He forced himself to step back, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the edge of the counter.
“You’ll take my bedroom,” he said, his voice a low growl of restraint. “I’ll sleep in the living room. On the sofa.”
Her brows lifted, a flicker of surprise crossing her face.
“I don’t want you to feel pressured into anything. You’ve already done more for me than anyone ever has.”
She blinked, her gaze searching his. “What if I want—”
He shook his head gently, his heart hammering against his ribs, and pressed his thumb to her lower lip to silence the thought before he lost his mind.
“Settle in first,” he said roughly. “I want you to feel safe here. Truly at home.”
“Okay, big boy,” she replied, her voice soft and knowing.
The way she said it—half tease, half affection—nearly sent his control into the dirt.
He brought her to his bedroom. He wanted—desperately—to see her in his bed, her chestnut hair fanned out against his dark sheets. She looked perfect. Exhausted, but perfect.
Every instinct in him roared to claim her. To mark her as his so clearly that even the stones of the house would know.
Instead, he stepped back into the hallway.
“Rest,” he said.
Then he closed the door behind him before he could change his mind.
***
He was up before sunrise.
He could feel her presence in the house even before he opened his eyes—a golden thread of awareness pulling at his soul. His dragon stirred with a quiet, bone-deep contentment he hadn’t felt in years.
He made breakfast—the scent of coffee and sizzling bacon filling the air—left it warm on the stove, and headed out to the farm. Work didn’t stop just because his life had detonated into a million glittering pieces.
He grabbed Tommy—the most stubborn, thick-headed little goat who refused his mother’s milk—and sat down in the dirt of the pen. The young ones weren’t used to dragons who didn’tthreaten them. To keep them calm, he folded his wings tight against his back and wore sunglasses and a battered straw hat over his horns. He looked ridiculous—an industrial-sized predator playing nursemaid.
Tommy still refused the bottle, letting out a pathetic bleat.
“Can I—?”
Sylvie’s voice floated toward him, light and airy.
He looked up, and his heart stopped.
She was wearing his shirt—his favorite charcoal one. It hung far too big on her small frame, belted loosely at the waist with a bit of twine, skimming her thighs in a way that made his mouth go dry.
She looked devastating. A complete train wreck for his self-control.
She took Tommy from him and sat in the dirt beside him, settling the goat in her lap with practiced ease. The little traitor latched onto the bottle immediately.
Rhavor stared, his jaw hanging slightly open.
“How did you do that?”
“My parents had a farm,” she said calmly, a small, self-deprecating smile playing on her lips.
“You never told me.”
