10
KAILIN
"Wine makes philosophers of fools and fools of philosophers. Either way, it makes the night more interesting."
—Codric Teress
The trek from the first-year dining hall to the officers' wing had never felt so long or so ominous. The corridors were dark and quiet, our four pairs of footsteps echoing off the walls and potentially muffling any sounds assassins might be making, if they were lurking behind stone columns and dark niches.
"I hope you are all keeping your hands on your sidearms." Alar voiced what all of us were thinking.
I wrapped my fingers around the grip of the combat dagger at my hip because I was better with it than with the gun. Beside me, Shovia did the same with her sidearm, and Codric fumbled with his holster for a moment before gripping his weapon as well.
"I should warn you all." His words came out slurred. "I'm too drunk to hit a target even if it's the size of a dragon."
"Then aim for the walls," Shovia said. "You'll hit something eventually."
Codric snorted. "You must be drunk too. The bullets will ricochet and hit one of us."
"Good point," she agreed. "Perhaps you should pull out your dagger then."
"But I like the gun more."
Shovia rolled her eyes. "If you are too drunk to aim the gun, and pointing at the walls is not an option because the bullets might ricochet, then the dagger is your only option."
Despite the ongoing banter, I was acutely aware of the danger as we walked through the corridors, and my eyes kept darting from one shadowy enclave to the next.
It was a strange thing, being a little buzzed and glowing with the best day of my life while simultaneously scanning shadows for assassins. The Citadel had been swept and cleared of converts weeks ago, and Saphir had personally screened every remaining resident, but I wasn't taking any chances, and neither were my friends.
Alar walked half a step ahead of me, his body angled to shield mine. He did this unconsciously now, a protective instinct that had become second nature to him. I should have told him I didn't need shielding, that I was bonded to the most powerful dragon in the force and was on my way to becoming immortal, which meant my body would soon be able to repair damage in minutes instead of days, but I kept quiet. Part of me knew I didn't need protecting. The rest of me liked being cared for by the man I loved.
I blamed the wine.
It was making my mind mushy and my body loose and needy. Alar's slightest touch, even just the brush of his hand or his shoulder, was enough to send tingles of excitement through mybody, and then there was the scent of him, the one beneath the soap and the faint trace of wine and highland whiskey.
I could get drunk on it.
My sense of smell was getting stronger, no doubt from the bonding, and I suspected the heightened awareness and the neediness came from the same place. Morgateth's energy fed me in a steady current even when he wasn't near, a vitality that made me feel like I could climb Mount Hope all over again, this time without stopping to rest.
For weeks, I'd been running on empty, dragging myself through training and lessons and prophetic nightmares that left me hollowed out. Now I was overflowing with energy, and the excess was looking for an outlet, and what better one was there than a night of passion with Alar?
I wanted him out of that dress uniform and between my thighs.
Shovia chuckled. "Did I tell you that you wear your thoughts on your sleeve?"
I felt my cheeks heating up. "Once or twice or a hundred times."
I hoped that my clipped response would shut her up, but I should have known better. It was hard to do when she was sober and impossible when she was drunk.
"You have that look on your face," she said.
"I don't know what you're talking about." It wasn't a lie because I couldn't know for sure what she was implying.
It was a legitimate loophole.
"Oh, I think you do." She leaned over and patted my heated cheek. "Your face is glowing."
"I hate you," I mumbled under my breath.
