But how?
How are they doing this? What are they?
Darkness curls in at the edges of my vision, heavy and irresistible, dragging me under like a tide.
And before it claims me, one final realization flickers through the fog.
They subdued me without bruising my skin.
Without laying a single hand on me.
7
RONYN
Soon after she drifts into unconsciousness, she wakes again in panic mode, breathing too fast, her muscles clenched as if she expects the world to rain down pain. She sits rigidly on the bed, holding the sheet to her chest, eyes tracking between us and the cave mouth behind, calculating her chances of reaching the exit and escaping. The moment she realizes her chances are zero, her shoulders slump, but only momentarily.
She’s sharp edges and blank eyes, desperate to use her magic but remembering the ease with which we contained it.
I stay where I am, near the fire, deliberately turned half away. Kelan does the same on the other side of the chamber. Darial lingers closer, but even he keeps his hands loose at his sides, trying to look unthreatening.
“Where are my clothes?” she demands hoarsely.
Darial answers. “Burned. They were soaked in blood and filth.”
Her mouth tightens. “You washed me.”
“Yes.”
She jerks the sheet tighter around herself, fury flaring hot and bright. “You had no right.”
“No,” Kelan agrees calmly. “We didn’t. But you were dying.”
“That doesn’t give you ownership of my body.”
Our fated mate has no idea how wrong she is. We own her body as much as she owns ours. We are bonded by something higher than human understanding, but she will know the truth soon enough.
“We weren’t thinking of ownership,” I say, keeping my voice even. “We were thinking of keeping you alive.”
Her eyes snap to meet mine, wild, green, and bright with tears.
“Then why am I naked in your bed?”
Because we are dragons, and instinct demands we provide you comfort. Because hoarding our mate is our greatest urge. Because the years of waiting have left us too desperate not to indulge at least some of our desires, even as we contain the baser.
Darial steps forward and sets a folded bundle on the edge of the bed without looking at her. “Fresh clothes,” he says. “They’re new.”
She stares at them suspiciously.
“Turn around,” she snaps. “All of you.”
Immediately, all three of us respond to her command.
The sound of fabric rustling behind us is frantic and hurried. She hisses in pain once as the fabric must snag on her injuries. My jaw tightens, but I don’t turn.
When she’s finished, she clears her throat sharply. “I’m done.”
She’s dressed in soft leggings and a loose sweater thathangs to her thighs. The sleeves are too long, the collar too wide, but it’s practical and warm.
