To put her behind him.
To wrap around her.
To keep.
Mine.
The word slid through him, dark and possessive.
He dragged a hand down his face.
He was a grown man, and yet here he was, acting like a teenager with a crush. A very large, very dangerous teenager.
He was terrified he might scare her.
He was more terrified he might actually hurt her.
“Fuck.”
He splashed water over his face. He had never felt this kind of force—this instinct-driven need to drag someone into his life and never let go. Not even with Ronda.
And gods help him, this woman steered his dragon without even trying.
When Ronda had her first affair, he had been so blinded by her promised forevers that he had taken her back. When she had left on another “self-discovery” retreat, he had waited for her return.
But she never did.
Humans had been a mistake he had paid for in pride and bitter regret. He had sworn—sworn on his fucking hoard—he wouldn’t make it again.
Apparently, he had learned nothing.
He shut off the tap harder than necessary, breathing through his teeth, droplets dripping from his jaw.
He lifted his head, catching his reflection in the small mirror nailed beside the window.
Golden skin. Horns curving from his forehead like a threat. Amber eyes catching the dim morning light.
After Ronda, he had silenced the dragon. He had met other women. But for them it was only cardio. They wanted the adventure. The thrill of riding the dragon. The size.
That had left him colder than winter snow. He wasn’t built for temporary.
He turned from the sink and grabbed a towel, the rough fabric scraping across his face, grounding him. He forced his thoughts toward the things he could control.
The farm. Orders. Deliveries.
Whatever Sylvie was, she wasn’t his problem.
She couldn’t be.
As he was heading out, he brushed on the blue flannel shirt hung at the door. His nose twitched—Sylvie’s scent still lingering.
Sweet. Warm. Tempting.
His jaw tightened.
He was lying to himself.
He was a liar, and he knew it.
