“There’s never been another species within town limits before,” Hemlocke says softly, his voice carrying both apology and embarrassment.
My nerves ramp up as I consider the potential for herd mentality to kick in and some jackass to start a riot. The thought of having to defend myself here, in Hemlocke’s hometown, makes my stomach churn with dread.
We reach a grand cabin that stands larger than the rest, its wooden walls weathered but well-maintained. Hemlocke stops suddenly and scoops me up into his muscular arms, making me gasp with surprise. “Traditionally, a male carries his prospective mate into the house of his parents,” he explains, kissing my cheek tenderly as we cross the threshold.
The interior smells of wood smoke, cooking meat, and something floral I can’t identify. He carries me down a hallway lined with family portraits, their pink eyes seeming to follow our progress, to what appears to be the dining room. He sets me gently on my feet and pulls out my chair with old-world courtesy, pushing me in before vanishing through a doorway that leads to what must be the kitchen.
I arch a brow at his mother, and she looks so happy she might actually burst. Her pink eyes shine with unshed tears of joy. “My baby is following all the traditions of our people,” Ela says as she turns and beams at her mate.
“I can tell your traditions are just as important as ours. I am honored to be here.” I lower my head respectfully and raise my fist to my chest in the formal dragon gesture of honoring elders.
“Dragons don’t honor abyssal unicorns.” A male voice comes from the end of the table, dripping with disdain. I recognize him as the scarred male from the cafeteria table who’d questioned my friendship with Hemlocke.
“We do when it’s the family of our mate.” A smirk plays on my lips as I tilt my head to look at him directly, letting a hint of a glow creep into my sapphire eyes. “Have you met my nest father, Leander Crosse? He’s a nightmare.” I smile sweetly while giving him that ‘say something, I dare you’ look that has made grown dragons step back.
“Your nest father is Leander?” Ela asks, her voice filled with sudden respect and amazement.
“Yes. He and Zigmander spent the most time with us hatchlings. Mom wanted their even temperaments to help guide us when we were young. Hatchlings, especially black dragon hatchlings, are very volatile and dangerous.” The admission makes Ela reach out and hold my hand, her touch warm and comforting.
I share stories of my childhood—the controlled chaos of growing up in a nest with multiple species, the careful balance required to keep young dragons from accidentally killing each other or their siblings. Ela listens with rapt attention, occasionally asking questions that show she genuinely wants to understand my world.
“Mate?” Hemlocke’s voice breaks through our conversation as he returns carrying a beautifully arranged plate. The aroma hits me immediately—perfectly seasoned meat with herbs I can’t identify, butthat make my mouth water. He places it between us with ceremonial care.
I look down at the plate, noting the artistic presentation and the care that went into its preparation. Following his earlier instructions, I pull it toward me, officially accepting his offering. When he sits beside me, I stab a perfectly cooked piece of meat with my fork and offer it to him. My eyes shift to my dragon’s as I watch him take the bite, completing the ritual.
Hemlocke offers me a cut of meat in return, and I open my mouth to accept it. The flavors explode across my tongue—rich, savory, with herbs that complement rather than mask the natural taste. A soft purr escapes my lips, and I smile with genuine pleasure. “Someone’s a fantastic cook.”
“That would be Dad,” Hemlocke says proudly as he feeds me another bite, his movements gentle and reverent.
I turn to look at his father and lower my head respectfully. “The meal is delicious. Thank you for allowing me into your home.”
“The pleasure is all ours,” Zarro says warmly, though his eyes dart down the table to glare at his nephew, who’s grumbling under his breath about having a dragon in the house.
“Maybe we should get going,” Hemlocke says suddenly, standing and offering me his hand. I can hear the tension in his voice, see the way his jaw has tightened.
“If that’s what you want.” I stand and slip my hand into his, looking up at his troubled expression while settling my wings more comfortably behind me.
“It’s what’s best.” The smile doesn’t reach his pink eyes as he leads me toward the door, and I can feel the disappointment radiating from him like heat.
“I wouldn’t leave at this time of night,” Zarro says urgently, moving to look out the window at the gathering darkness. The sun has set while we were inside, and only the faintest purple glow remains on the horizon.
“Why?” I look between him and the others at the table, noting the sudden tension that’s filled the room.
“Worg come out of their dens this time of night and hunt stragglers and weaker unicorns,” Hemlocke fills in the blanks, his voice carrying the weight of personal experience with these creatures.
A laugh escapes my lips—bright and genuinely amused—as I look at their worried faces. “Tiny worg are the problem? Easily solved.” I kiss Hemlocke softly in front of his family, tasting the lingering herbs from dinner on his lips, then look toward the door with anticipation. “Don’t come outside. I may lose myself to my dragon from bloodlust. Call Corvis if that happens.”
With a confident smile and a playful wink that makes Ela gasp, I head outside to survey the threat. The cool night air hits my face immediately, carrying the scent of approaching rain and something else—something wild and predatory that makes my dragon stir with interest.
Time to show these worg why dragons are the apex predators.
As the sunsets behind the rolling hills, painting the sky in shades of deep purple and orange, the howls begin. Their haunting melody fills the cooling air like a symphony of death, rising and falling in perfect harmony. The sound sends chills down the spines of everyone in the village. I can hear the locks engaging in doors all around me. Themetallic clicks echoing through the narrow streets like a defensive chorus.
I walk to stand in the wide open space at the village center and fold my wings tight against my back, making them look like a dark cloak in the gathering twilight. The evening air carries the scent of approaching rain and something wilder—musk and wet fur and the metallic tang of old blood.
The crunch of stones from something heavy walking across gravel draws my attention; the sound is deliberate and predatory. Slowly, I turn in a circle, my enhanced hearing catching the subtle sounds coming from all directions. Paws padding softly against earth, low growls barely above a whisper, the rustle of movement through tall grass.
They are closing in slowly from all sides, taking their time like experienced hunters who know their prey has nowhere to run. It’s almost laughable, if I’m being honest. These creatures have no idea what they’re actually stalking.
