Page 51 of Fallen Nocturne

It’s just warm.

There’s no spark or fire racing up my spine.

I frown, pulling the book free and setting it aside. The lack of feeling nags at me. Maybe I just need to try again.

Moving slowly, carefully, I take his hand in mine. His fingers are long, calloused from years of holding reins and weapons. I press his palm to my cheek, the way a lover might. I close my eyes and wait for the rush of sensation, the recognition, the rightness I’d felt in the dream.

Nothing.

My confusion deepens into something closer to alarm.

I lean into his palm, turning my face into his touch. I’m trying desperately to feel something. The fire and that sense of coming home.

Still nothing.

The panic is rising now. Landon is my mate. This is supposed to feel like—like—

This is supposed to feel like something. I move his hand lower and wrap his fingers around my throat.

My heart hammers as I hold his palm against my neck, waiting. I remember how it had felt in the dream when he’d gripped me there, when he’d held me exactly where he wanted me while he—

“What are you doing?”

I freeze.

Landon’s eyes are open. He is staring at me with confusion and the sharp awareness of a warrior woken suddenly. His hand is still around my throat. My hand is still holding it there.

Mortification crashes over me in a wave so intense I want to disappear.

“I—” No words come. What can I possibly say? I was testing whether you felt like the masked guy who made love to me in my dreams?

We stare at each other for a long, terrible moment. His hand remains on my throat. I can feel my pulse hammering against his palm.

Then his expression softens. The corner of his mouth quirks up in a gentle smile.

A warm laugh escapes him.

“You are very strange, Rhianelle,” he says quietly, without a trace of judgment. He releases my throat and sits straighter in the chair.

“I’m sorry,” I manage. “I heard about the ambush. I needed to see that you were safe.”

“I’m safe.” He rolls his shoulders, wincing slightly.

I should leave and let him rest. But I find myself rooted to the spot, staring at him. My mate is perfect, warm and understanding. So why doesn’t this feel anything like the fire in my dreams?

“The books,” I say, grasping for safer ground. “You were studying wyvern anatomy?”

“Yes. I’ve been going through everything I can find about wing structure and cases where wyverns couldn’t fly. Most don’t survive to become fully grown like Coral. There are some documented instances of mechanical assistance, though most of the texts are theoretical.”

He stops, shaking his head with a rueful smile. “Sorry. You probably don’t want to hear me ramble about—”

“No, I do.” And I mean it. “What did you find?”

He gestures to one of the books. “This one discusses the case of a wyvern in the Northern Courts who had damaged wing membranes. If Coral’s issue is structural rather than muscular, there might be a way to supplement the weak cartilage with some herbs from Myrkheim.”

He’s warming to his subject now, and I find myself pulled into the conversation. We debate the feasibility of different approaches, the materials that would be needed, the delicate balance between a healing draught and a poison.

It is easy and comfortable. Talking with him feels like talking to someone I’ve known for years rather than weeks.