Chapter 9
Bianca
The shower had been bliss, hot water sluicing away the last memories of being cold and fearing worse.
The water even made me forget, just for a moment, that Kevin might not have been as lucky as I had been.
I felt scrubbed clean, renewed when I stepped out of the large shower stall and dried myself.
ísarr had also left clothes for me to put on, and I was pretty grateful for some clean things to change into, even if they were too large.
Wrapped now in a flannel shirt and thick sweater, I felt cozy and comfortable.
They drowned me, the sleeves falling past my wrists, but they were warm, and worse, they smelled like him.
Pine, a bit of smoke from the wood stove, frost, and something sharp I couldn’t name.
Every time I moved, the scent rose up to tease me, a reminder of whose clothes I wore. And I liked it, so much.
Horns, bluish skin, that perpetual scowl—none of it mattered.
I couldn’t fight how drawn I was to him.
If anything, all those strange edges only made him more magnetic, more impossible to ignore.
I mean, the guy was a real, honest-to-God dragon in his spare time.
I still couldn’t quite wrap my head around the fact that I’d just walked onto the porch this morning and discovered him napping in the yard like that.
It was... surreal, a little terrifying, but he was so nice beneath the gruff that it was hard not to like him.
While I was showering, he’d made bacon and eggs.
The plate waited for me on the counter, still warm, and I wolfed it down, pretending not to notice how it tasted better than any breakfast I could remember.
I dug in hungrily while he slipped away for his own shower, but the plate was so full I wasn’t even halfway through by the time he got back.
Blue hair lay damp against his neck, his skin still steaming, and his chest deliciously shirtless.
I couldn’t help but stare—ogle, actually—as he strode from his bathroom to his bedroom to grab a fresh shirt.
Stacked with tight muscle, he was impressive as hell, and definitely, very much not human.
Not only did his skin look blue, but his shoulders and arms held the faintest hints of snowflakes, like he’d gotten lightly dusted by snowfall on his way home, naked.
It was very sexy and very exotic. That whole dragon thing was definitely growing on me.
I was very glad he had his head turned and could not see me stare.
Selfishly, I was just as glad that the roads were so bad I couldn’t leave yet.
Though privately, I had to wonder—since he was a dragon, couldn’t he fly?
Not that I’d make that suggestion and cut my time short out here.
I was finally having a real adventure, the type I’d always dreamed of as a young girl.
Although, perhaps, my fantasies now were turning a bit more steamy than younger me would have expected.
It tied my belly into knots when we silently headed for his front door, and he fussed over extra scarves and hats for me.
There was a basket on a shelf that he pulled all kinds of woolen things from, and I was grateful to tuck his bigger black cap over my self-made pink one.
I tried not to read into things too much when his eyes lingered on my mouth and his calloused thumb brushed along the edge of my cheek.
I definitely wanted to believe he was flirting, just a little, though.
I needed the extra scarf he’d pulled around the lower half of my face.
It was windy outside, and the air was cold, colder than it had been early this morning, it felt like.
Maybe I’d just been far too distracted by the massive dragon I thought might have been snow art at first. There was still a huge impression in the front yard, with randomly collapsed piles of snow and a section of tail still almost entirely intact.
It was more evidence that what I’d seen was real. A dragon, a real dragon.
My eyes went to his face, to the frown that furrowed his brow as he stared at the piles of snow himself.
He had not put on a hat, but he’d taken the ridiculous hard hat from somewhere and hooked it to his belt.
Now I could see the truth: he’d slammed his horns through the plastic to make the ‘disguise.’ His neck was also bare above his coat, but I had a feeling the cold didn’t bother him at all.
His blue hair lay azure-bright against his neck and shoulders in gently curling strands.
“Let’s go,” he grunted, and leaped off the porch.
Then he halted abruptly, turned back to me, and held out a hand.
My belly definitely did a happy dance then.
My fingers tingled through my gloves as I slid my hand into his and let him help me down the slippery steps.
Then I was knee-deep in snow, and we set off.
We walked in silence at first. He moved ahead of me, long strides parting the deep snow so I could follow in his tracks.
His shoulders were tense, his head bowed as if he carried a weight no one else could see.
Any sense of that more tender, gentle mood was gone now, as if being outside had left him too exposed for that.
I bit my lip, then dared. “Are you worried? About the town, I mean. Nobody answered you this morning…” That would bother me, if my friends didn’t answer when I called, let alone a sheriff.
Especially after a storm like last night, though Mamma had not mentioned any issues with other towns.
Just that Kevin and I had gone missing and it had made a splash on the news, much to her dismay.
I felt guilty that I hadn’t once considered calling her last night to say I was safe. I blamed the cold and the shock.
His steps slowed, and he glanced over his shoulder at me, pale blue eyes catching the sunlight and glittering like silver crystals. “I think,” he said quietly, “the shadowed dreams weren’t just ours. The town was struck too.”
My chest tightened at his tone, so heavy and bleak.
Even if I couldn’t remember the full dream, I knew it had been black and terrifying.
There had been a voice calling to me: to do things, to go somewhere, to let him in.
Him? I wasn’t even sure where that thought came from.
Had the voice been male or female? I was pretty sure it hadn’t sounded like either.
It was, in a way, easier, though, to think that those dreams were like ísarr: from a realm beyond mine—something magical and strange.
I didn’t want to think my brain could come up with something that dark on its own.
The thought that it could have gotten hold of an entire town, though? That really was bleak. Terrible.
I scrambled for something lighter, anything to tug him away from that dark thought.
“Well,” I said with forced cheer, “if you ever need a distraction, I can bore you with stories from my glamorous life as a waitress. Oh, and my online classes. Business courses—so I can maybe start selling my crochet and knitting someday.”
I babbled, words spilling like a stream that wouldn’t dam.
I told him about my mom’s meddling, my loud family dinners, the chaos and love all tangled together.
He didn’t answer, but I thought I saw the faintest flicker in his expression, like he was listening.
He’d tilt his head toward me when we walked, angling an ear over his shoulder my way.
When I petered out, he would pause just a fraction, until I picked it back up. I liked it.
The yard gave way to the deeper woods, and we walked beneath trees and past several snow-covered ice sculptures; the ones that had guided my way yesterday.
I puffed out a breath and asked, “So… what do you do for a living?” I was pretty sure I knew, but I wanted to hear his voice, hear him talk back to me, and make myself part of his world just a little more.
“Wood carvings. Furniture,” he said without turning.
The words were short and brisk, but his tone was much lighter than it had been so far—a little proud, even.
With good reason: every single piece of furniture in his home had to be by his hand, and they were works of art—especially that beautiful, canopied four-poster bed.
I brightened because it felt like an opening, and I was dying to learn everything there was to know about him.
“That’s amazing. And the ice sculptures—do you sell those too?
” I could easily see those standing in pride of place as centerpieces at weddings or classy parties.
They were so beautiful and so realistic, even if they were transient art, they’d sell well.
The mood changed like a lightning strike. He stopped. Shoulders tightening, rising, holding. The silence after my question was too sharp, too final. I held my breath and waited for the answer, certain I was not going to like it. When it came, it was exactly as I expected, a sharp, curt “No.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” I began to apologize, worried that I’d really hit a nerve there.
Those sculptures had been my savior; without them, I’d never have found his home.
Why was he so sensitive about it? Was he not the one who had created them?
My words trailed off and hung there, full of uncertainty and misplaced hope.
He turned suddenly—too fast—and I startled, my boot slipping on a crust of snow.
I stumbled backward and would have gone down if not for how fast he moved.
One moment I was doomed to a soggy backside, the next: I was in his arms.