Sure, he was a dragon and could roast me if he wanted to. Or eat me. Or claw my heart out. But I was a mage. Perhaps I wasn’t the most impressive to have ever walked Llangard, but I was more than passable.
Shame crept up my neck in a wave of heat. This was one of those moments I regretted my red hair and pale complexion. I’d never been particularly good at hiding my embarrassment. If I’d been out of line to press for more, the last thing I wanted was for Andreas to read it on my face.
I turned away too, looking toward the springs. At least if I were in the steamy water, I’d have an excuse for my flush.
“Just, ah, give me a moment, and I’ll—um...” Already, I was stepping my way over smooth rocks toward the pools. “I’ll just be a minute.”
I bathed quickly, splashing myself to speed the whole process up. With the air outside as cold as it was, I couldn’t quite stomach cleaning my hair, but it hadn’t been that long since the last time I’d washed it, and it was still in that well-behavedwindow where it was wavy rather than frizzy, coifed rather than oily.
I’d leave it till I had more time, or more clothes, or?—
I wasn’t sure. Right then, it was impossible to imagine ever washing my hair again, because it felt like there was no way for my circumstances to change for the better.
Andreas didn’t trust me, and I couldn’t think of a single reason for him to. We’d killed his sister. Maybe not me, precisely, but I certainly wouldn’t have spoken up when I was back at court, knowing how it’d irk my brother to hear my voice. I hadn’t known dragons, hadn’t had a reason to think they were so like us.
Perhaps now, I would go back and try to do something, if I had the chance, but I didn’t. It was too late, and who the hell was I to curb generations of strife and hatred? A fop. A hedge knight at best.
I hadn’t done a single thing for dragons when I had any power to do so, and it felt horribly fair to have lost my chance to be decent.
The others—Harri, Bran, and Gareth—they might like me, at least a little bit. They liked how loose I was, at the very least, and probably that I smiled easily and didn’t ask them to think too much about whether or not they could tolerate me, ethically.
There was no avoiding it with Andreas. He was the one I’d raised my sword to, and the one who’d spent the whole evening I was with his friends glaring across the campfire.
He was also the one whose flesh and blood had been killed by mine.
Maybe it was best for me to go. I couldn’t go back to Atheldinas, but there had to be somewhere.
We were at the edge of the sea. If we could find me a boat, Andreas could send me rowing out into it, and I’d either find land, or it wouldn’t be their problem anymore.
If it were high summer, I might’ve suggested it, even convinced myself that it’d be a grand adventure, but it was too cold out. I’d be miserable and freezing right up until the moment it stopped feeling so cold and I died.
I’d heard that happened to the mages who trekked after dragons into the Mawrcraig Mountains. It was when the cold disappeared that you most had to worry.
No, I couldn’t set myself afloat and hope for the best. There was nothing else for it; I’d have to apologize.
I’d summon the courage on the uncomfortable walk.
I just wished we had some wine to help me along.
7
ANDREAS
It turned out that moment was never going to leave my mind.
The heat of his body.
That tiny whimper from the back of his throat.
The way his whole body arched, almost so far that he seemed like a dragon, infinitely more flexible than most humans.
The whole way back to my cave, I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it.
It was horrible and disingenuous, what I’d done. Touching him so intimately while not telling him that I wanted him. Sure, my intentions had been precisely as I’d said. I’d been worried because being sore for days wasn’t healthy and could be a sign of something more serious.
He’d accepted the touch, even leaned into me, but . . .
I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d done something wrong.
