“It’s perfect, Fenox Lael. Thank you.”
Her answering smile is bright and proud, and then she goes and makes it awkward by dropping into a deep curtsy. “Thank you for trusting me, dragoness.”
It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes, but we’ve perfected this little song and dance over the last few hours that we’ve been trying on clothes, sketching designs, and making lists of everything aproperdragoness needs at court.
“Got them.” Azo hurries over. “It took me a minute to adjust the color to the right tone of…gray,” he announces, his nose crinkling with displeasure. “I don’t know what it says about you that gray of all things is your favorite color, but a shrink would have a field day, I’m sure.”
I laugh at the cheek of this human, but a low warning growl slips out of Farrow, and he narrows his gaze at the man.
“Careful, human,” the Thrasher warns, and the mood in the room instantly sours.
Azo blanches and audibly swallows as he bends down to help me into the thigh-high, lace-up platform boots.
“Oooh, pockets!” I chirp, eager to draw attention away from Nixy’s sassy assistant. I bend the top lip of the boot back and marvel at the built-in sheath that’s hidden inside. “You get me,” I coo at Nixy, and she laughs, the sound helping to lighten the simmering tension.
I get the other boot on and then hop down off the platform with a relieved sigh. This wasn’t as torturous as I expected, but I’m glad to finally be dressed and done with this portion of my introduction to dragon high society. I wrap Ren’s little sister up in a tight hug. She goes stiff and I instantly know I’ve done the wrong thing.
“Move away from the dragoness, wyvern,” Tove barks, and I glower over at the female drake as I release Nixy and quickly back away from her for her own safety.
“She’s been up close and personal with all my bits for hours. What the fuck is your problem?” I demand, bewildered by the sudden onslaught of aggression rolling off all the drakes.
They’ve each maintained their relaxed positions around the room all day, but now they look like they’re ready to fight or take action, which seems like overkill for a hug.
No one says anything, not even Nixy.
My stare drops to the ground, and I shake my head.
“Sorry, I wasn’t thinking,” I whisper penitently, turning to Fenox.
“I’m honored to have your trust, dragoness, but you need to understand I will never have theirs,” she tells me evenly, nodding at the Wing members.
My heart aches as her words float around the room, not one voice willing to dispute their validity or offer her sorrow a safe harbor. Frustration brews in my gut, but Nixy subtly shakes her head, and I’m forced to ingest my outrage and bite my tongue.
What makes me feel even shittier is that I don’t have a leg to stand on when it comes to lecturing the agitated drakes about their behavior. I was just as edgy and convinced of my own demise on the ride over here. Until I saw that the wyvern I was going to be dealing with was Nixy, I was equally as untrusting and worried, which means I’m no better than them in this regard.
Shame settles in my chest. I hate what’s happened between us, the chasm that exists between wyverns and dragons. With so much pain, spilled blood, and mistrust on both sides, I don’t know how to fix it, or if anyone even can.
“Not huggers in Paragon City. Got it,” I mumble, stepping further away from the wyvern I’m still pretending not to know.
A heaviness lodges itself in the room.
“I’ll have everything we picked out today sent up to the keep immediately, and the other designs we discussed should be ready in less than a week. I can send Azo to fit you when they’re done, or you’re welcome to come here if you prefer I fit you personally,” Nixy tells me, her tone suddenly slightly hollow and entirely too professional.
It feels like a kick to the gut, but I know there’s no getting around it. I got comfortable here, forgot my place for a little while, and just did something that could’ve blown our cover. I’m not exactly the epitome of warm and fuzzy; now I’m going to have to hug a few other random people just to cover our asses.
“Let me see what my schedule is like, and I’ll let you know,” I answer, just as stiff and formal.
“Excellent. It was a pleasure, dragoness.”
Before I can think of another detached-sounding response, Ogdan steps to Azo and holds up a credit band. The human taps a few things into his own device and then presses the band to the other. A quick beep indicates that payment has been made and the transaction is complete.
No one seems to notice when I pluck two butter knives from my old boots and slip them into the sheaths hidden inside the tops of my new footwear. The guards all converge on me, and with that, I’m herded toward the exit.
We step out into a cool, bleak-looking afternoon. The light that reaches this deck of the city has grown gloomier in the hours we’ve spent inside, and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. The sleek-looking lirocar touches down in front of us, the doors sliding open as our group approaches.
“Ugh, Chastain, I swear I’m going to sew your asshole shut!” Tove grouses, fanning the air in front of her face.
“What?” the Channeler demands, and then the smell must hit him, because his face crumples with disgust. “I swear that wasn’t me!”
