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Wildflowers and sunshine and warm arousal, sweet and intoxicating and so perfectly her that my dragon surged forward with a possessive sound I had to actively swallow. I'd spent centuries reading threat assessments and battle maps, and nothing had ever required this much concentration.

"You look incredible," I said. My voice came out rough.

Her cheeks flushed, and I watched the color spread down her neck and disappear beneath the collar of her dress. "Thank you. You clean up pretty well yourself."

I glanced down at myself. Dark pants and a black shirt, nothing ceremonial, but I'd left the top buttons undone and rolled the sleeves because the evening was warm. And because I'd noticed, on more than one occasion, that she tended to look at my forearms. "I wasn't sure what the dress code was for a private dinner."

"I think you nailed it," she said, and the particular quality of her smile sent heat pooling low in my belly.

We stood there for a moment, just looking at each other. The air between us was charged in a way I'd spent weeks trying to ignore and had apparently given up on entirely.

"Come on," I said, offering her my arm. "I thought we'd eat on the balcony. The view's better out there."

She took my arm, and the simple contact sent an immediate wave of calm through me that I hadn't expected. Her hand in the crook of my elbow, her warmth radiating through the fabric. I'd anticipated desire, and that was certainly present. But there was also this quiet settling, as if something that'd been slightly off-kilter for years had finally found its level.

I led her through my chambers and out onto the balcony, where she drew a soft breath.

"Kavan," she said. "This is beautiful."

"I wanted it to be right." I pulled out her chair. "You deserve right."

She sat, and I moved to the other side of the table, focusing on the task of being a reasonable host rather than on the way the candlelight caught in her hair and turned ordinary gold into something that looked almost molten.

I signaled to the kitchen through the comm unit. Within minutes, servants appeared with covered dishes, set everything out with practiced efficiency, and disappeared again. They left us with an array of food that Murdette had promised would suit human tastes. Roasted meats and fresh vegetables, bread still warm from the oven, fruit from the southern provinces.

"This looks amazing," Leila said, genuine warmth threading through her voice.

"I can't take credit. Murdette coordinated everything. I just told her I wanted to impress you."

"Mission accomplished," she said, and something about her smile made me want to find Murdette and thank her properly.

We started eating, and for a while the conversation stayed light. She told me about her afternoon, about working with Chloe on the app logistics, about a check-in message from the Prime that she'd answered while sitting cross-legged on her bed nibbling on the bread Lera had given her. I told her about the progress reports from the outer villages, about the Alliance agronomists arriving next week to assess the farmland. A conversation I'd usually find tedious and found, tonight, utterly captivating, because she listened the way she listened to everything, with her whole attention.

But underneath the easy back-and-forth, something else was building. I could sense it in the way her eyes met mine and then moved away. In the subtle shift of her scent that told me she was just as aware of me as I was of her.

Finally, she set down her fork and looked at me directly. "Can I ask you something?"

"Anything," I said, and meant it.

"Tell me about Marion," she said quietly. "What she meant to you. What it was like when you met her."

The question didn't surprise me. I'd known it was coming. Had been thinking about how to answer it honestly since the moment I'd invited her here. If we were going to move forward, she needed to understand the truth about Marion. About what that connection had been, and what it hadn't.

I set down my fork and leaned back, searching for words that were accurate rather than comfortable.

"Marion's scent was sweet," I said finally. "Honey and roses. Innocent. Her blood sang to me in a low, soft melody. Beautiful, but gentle. Soothing, almost." I paused, watching Leila's face. "When I caught her scent that day at the cliffs, it was like being struck by lightning. I'd heard about blood singers my entire life but had never expected to find one. They're rare. A gift most Drakhoni never receive."

"But you did," Leila said softly.

"I thought I did, and I was overwhelmed. Possessive. I wanted to take her away immediately, to claim her, to make sure nothing could separate us. Marion had been frightened of me at first, which made sense. I was enormous and strange, and her instincts were right that I wasn't entirely human. But her fear faded quickly, replaced by something else. Desperation, maybe, or relief. Her husband had been cruel to her, and she came readily when I offered her a way out." I turned my wine glass slowly between my palms, a habit I'd had since before the hibernation. "We spent one night together in a barn loft on the edge of her husband's lands, hidden in the straw and starlight. I remember how her blood sang to me, but something held back. I didn't envenomate her. Some deeper part of my dragon couldn't finish what my need had started. It didn't feel right, and I didn't understand why."

Leila was quiet, watching me with those green eyes.

"When her husband killed her," I continued, "I lost myself completely. The rage was consuming. I burned his lands, his village, killed thousands because I had no control left. Because I'd lost something before I'd even understood what it was." I held her gaze steadily. "What I felt for Marion was protective. The recognition of what I believed to be a blood singer. It wasn't love. I didn't know her. She was beautiful and kind and her blood called to me, but I didn't love her."

"Then why did your grief last so long?" Leila asked, something careful and compassionate in her voice.

"Guilt," I said simply. "Because my rage led to her death and thousands of others. Because I'd let my dragon make every decision. Because I'd failed her and failed my people." I leaned forward. "I grieved what might have been. But I didn't grieve Marion herself, because I never really knew her."