Her tracing went deeper along his hand, following the veins up his wrist. “Why does he hate me so much?”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “He doesn’t like anyone.”
“Except Elva.” She arched her brow. “He practically turns into a guard dog around her.”
There was a tic in Ronan’s jaw, a muscle jumping like an insult or agreement. It was hard to tell. “He calls it vigilance. But I prefer to call it more of a selective tolerance.”
“Is that why you call him the hound? Is it some special title here, or just your personal pet name for him?”
“His sense of smell is…inconveniently effective. Give him a scent and he’ll track you anywhere on the continent. Even across it.” His eyes warmed, the memory of history building in his pause. “It’s only ever a matter of time before he finds whoever he’s hunting.”
“And he just let you pickhound?” She fought back a laugh. “That close to a dog when he’s basically an overgrown cat?”
“It’s funny,” Ronan said plainly. No shame. No hesitation. “And he tolerates it.”
Verena snorted. “That’s your metric for nicknames, tolerated mockery?”
“It’s not mockery,” he countered, completely sincere. “Isn’t that how others show affection?”
She stared at him. He stared right back. “So, youdohave a sense of humor?”
“Yes,” he said, completely flat.
As if that settled the matter for all eternity. Like stating a fact of nature. The sky is blue. Dragons breathe fire.
She tried not to smile, failing miserably. “You know, if Elysian ever hears me call him that, he’ll come for my throat.”
He huffed what might have been a laugh; it curled around her like heat. “He’d try. And you’d answer in kind—fang for fang. I’d have two feral creatures on my hands and one very ruined realm.” His thumb dragged once across her knuckles, claiming nothing, promising everything.
She cleared her throat, rubbing absently at her neck. “I do have one question.” Her eyes landed on the jug of water across the room, resting on the table.
Tendrils rolled across the floor, carrying it across the distance and setting it gently into her hand. She drank greedily, tilting her head back, and chuckled when he refilled it instantly.
“What’s that,” he asked her.
“Whatisthe blood oath between us?” Her throat bobbed as she swallowed the last of the water.
Without smiling, Ronan said, “That you must obey my every command.”
She sputtered, choking, water spraying in a stream across his tunic. His lips twitched as her eyes went wide with outrage. “What?”
Smoke swirled over him until his shirt was dry again. “I’m kidding.”
When he met her glare, his focus went straight to the tiny brown patch in her left iris, that fleck of dark blooming in the sea of blue-green. It had grown.
“It states that we cannot harm one another. That I can lend you my magic, if needed. And...” He coughed lightly, covering the rasp in his throat. “That I can try to help control yours, if it ever becomes...necessary. We’ve become a team, at least for now, until the heir is found and the kingdoms unite.”
He braced himself, waiting for the fury he knew she had every right to unleash. Would she see only chains in his words? Would she accuse him of binding her curse for his own ends?
Her silence was terrifying. She didn’t rage, didn’t laugh, didn’t accuse, only studied him, then lowered her eyes back to the serpent mark spiraling her arm.
He had chosen the opposite arm of where the burn still marred her skin from the viper he’d slain. The need to cover it had been strong, but he hadn’t wanted to erase that scar, hadn’t wanted to take another piece of her away.
This time, he only wanted to give something back. To make amends for what could never truly be mended.
Through the bond came the brush of her thoughts, confusion first, then the simmer of anger curling hot at the edges.
He braced for it. But what followed was understanding. The slow, reluctant warmth of acceptance. His chest loosened, a ragged breath slipping from him before she even spoke.
