“Claws,” Aeson shouts, but I ignore him.
I make it to the table in the other room before I sense someone reaching for me. I duck to avoid the grab, and swipe a familiar butter knife from the table. Like the trained grappler he is, Aeson presses his advantage, trying to wrap me up in his massive arms and cage me in against his body. That sort of thing worked on me back in Lairwood, but I’ve had time to rest and recover since then.
I spin out of his grasp and do my best to kick his knee in. He jumps back, keeping the thick sole of my boot from cracking his patella like an egg. Ogdan approaches me from the side, so I grab a plate of food off the table and chuck it at him. He leans out of the way but then looks up at me with disgust when something from the plate splashes on his pristine onyx scale armor.
“That was uncalled for, lass,” he scolds, but I’m not distracted and turn to keep Sondar and Herm in my sights as they try to slink closer.
“Back off,” Aeson barks at his Wing, and instantly everyone gives us distance.
“Such good boys,” I taunt the guards, purposefully ignoring Tove, figuring it’ll irritate her more than any name-calling would.
“Stop taunting my Wing, Claws,” Aeson censures.
“Stop trying to corner me,” I counter, moving away from him as he advances.
“Is there a particular reason why you’ve armed yourself with a butter knife again?” he asks, stalking forward until we’ve done half a circuit around the table.
I shrug. “I keep warning you assholes not to touch me, and you keep trying to touch me.”
Aeson chuckles, and my butterflies decide to scramble the jets and fly formations in my stomach.
“So what’s the plan, Claws? You know…when you’ve made your way through the cutlery and fine china, how are you going to best all of us then?”
I quickly glance around the room, assessing my options. “The chairs look pretty sturdy, bet you I could do some damage with them,” I counter.
His smile grows even wider. “Why are you even mad? The Call to Arms just started,” he asks innocently, like he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing.
“I don’t want a Wing, Aeson,” I tell him curtly.
“And why is that?” he asks, taking a step closer and pushing me another step back.
“For starters, I don’t need one.”
“Wrong,” he interjects. “Every prominent dragon receives a Wing. The king. His advisors. Members of the royal family. The nobles. We all have protection, it’s necessary.”
We take another half turn around the table.
“It’s notnecessary. I’ve survived just fine without a Wing,” I point out, barely managing not to cringe at the weak argument. But it’s not like I can just tell him I know he’s putting on a convincing show of concern all so he can handpick an expert team of babysitters for me.
Aeson gives me a judgmental look, the kind that tauntsyou can do better than that.
Maybe if I were as skilled at deception and strategy as he is, I could.
“What is this?” I whisper-shout, gesturing to the spectators’ box. “Tove said making people think I was your mate for a little while would protect me. That I should play along, but it’s temporary…Thatdoesn’t look temporary.” I wave a hand at the arena and plaster on my best doe-eyed, poor-me look.
Aeson’s smile immediately turns into a scowl, and he looks over at Tove, who’s shooting poisoned darts at me with her eyes. Pretty sure she’s never going tohelp me outagain, not that we were exactly frolicking toward bestieship before this.
“I just got here. I’m not Horde. I’m not part of the royal family. And we’re not actually mates. Why do I have to choose a Wing now?”
We’ve almost circled the table for a third time, and it feels like some fucked-up game of chase. It’s pointless, and I don’t want to keep playing, yet stopping feels like giving in, and when it comes to dragons, if you give an inch, they’ll takeeverything.
“This has nothing to do with me and you, and everything to do with your safety…”
I open my mouth to argue that there is no him and me, but he cuts me off.
“You are Ever Tenebrae, daughter of King Merik Tenebrae. As the last Syphon, you are part of a royal kindred. Revealed or not, you are a dragon, which means you are part of The Horde. You need to be protected,” he tells me earnestly, his bright blue eyes fervent and his face resolute. “You’re one of us, Claws, stop fighting it.”
My heart lurches and rolls like it’s trying to avoid the points he’s making. He takes three strides closer this time, like he’s hoping I’ll finally allow myself to be caught, but once again I dance away.
