Page 68 of House of the Iron Reaper

My body follows suit. My mind churns and my intrigue climbs.

“How do you do it?” I ask, leaning forward. “Without faeth?”

“I don’t know what faeth feels like for dragons, but for me…” Ronan takes a gulp and swirls it around his mouth in thought. “I tap into myself. Every inch of my body, down to the bones, the sinew, the muscles, everything. I feel my soul in the palm of my hands, like… like molten glass I need to mould.”

“Molten glass…” I murmur, rubbing my lips, thinking.

“Dragons transform, but werewolves…” Ronan taps the table with a grin. “We’re forged.”

Chapter 26

Deyanara

Evening crawls in at Lovers’ Rest, sun sinking below the glittering walls. The sky dims to a hazy pink and orange. Algae lamps glow softly, hanging from rope strung between buildings. Heady smoke from incense and grilled food tints the air. A stack of empty plates, scraped clean, sits beside us on the table. Ronan leans against Deimos, stomach swollen.

“I think I overindulged,” he groans, rubbing his belly.

“Only slightly,” Novalie snarks. “Did you even breathe while you were eating?”

“Please do not kick a man when he’s down.” Ronan pouts. “Besides, Dey ate as much as me.”

A throaty burp escapes my mouth. I press a hand over my lips and mumble, “Apologies.”

I glance at Novalie, expecting a look of disgust, but she puffs out a laugh.

“Quite right,” she says with a grin.

“Deyanara needs it more than you,” Deimos agrees, nudging Ronan. “You have simply dined beyond the bounds of self-control. I believe a brisk walk shall do you wonders.”

“Noooo…” Ronan moans before slumping down on the table.

Deimos hooks his arms under Ronan and hauls him up.

“Come now, do not be a child,” Deimos huffs. Ronan flops in his arms. “I will drop you.”

“Ugh.”

Ronan reluctantly pulls himself to his feet, although he keeps an arm slung around Deimos’s shoulders for support. Novalie and I cheerfully wave them off.

Silence falls.

We sit side by side, close enough to feel the warmth radiate from her skin. The thought makes my heart stutter. The longer the silence goes on, the more desperately I try to find something to say. A compliment, perhaps? No, a compliment plucked from nowhere would be too odd. I consider a comment on the weather, but that seems banal. Oh Saints, help me.

“Can I interest you in a drink?”

A voice snaps me back. Novalie and I turn to see a red-eyed siren holding a tray of glass bottles, each filled with different liquids.

“No, thank you,” Novalie says before glancing back at me. “Would you like anything? My treat.”

“Oh, no, I…” I start to shake my head, but one of the drinks catches my eye.

The liquid is a shimmering blue with the head of a delicate flower floating inside. The stopper to the bottle is shaped like the hilt of a sword. At the sight of it, a memory flashes by, so clear I cannot believe I had forgotten it.

Novalie glances between me and the drink.

“Two of those, if you please,” she tells the siren.

After an exchange of gems, the siren plants two bottles in front of us and thanks us for our service. Novalie pushes mine in front of me.