He shifted, his thigh brushing against my hip. I gasped, the sound loud in the silence.
Fenrik flinched back as if burned. “The latch is secure,” he said.
“Good,” I managed, my voice breathless and unfamiliar. “I’d hate for the bed to escape in the night.”
“The wardrobe contains appropriate attire.” Fenrik gestured. “Mrs. Crane took the liberty of preparing a selection.”
I crossed to the wardrobe and pulled it open. Silks and velvets in deep jewel tones hung in neat rows, more gowns than I’downed in my entire life combined. My fingers brushed against emerald damask, wine-coloured satin, midnight blue wool.
“These are...” I turned back to him. “I can’t accept—“
“You can wear them or not, I don’t really care. I wanted to make sure you have what to wear and don’t feel forced to walk around naked.” A corner of his mouth ticked up. “Mrs. Crane will bring linens. Try not to get lost in them.”
Fenrik jerked back, tripping over his own feet in his haste to put distance between us. Two spots of colour burned high on his cheekbones.
“I’ll leave you to settle in.” He was already backing toward the door. He fled.
There was no other word for it. Lord Fenrik Stormgarde, master of Stormgarde Manor, eccentric and recluse,fledfrom my bedroom like his coat-tails were on fire. Well, that went well. I started unpacking my clothes. There was no way I would wear the gowns in that wardrobe.
The wyrmling had spent the morning plastered to my side, refusing to let me out of his sight for more than a few seconds. Every time I tried to set him down, he’d make a pitiful keening sound that made my heart clench. So I’d given up and worked around him, checking his vitals with one hand while he wrapped his tail around my wrist.
His scales had cooled, the fevered heat fading to something closer to normal dragon-warmth. The silver sparks no longer crackled along his spine when he moved. Progress. Small, fragile progress that I didn’t dare trust yet.
I was in the drawing room, the wyrmling dozing in my lap while I reviewed notes on curse-adjacent magical maladies, when the door swept open and a woman entered like a queen gracing her subjects with an audience. Her blonde hair was coiled in elaborate braids threaded with silver, catching the lamplight like a crown. Her Hearthcrafter robes were green silk with silver embroidery that probably cost more than my family’s yearly income. She moved like she was dancing a choreography, using a basket of supplies hooked over one arm as kind of elegant prop.
“Fenrik, darling.” Her voice was warm. “I’ve brought those healing tonics we discussed.”
I hadn’t heard Fenrik enter behind her, but there he was, shadows under his eyes darker than yesterday, his posture rigid as he watched her set crystal vials on the side table. The wyrmling stirred in my lap, a low growl building in his throat.
Then those pale green eyes found me. “And you must be Miss Emberlin.” Her smile stretched wider, revealing perfect teeth. “Oh, pardon me.LadyStormgarde now, isn’t it? How delightful.”
I set my notes aside, one hand steadying the wyrmling. “You must be Lady Morvain.”
“Kelda, please. I’ve been helping dear Fenrik research his condition foryears.“ She turned to him and laid her hand on his arm. “We’re practically family.” Fenrik flinched. Then his face went smooth. His shoulders relaxed into her grip as though the flinch had never happened.
“You look better today, Fenrik.” Kelda’s thumb stroked along his forearm, and her smile widened even more. For a moment, the air around her hands seemed to blur.
I became acutely aware of how I must look. Hair escaping its tie. Ink stains on my fingers. Wearing my own practical clothes instead of the silks in the wardrobe. A commoner playing at nobility with a dragon in her lap.
And then Fenrik’s eyes met mine. His gaze dragged down my body with an intensity that made my skin prickle, lingering on my throat, my collarbones, the swell of my breasts beneath my linen shirt. When his attention climbed back to my face, silver flickered in those storm-cloud depths. My thighs pressed together involuntarily. The ache from last night returned with a vengeance, pooling hot in my belly.
Kelda’s fingers tightened on his arm. “The tonics should help with the episodes,” she said, and something in her voice had sharpened. “Though I wonder if perhaps you’re overtaxing yourself, darling. The strain of entertaining a guest ...”
“Wife,” I heard myself say. “The contract was quite specific.”
Kelda’s smile didn’t waver, but her eyes went flat. “Of course. How modern.”
The wyrmling growled louder, his claws pricking through my trousers. I stroked his spine to soothe him, and Fenrik’s gaze tracked the movement of my hand.
Jealous, I realised with a start.He’s jealous of his own familiar.This idea shouldn’t have sent heat flooding through me. It absolutely shouldn’t have made my nipples tighten against my bodice.
Kelda was still talking, something about research and ley-lines, but I couldn’t focus. Not with Fenrik’s hungry gaze burning holes through my clothes. Not with the wrongness of that flinch echoing in my mind. Something was very, very wrong here. My stomach churned, whether from jealousy or genuine wrongness, I couldn’t say. Kelda departed with air kisses and promises to return tomorrow. The door hadn’t fully closed behind her before I was on my feet, the wyrmling protesting with a sleepy chirp as I displaced him from my lap.
“What was that?”
Fenrik was already moving toward the sideboard, putting furniture between us. “Lady Morvain is a family friend. She’s been invaluable in researching—“
“You flinched when she touched you.”
