I consider the question. Consider him—this wild, reckless, impossible dragon who’s been tearing down my carefully constructed defenses since the day he crashed into my infirmary room with an armload of stolen books.
“No,” I hear myself say. “Not too much.”
Something shifts in his expression. Relief, maybe. Or something deeper.
He doesn’t kiss me. Doesn’t push for more. Just lifts our joined hands to his mouth and presses his lips to my knuckles—a gesture so tender, it makes my chest ache.
“Sleep,” he murmurs against my skin. “I’ll be here.”
I close my eyes. His warmth surrounds me, his heartbeat a steady rhythm I can feel through our joined hands.
Valdris whispers at the edges of my mind.Little flame. You can’t escape me.
But with Rurik beside me, his fire answering mine in the darkness, her voice seems distant. Uncertain.
Less like a promise and more like a prayer she’s not sure will be answered.
I fall asleep to the sound of his breathing and the warmth of his hand in mine.
And when I wake in the dawn, he’s still there.
Holding on. Warm.
FOURTEEN
BRANDED
AISLING
The brand wakes me before dawn.
Not with pain—I’m almost used to that now. It’s the whisper that drags me from sleep, sliding through my dreams with the intimacy of a lover’s voice against my ear.
Little flame. I’ve been watching your dragon sleep.
My jaw clenches. Three days of this. Three days of Valdris threading through my thoughts like she belongs there, commenting on everything I do, everything I feel. The violation isn’t the pain anymore. It’s the constant presence. The knowing that no thought is truly private.
He barely closes his eyes. So devoted. So foolish.
I sit up slowly, careful not to wake Rurik. He’s in the chair beside my bed—same position he’s held every night since the mountain. Stubborn bastard won’t leave, no matter how many times I tell him he needs actual rest.
The crimson mark on my wrist catches the pre-dawn light. I’ve stopped trying to hide from it. Stopped obsessing over every shift in its patterns. Acceptance isn’t surrender—it’s efficiency. I can’t fight what I won’t look at directly.
Practical little flame. I do admire that about you.
“Get out of my head.” I pitch the words low enough that Rurik doesn’t stir.
Valdris’s amusement ripples through my skull.I am in your blood, child. In your fire. You might as well ask yourself to leave.
I swing my legs over the bed’s edge and stand. My body moves through the motions automatically—bathroom, cold water on my face, the sharp shock of it grounding me in the physical. In something that’s mine and mine alone.
The woman in the mirror looks tired. Dark circles. Pallor beneath the freckles. But her jaw is set and her spine is straight, and when I meet my own reflection’s gaze, I don’t flinch.
I’ve survived worse than a voice in my head. Survived the draining. Survived the mountain. Survived my entire worldview shattering and rebuilding around the existence of dragons.
A dead queen with delusions of ownership isn’t going to break me now.
Not dead,Valdris corrects, her tone sharpening.Not for much longer.
