Chapter 7 Rhianelle
Landon barely escaped with his life.
The messenger’s words keep echoing in my head as I hurry through the corridors. That golden thread between us pulls taut with distance. It has been screaming all morning. Now I know why.
He returned home hours ago and went straight to his quarters. I’m glad Landon and some of his warriors agreed to take up residence in the Wiolant House.
I move quickly, my feet silent out of habit. Nine hundred years in Astefar have trained the sound out of my steps. The palace halls are quiet, afternoon light slanting through tall windows.
I need to see him and know he is truly alive and safe.
His door is slightly ajar when I reach it.
I push it open carefully and step inside.
The chamber is much smaller than the one I originally assigned to him. I’d given him the east-facing quarters with warm morning sunlight and a sitting area. Landon gave that room to one of his warriors who arrived with a wife and two young children, insisting he had no need for the extra space.
His own quarters hold little more than a narrow bed against one wall, a wardrobe, and a desk cluttered with papers and books. Slumped in the chair behind it is Landon.
My breath catches.
He’s fallen asleep sitting up, his head tilted back against the chair with one arm hanging loose at his side. His dark-red hair is disheveled and there are scratches on his face, a bruise darkening his jaw.
But he is breathing, alive and safe.
The knot beneath my ribs loosens for the first time since the messenger arrived.
I move closer, quiet as a ghost, and that’s when I notice the books.
They are everywhere, spread across the desk, stacked on the floor beside him, with one still clutched loosely in his hand.
The Anatomy of Wyvern Flight and Structural Deficiencies in Youngling Wings.
My throat tightens.
He’s been researching. Even after nearly dying, even exhausted enough to collapse in his chair, he’s been trying to find a way to help Coral.
I study his sleeping face in the afternoon light. The strong line of his jaw, the copper lashes against his cheeks, the way his mouth relaxes in sleep. The golden string hums between us, warm and steady.
This is my mate. The one the gods have chosen for me.
Carefully, I reach for the book in his hand. My fingers touch his as I try to ease it away.
I stole a book from the masked man last night too. I am always taking things from the dark castle, daring him to notice and come after me.
Heat floods my face as last night’s dream crashes over me.
His hand fisted in my hair, his other hand wrapped around my throat as he takes me from behind, rough and demanding. The rasp of his voice in my ear. “Say you’re sorry again.” The way I’d begged, sobbed, surrendered completely to him in that dark palace.
My cheeks burn. I can feel the phantom sensation of it, the weight of his palm against my throat, the delicious pressure.
But his actual hand, the one I’m touching right now, feels... nothing like that.
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.
“You know a lot about healing,” Landon observes after a while.
“I spent a lot of time in Anastarros’s temples, learning from the healers there.” I don’t mention Astefar though, or the nine hundred years I spent learning to survive in a place where weakness meant death.
“It shows.” Landon stands, moving to a cabinet in the corner. “Do you drink tea? I was about to make some.”
He pulls out a tin and opens it. The scent of jasmine and elderflower drifts across the room.
My favorite blend.
“I love that one,” I say softly.
His smile widens. “So do I.”
We’re perfect for each other. The gods knew what they were doing, pairing us.
He prepares the tea while I clear enough books from the desk to make room for the cups.
When it is ready, he pulls over a second chair for me and perches on the edge of the desk.
The late afternoon light paints everything in shades of amber and gold.
The tea is hot and fragrant and the conversation flows easily between us.
We talk about books we have both read and healing techniques we have learned in different corners of the world. He understands the satisfaction of uncovering the cause of an illness and the helpless frustration when every treatment fails.
Landon gets it in a way few people do. He gets me…
This should be perfect. It should be everything.
Yet some small, ungrateful part of me still insists that something is missing. I want to seize that greedy little voice and crush it beneath my heel. Landon has given me nothing but patience and kindness.
“I’m so glad you’re here now,” I say eventually, setting down my teacup. “When I heard about the ambush, I was so scared that I couldn’t breathe.”
His expression changes. The warmth drains from his face, replaced by something dark and haunted. He stares into his tea for a long moment, jaw tight.
“Landon?” I lean forward, the sudden change in him sending unease through the bond.
“There’s something I need to show you.” His voice has gone flat and empty, stripped of all the warmth it held moments ago.
“What is it?” I set my cup aside.
He looks up at me, and the expression in his eyes makes my stomach drop.
“Come with me to the training grounds.” He stands abruptly, setting down his cup. “You need to see it.”
“See what?” I rise slowly, watching him.
He’s already moving toward the door. “Something that changes everything.”
The mate bond tightens. His dread bleeds into me through that golden thread.
I stand on shaking legs and follow him out of the room.
Whatever put that look in his eyes, I have a terrible feeling my world is about to break apart.
The training grounds are nearly empty at this hour.
Most of the wyverns have been settled for the evening, their handlers gone to supper. Only a few remain, massive shapes silhouetted against the darkening sky, their scales catching the last rays of sunlight.
Coral spots me immediately and comes bounding over, chirping excitedly. She presses her snout against my side, nearly knocking me over with her enthusiasm.
“Hello, sweetling.” I scratch behind her jaw ridge, the spot that makes her rumble with pleasure. “I missed you too.”
But my attention is on Landon, watching as he speaks quietly with the wyvern keeper. The older fae nods and disappears. He returns moments later, leading two wyverns.
One is Landon’s. Dorcha is massive, with wings that could shadow a house. I know her and nod respectfully.
The other is smaller and sturdier, with storm-gray scales and intelligent amber eyes.
“This is Sunstorm,” Landon says, running his hand along the gray wyvern’s neck. “He’s steady. Patient. Good-tempered. He’s trained enough of our novice riders that nothing surprises him anymore.”
I stare at the wyvern, then at Landon. “You want me to fly.”