vessel.”
Ingrid smiled at him. “This is true,” she said, “to a point. When one lives a very long time and has time to absorb an abundance of dragon—”
“Spunk,” Snorre provided with a leer.
“Essence,” Ingrid went on, ignoring her mate, “that magic has time to flourish. The normal human lifespan of a century or less isn’t nearly enough time. We’ve been doing our children a grave disservice. Also, that isn’t your brother’s theory, is it?”
“I beg your pardon,” Geoffrey said. “But—”
“It’s his mate’s theory, isn’t it?” Snorre interrupted. “Harrison Lessardi, son of Kristopher Lessardi née Jormun.”
Geoffrey stared at the old dragon. “He's Harrison Lessardi-Drake now, and how do you know about my brother’s mate?”
Ingrid smiled at him again beatifically. “Oh, we know all about Harrison,” she said brightly. “He’s our great-great-great-grandson, after all. We like to take an interest in family.”
20
Matthieu
Matthieu held the baby dragon, Nikita, on his lap and stroked his back absentmindedly. His tiny white scales were impossibly soft—almost like well-loved leather, if leather sparkled like freshly fallen snow and belonged to one of the most precocious young lives Matthieu had ever encountered. After a while, Nikita lifted his head, drawing Matthieu’s gaze. The whelp blinked a few times, then chirped contentedly and settled his head on Matthieu’s lap again.
When he fell still, he started to purr.
Paternal longing gripped Matthieu and refused to let go. His hand paused mid-stroke, and for a moment, all he did was listen to Nikita express his contentment.
He understood now why Ian and Geoffrey, his stupid, grumpy dragons, hand-raised clutches of peacocks and did ridiculous things for them, like knit tiny bird sweaters.
Oh, did he understand.
The Pedigree had taught Matthieu everything he ever needed to know about becoming the bearer of a clutch. He’d been instructed in skills both sophisticated and crude, like how to suppress his gag reflex, and the art of being decorative, but never had he been educated in how to care for the life he was supposed to bring into the world, or how much joy small scales and bright, inquisitive eyes could bring.
Geoffrey’s dark, brooding purple stare.
Ian’s honey gaze.
What would it be like to have curious eyes the color of the twilight sky peer up into his own? To fall completely and totally in love with the rich amber eyes of a hatchling he’d helped create? Heat rose in Matthieu’s cheeks, and he stole a look next to him first at Ian, then at Geoffrey.
He wanted both those things more than he could ever hope to say.
It was expected that should a member of the Pedigree be “lucky” enough to be chosen by a dragon, and then fall gravid with a clutch—not a Disgrace—then his or her ultimate purpose had been achieved. The assumption in Matthieu’s cloister had always been that, should a match be made, a mate bond would not be formed, and the borne clutch would be removed from the clutch-bearer and cared for by beta nannies. For a Pedigree omega, knowing how to care for dragon young was entirely superfluous information.
To have a young dragon on his lap, and to hear him chirp and purr, to have the chance to touch him… never once had Matthieu thought he’d be in this position, yet here he was.
When his heat next hit, he would conceive. He felt entirely certain of it. In the next year, he would bear either Geoffrey or Ian’s offspring.
A small, startling trill of pleasure tumbled down Matthieu’s spine. Nikita looked up at him with wide eyes, then blinked and nuzzled his head beneath Matthieu’s hand, much like a cat might. Matthieu took time to pet him, making sure to pay careful attention to the tiny scales between Nikita’s eyes and the long bridge of his snout. If he bore a clutch, how many children would he have to dote on in the same way? How many small lives would he shape, and by extension, what impact would they have on the world? With his mate mark plain to see, no one would dare take his clutch away. The eggs he laid would be his.
No.Theirs.
