CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Lukendevener
After I drop off Skye and her familiar, a restless energy fills me on the flight back to my castle.
Holding her in my arms felt amazing… and excruciating.
By the goddess, there’s a reason I’ve done my best to ignore emotions for several hundred years.
During our flight, I locked away all my swirling thoughts in order to get through it, making myself stone.
They burst free now. I assumed she could never want me as a weredragon.
Yet yesterday proved me wrong—she at least lusts after me in this form.
Although monster romance is a hobby of hers, so it might have been nothing more than curiosity on her part.
Then again, I made certain she enjoyed herself, bringing her to orgasm five times.
Was it enough to convince her of the superiority of a dragon lover?
A kernel of hope burns in my breast when I remember yesterday, how Skye clearly wanted me, even in my weredragon form.
Yet was that merely to satisfy her curiosity?
Last night, I read three more monster romances from her favorites list in order to try to understand her better.
She clearly has a fascination with the nonhuman.
Is that all our encounter meant? An itch scratched, as the humans say?
A growl rumbles through my chest as my thoughts careen back and forth with more chaos than a dragon youngling bouncing off the flight-training cave’s padded walls. The problem with being a renowned scholar and researcher is that I can make strong cases for both sides and argue them well.
Needing a distraction, I veer north to the waterfall, landing with a hard thump on the pond’s edge.
The frozen wall of icicles cascades down to meet the smooth sheet of ice stretching wide in front of me.
Why I’m here doesn’t really register until I rip off my boots and step onto the frigid surface.
My internal fire leaps higher, sending extra heat to my feet, making them warm enough to melt the top of the ice by a fraction of an inch.
Enough to make it slick.
I slide forward, using my tail for counterbalance, first on one foot, then the next. My thighs pushing with more force, I skate across the surface on a slippery trail of water that refreezes behind me.
After I’ve crisscrossed enough times to have painted the entire surface with lines of my passage, I slow to a halt. My arms lift into a perfect frame, one made to hold one woman and one woman only. When I begin to move again, instead of skating, I dance across the ice.
I glide and twirl, an imaginary Skye in my arms. A snort escapes me, half-bitter, half-amused. So much for distracting myself from thinking about the pretty little witch.
Yet I don’t stop. I dance and dance, practicing everything I’ve learned. Since we haven’t broken the spell, we’ll need to successfully complete the book’s dance competition.
I should be glad—the moment we finish the plot of the book, the spell will release us for good.
We’ll finally be free of it all. Yet an ache twists through my chest. All of my research indicates that since it’s a romance book, our characters will also declare their love for one another.
I don’t want the fake Luke to tell Skye he loves her.
And I’m not sure I’ll survive hearing the fake Skye tell me she loves me, when she means the human Luke of the book.
I slide to a stop, dancing alone no longer satisfying, even as practice.
Boots back on, I fling myself into the sky, the hour of dancing doing little to soothe the itchy restlessness stirring beneath my skin.
Flying faster than I ever let myself with Skye, I swoop low over the castle.
My wings clamp tight to my sides as I slice close to a tower before snapping outwards to thump against the air with pounding beats that fight to slow me.
I hit the stone of the courtyard at a run, heart racing.
It was a beautiful piece of flying, but I take little pleasure in it.
Nor does anything in the kitchen taste as good as it should.
Nor does my research into other uses for temperature regulation spells hold my interest.
I stomp around my library, disgruntled instead of enjoying the peace of having it to myself for the day. Yet it feels so empty without Skye.
“Get used to it,” I growl. Once we finish the book’s plot and the spell releases us, there will be no more reason for Skye to live here.
Everything will go back to the way it was before she upended my life.
My castle will be quiet. My library will be peaceful.
Nothing will interrupt my research. A month ago, I would have said this is all I could ever want.
Now it sounds like damnation.
I stop in front of the portal window, closing my eyes against its golden glow. There has to be an answer, and if it exists, I can research it, find it. “Take me to a book with answers.” I step forward… to walk out into my hidden romance collection.
A book sits on the shelf directly in my line of view.
I don’t know why it speaks to me, but it does.
I slip it free and read the description on the back.
As soon as I see the name Princess Buttercup, I know this book is special to Skye—perhaps the most special book of all if she named her beloved cat after one of the main characters.
I settle into my comfortable chair and pull out a packet of cinnamon candies, letting their sweet and spicy flavor burst across my tongue, tasting of her.
I lose myself for a moment, remembering the feel of her soft curves filling my hands, the clench of her tight heat wrapped around both of my cocks, the little noise she makes right before she finds her release.
They stir to life, straining against the leather of my pants.
The base of my main cock tingles, filling me with the desire to claim and knot Skye.
It returns me to my purpose: I must find a way to win her over, to convince her to accept me, even as a weredragon.
My hand glides over the cover of her favorite book.
I refuse to skim this one or use any of my speed reading abilities.
No. If this book is so important to Skye, it deserves rigorous study.
I open the cover and lose myself in the world of The Princess Bride.