“Oh,” Snorre said. He chuckled. “That explains it.”
Geoffrey snarled. While it didn’t look like he’d transformed all that much on the outside, his voice rolled with cold reptilian savagery. Snorre, wisely, backed off.
“What explains it?” Matthieu asked cautiously, although he had a fairly good idea. “Explain it to me, dragon!”
Snorre squinted at him. “An ass like yours has to be legal—surely this isn't your first time, boy.”
The reply hit Matthieu so hard, Geoffrey winced.
“What do you mean?” Geoffrey demanded. “His first time for what?”
Snorre looked Geoffrey, Ian, and Matthieu over, his eyes flicking from one to the next. At last, he chuckled. “My, my, my. Neither you nor the esteemed Mr. Brand know what’s going on, do you? I forget, sometimes, that ‘respectable’ dragons don’t play with omegas as a rule.” He paused, then added, “That seems especially relevant in your… ah… situation, Geoffrey.”
Geoffrey looked affronted. “My what?” he demanded.
Sweat dotted Matthieu’s forehead. His stomach, chest, and neck felt far too hot, and he wished more than anything that he could remove his shirt without appearing rude.
It couldn’t be happening. Not now.
“Explain yourself!” Ian demanded.
Snorre shook his head, smiling. “Your pretty little omega is going into heat, boys.”
Three distinct cords of shock strung themselves taut between Matthieu’s ribs. The first was his own—his heat wasn’t due for another two months, and although he recognized the early signs of its arrival, he hadn’t believed it possible that he could become fertile so prematurely. The second belonged to Geoffrey—Matthieu recognized its spastic, uptight concern and reluctance to believe what had to be the truth. The third? Matthieu’s heart knew who it belonged to, as impossible as it seemed.
Ian.
It had to be Ian, just like Snorre had said.
Each cord conveyed a different message, sometimes harmonizing, sometimes clashing. At times, they became so jumbled that Matthieu could barely parse their meaning. What he did understand stuck with him and rebounded endlessly in his mind.
Maybe Snorre is wrong.
There’s no way.
The bastard is trying to make a move.
Protect.
Secure.
Claim.
The intensity of each sentiment made Matthieu shiver. He pushed into the couch until he was huddled against the back cushions, then scooted so he was partially concealed behind Geoffrey. He didn’t want Snorre. The old dragon was attractive, full of life, and perhaps even charming, but Matthieu’s soul didn’t call out for him. There was no connection between them—no possibility for something more.
If Snorre tried to touch him, he would bite. Superintendent Durand would have lashed his knuckles with a ruler if he heard that Matthieu was so much as thinking about biting a dragon, but Matthieu was too afraid to care.
Snorre would not own his body. Snorre would not own his heart.
The eyes of the children he envisioned in his future were plum and honey, not slow-swirling rainbow.
Thoughts twanged from the cords in Matthieu’s chest, their promises comforting:defend, secure, defeat.
Snorre would not claim him—Matthieu’s dragons would see to that.
“It’s too soon to be his heat,” Geoffrey said, speaking words Matthieu was too terrified to say. “I was charged with delivering him from his cloister and entrusted with his paperwork myself. There are still another two months to go before he achieves fertility.”
Snorre arched a brow. “Perhaps you should lodge a complaint with the boy’s reproductive tract.”
