“I knew you were still in there,” I murmur, fingers sliding along his jaw. “You stubborn, dramatic lizard.” His eye opens again to watch me. The gold is different now. Warm, not wild. I rest my forehead on his once more. “Come back to me.”
The night holds its breath, and somewhere deep within the dragon’s chest, something breaks. Something yields. And finally, something remembers.
Chapter Nineteen
Theo
Iretreated into my dragon because he is simple in his feelings. Rage, grief, pain. A cycle of destruction that shields me from the bullshit of others.
Time heals all wounds.It does not.Soon, you’ll only remember the good things.That’s the problem—all I can remember are the good things.You’ve moved into the next stage of grief.I have not moved, and I never will.A part of her lives on in you.That gives me pause. I search for it, but alas, it appears someone forgot to put that in my gift box.
Except now, it’s there. A glow not my own. Something unique to Daphne. What changed?
My dragon ignores the potential, persuading me to believe it must be trickery at work. Perhaps from my brothers, who can’t find their way to bring me back home. Because home is not in the bricks and mortar they weep in; it’s in a woman who lived her life without fear or restraint. Occasionally, I fool myself into thinking her fingers whisper against our scales as we fly high in the stars. But mostly, I brood and wait for the day when my dragon will have consumed my soul and we are no longer two. When he is alone and I am gone. I don’t know how long that will take, but I sense myself becoming smaller and less significant. It’s the only blessing.
But now there’s this woman who wears her face and speaks a jumble of words so unique to her that I’m struggling to see beneath the magic to the rot beneath. Is this an Idol playing with me, or my brothers’ attempt to lure me back to them? I snarl at her and prepare to burn away the trickery.
She keeps one hand on our scales and eyeballs some bones on the ground. “Don’t you clean up after yourself? Didn’t we discuss these terms when I last agreed to be your dragon wife? I could polish your gold, rub your jewels, and offer glowing and entertaining company.”
I shake our head as if I can wrench her loose.
“In return, you make the sausage, ideally before it arrives, since we know my issues with eating friends. Resurrection has made a profound impact on some things, but chomping on friends, no matter how good they taste, is not something that has changed. I considered going vegan for three tempos, but then there was exposure to vegetable sausages and I just couldn’t do it. Maybe I can be vegan except for the sausage? Cakes are okay, right? And cheese? No, wait, that’s an issue.”
I huff.
“You’re right, best to just stay as I am, imperfections and all.”
She’s perfect. What is she talking about? Bloody woman still can’t see her worth.
Wait. She... as in Daphne.
My dragon snorts at my thoughts as if he’s been waiting for me to catch up. He’s kneeling before her. Does she understand that he kneels to no one? The significance of this act is unfathomable.
Mine.
Ours.
Keeping one hand still on our scales, she bends to pinch a bone between her fingers. “Was it dead already? Maybe we can become part-vegan where we only eat dead animals?” She frowns as she drops it. “Yes, that’s what we are now. Semi-vegans, consuming absolutely no live animals. Really, we are doing the realm a service by cleaning up the dead.”
Semi-vegans.The words settle into me like grit in a wound.
We shift under her touch, muscle sliding beneath scale, heat building along the ridge of our spine. Hunger and fire come easily to him. Taking is second nature. He does not understand mercy, or compromise, or her steady palm resting against the center of our snout as though we are something that can be reasoned with.
No one stands this close to a dragon.
Correction—no one sane.
Ours.
He agrees, the thought tight against our chest. But there’s a fear so deep it weaves around the word. Our claws press deeper into the basin floor, and stone splits beneath them. The urge to rise, to tower, to remind her of scale and consequence, rolls through our limbs.
If she is a trick, I need only open our jaws and end it. If she is real?—
Fire gathers in our throat. Uncaring, she brushes ash from her fingers and smears it across our scales as though we’re no more dangerous than a sulking hound. “You sulk for five tempos, and suddenly we’re redecorating in apocalyptic chic.”
Our lips peel back, exposing rows of teeth built for war. Smoke leaks between them. The heat swells, ready to erase the shape before us and the ache it brings with it.
She doesn’t move.
