My treasure. My love. My soulmate.
“Twenty-eight minutes,” I whisper, pushing the back of my head into Thomas’s cold cheek. “I’ve known you twenty-eight minutes, and you were nearly taken from me, Thomas. You aren’t allowed to do that again.”
“I’m very sorry,” he whispers, so earnest that my ancient heart could break.
My lips curve into a smile, and this time, when I nick the steel against the flint, a spark catches. As the flame takes, I turn and press my forehead against Thomas’s.
“The dragon egg produces heat, but it’ll need to be warmed, too,” I explain, stroking his wet hair before standing and heading towards the kitchen. I find a kettle, bottled water and an assortment of dusty tins.
“And it isn’t hurt, right?” Thomas asks with genuine concern.
“It’ll be fine,” I tell him, the water sloshing against the sides of the kettle as I fill it. I drop in a couple of teabags, then rush back over to set it on top of the stove. “Dragon eggs are sturdy things.”
I move around the kitchen, finding mugs and long-lasting milk and honey in a crusty jar. The scent of tea rises along with the warmth in the cabin.
“You told me you stole it back from the shifters, but what did they want with it in the first place?” His voice becomes more solid as he warms up.
“Dragons are powerful even after they’ve hatched, and become very territorial over their birthplace. The shifters basically wanted a fire-breathing guard dog.”
“And you didn’t like that?” he asks as I come back towards the stove with a mug containing a healthy dollop of honey and a splash of milk. I use an old oven mitt decorated with flowers to grab the hot kettle’s handle and fill a cup with steaming tea.
“I didn’t care, but the mother did. She paid me to get her egg back.”
“So youarea good guy.”
I wink, handing him the steaming cup of tea. Thomas is adorable, all bundled up in blankets. “Do not move from this spot, treasure. You will get nice and warm, or I’ll be very upset.”
“Is that even possible?” he teases, a deep sigh leaves him as he sips.
I exaggerate a pout. “Very.”
He laughs, a lovely little sound, but still frozen.
I’m quick to shrug off my own wet clothes, toss my reliable steel-capped boots aside—along with the dagger I hide in them—then grab the last blanket so I can tuck myself behind Thomas. Legs wide, I scoot close so he’s tucked into my chest and wrap my arms around Thomas’s middle.
“Oh…” he breathes, dropping his head on my shoulder. “So much better.”
“Good to hear,” I whisper into his ear, and when he shivers, I smell warmth enter his rushing river and mineral scent, like sun-baked waters.
“Tell me more about vampires,” he murmurs.
“We don’t care about sun, or garlic, and no cross ever held me back. Though I bet the monks and English we invaded wished it did when I was human.”
He tries to whip around. I chuckle and tighten my hold so he stays put.
“You were a Norseman?” he asks, excited. “Were you at the Raid on Lindisfarne? Oh! Or the Battle of Edington? Did you ever meet Rag—”
Laughter leaves me, and I press my nose into the crook of his neck. “I was from a little village made up of rock and strong-willed people. My father did go on some big raids, but he, my brothers and I were never the warriors people sang about.”
“Oh…”
I squeeze his middle. “Don’t sound so disappointed, treasure. I’m still a mighty Viking in my own right.”
“We both know your people weren’t called Vikings,” he grumbles, and I can hear his eyeroll.
I grin, pressing my nose deeper into his neck to fill my lungs with his scent. “You like history.”
“I study it. Well, I study Historical Methodology in Japan because it was the furthest I could get away from my family.”
