Page 11 of Dark Dragon’s Wolf

He heard himself growling, felt Mayah’s touch on his arm. “Tristan? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he snarled. “Just stay away from me.” He tried to shove the vault door closed, so he couldn’t see the ghosts, so they would just fucking be quiet.

He couldn’t do it. His head was splitting, and he smelled blood.

“Stay away,” he repeated. “We can’t do this. We’re not doing it. Just no.” Because she was Al-Maddeiri. She could see into his mind, where no one should go. And look what happened.

“But I thought—”

“Whatever you thought, you thought wrong.” He took a breath and lied through his teeth. “I don’t feel that way about you.”

That ripped his heart out, but he had to convince her. His wolf was about to bust out, and he didn’t know if she could protect herself against him without her dragon.

“Are you serious?” Mayah said. “You have a boner the size of the castle’s main tower.”

Through the haze of pain, he tried to think of something to say to make it better. “I know you’ve wanted all the experiences you missed—”

Fury snapped in her eyes. “And you think this is what that is? That you’re on my bucket list or something? Or I’m just bored? You are a complete and total asshole.”

But her voice trembled just the tiniest bit. She was angry, but she was also hurt. Shit.

“Mayah, I—”

He reached out, but she slapped his hand away. “Forget it. I’m sorry I kissed you. Good job humiliating me. I’m going away now.”

He should tell her about the dragon. But he couldn’t. She was right. She had to get away.

Slowly, relentlessly, he pushed the ghosts back in the mental vault and slammed the broken door. Then, wearily, he rose to his feet, every muscle and joint in his body hurting. There was blood on his upper lip from another nosebleed.

The rooftop was dark under the stars. And Mayah was gone.

Chapter 5

Well. He’d totally fucked that up.

It was five days later, and Mayah still wasn’t speaking to him. And even without her dragon, pissed-off Mayah was a force to be reckoned with.

Tristan kept trying to talk to her, to explain why he’d been such a dick. To tell her that he’d talked to her dragon. To tell her he wanted to try it again—see if he could beg, bribe, or logic the dragon into coming out of her cave and giving Mayah back her wings.

The problem was Mayah. She might not have her dragon, but she still had her magic. She cloaked herself any time she was near him, so he couldn’t see her or hear her.

Couldn’t even scent her.

Sometimes he felt like she was right there, as if they still had a mental connection, but no matter how much he talked to the air like a total idiot, she wouldn’t respond.

Except the times when she conjured a few gallons of ice-cold water and dropped them on top of him.

He’d tried to send her a note via Mason, the new butler Mikah had dredged up from somewhere. Because he thought Draken princes and princesses were supposed to be all snooty and formal and humorless, apparently.

Mason had returned to Tristan with an impassive face, and the note on an elegant silver platter. Burned to ashes.

Tristan sent another note, this time with one of Mayah’s favorite giant chocolate cupcakes from Sophia Travis’s bakery back at Silverlake.

Epic fail. That one came back in ashes too—with the addition of a gooey, smelly mess of burned frosting mixed in.

That got a raised eyebrow from Mason.

In desperation, he’d tried to send Mayah an email, and had been hopeful and even a little excited when he got a reply. It turned out to contain a virus that filled his computer screen with tiny dancing dicks, all with long blond hair and pointed ears and little bitty elf hats.