Chapter 8
Draven
She wasn't in the dining hall.
Not surprising for a Sunday evening, but I'd checked anyway. Then the common rooms. Then the reading garden near the east wing where I'd seen her once with a stack of books and a thermos of something that smelled like cinnamon.
Nothing.
Two days since the banquet. Two days since the Final Trial. Two days since I'd watched Tess Whittaker do the impossible in that arena—become the first human Dragon Rider in history—and then vanish into whatever world she disappeared into when she needed to regroup.
Two days since a dragon chose me. Since Amrion's presence settled into my mind.
Everything had changed. We were still finding our balance.
I adjusted the bag slung over my shoulder. Two containers of food from the kitchen—grilled chicken, roasted vegetables, rice, fruit. Practical. Reasonable. The kind of thing anyone might do for a colleague they hadn't seen in forty-eight hours.
"Try the library."
Amrion's voice slid through my thoughts.
I stopped mid-stride on the path between the dormitory and the training grounds.
Right. The telepathy thing.
Still getting used to that.
"I was getting to that," I thought back, testing the shape of it. The bond was new enough that I wasn't entirely sure if I was doing this right. If there was a right way to do it.
"Sure you were. Right after you checked every other location on the grounds."
Amrion's amusement was unmistakable. Bonded for forty-eight hours and he already had opinions.
I wasn't sure how I felt about that yet.
"I was being thorough."
"Thorough is what we call it now?"
He'd been watching me circle the same conclusion for the last twenty minutes. Which—fine. He probably had been. The bond worked both ways, apparently. I just wasn't sure how much he could actually see yet. How deep it went.
How much of me was already his to read.
I didn't respond. Just shifted direction toward the Library, its castle-like silhouette rising against the dimming sky. The last light caught the stone and turned it amber.
I could've asked someone to pass along a message. Could've sent a text. Could've done any number of things that didn't involve carrying dinner across the grounds like some kind of—
Nope.
This was practical. She needed to eat. I had food. Simple.
Amrion said nothing. But the silence in my head felt knowing.
And that was going to take some getting used to.
The Library doors opened before I reached them. The building had been waiting.
I paused on the threshold. Looked up at the stone archway.
"Thanks," I said quietly.
The air warmed.
Right. Semi-conscious castle. Also something I was getting used to.
I found her office on the second floor of the Library—door half open, warm light spilling into the corridor. I stopped in the doorway.
She hadn't noticed me yet.
Tess sat behind her desk, surrounded by organized chaos—open books, color-coded sticky notes, a tablet propped against leather-bound volumes. Her glasses had slipped down her nose. One hand held a pen to her lips. Her hair was pulled up in a messy twist.
She shifted forward, and my incubus senses opened before I could think to stop them.
I cataloged every detail—the unconscious grace in her movements, the soft exhale when she found what she was looking for in her notes, the heat I could feel from her skin even from across the room.
But I noticed more.
The way her teeth caught her bottom lip. The small furrow between her brows. The exhaustion in the set of her shoulders. She'd been alone for hours, holding it together the way people did when they didn't think anyone was watching.
Just days ago, I'd watched her stand in the Grand Arena and do what no human had ever done.
I'd watched her fight—not with raw power, but with refusal.
Refusal to break, to bend, to be what anyone expected.
And now here she was, Sunday evening, alone in her office, preparing for Monday like the world hadn't just tilted on its axis.
Not fragile. Never fragile.
But carrying weight alone. The way people did when they'd learned early that no one else was going to carry it for them.
I recognized that. More than I wanted to.
The hunger stirred. Slow. Deep. The kind that didn't just want to take. It wanted to know. To understand. To be let in.
I knocked lightly on the open door.
She looked up.
Her eyes went wide and for half a second she just stared. Like she couldn't quite process that I was standing in her doorway. Then her expression shifted—surprise becoming warmth that made my ribs tighten.
"Draven." My name came out breathless. A little confused. "What are you—"
"Brought dinner." I held up the bag, kept my voice casual even though the charge between us was already live. "Figured you might've forgotten that food exists."
She blinked. Glanced at the bag. Back at me. A flush crept up her neck. "I—you didn't have to do that."
"I know."
The silence stretched. She didn't move. Neither did I. Every nerve ending woke up.
Her gaze dropped to the containers in my hand, then back to my face. Lingered there. "I eat," she said, but her voice had gone softer.
"When?"
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Her tongue darted out to wet her lower lip—an unconscious gesture that sent heat straight through me. "That's not—I had a granola bar."
"When?"
"...Earlier."
"Compelling." I stepped into the office. "Mind if I come in?"
"Oh—yes. I mean, no. I mean—" She laughed and pushed her chair back. "Sorry. Yes. Come in."
I crossed to the desk. She was already moving—shifting books to one side, clearing space with quick hands. Stacking papers into a pile that would probably make sense only to her. Making room for me.
It registered more than it should have.
I pulled a chair around to her side of the desk—close enough that when I sat, our knees almost touched. Close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off her skin. She tensed.
So was I.
I unpacked the containers between us, popped the lids, set out napkins. Handed her a fork. Our fingers brushed. She inhaled sharply—barely audible, but I caught it. Awareness went through her.
"You really didn't have to do this," she said again, but she was already reaching for the chicken. Her hand trembled slightly.
"I know."
She glanced at me sideways. Held my gaze for a beat longer than necessary.
This was dangerous.
This was exactly where I wanted to be.
"How are you holding up?" I asked.
She chewed slowly. Swallowed. "Fine."
I watched her. The way her shoulders stayed a fraction too high. The way she didn't quite meet my eyes when she said it.
"Tess."
"I'm fine." A beat. Then, softer, "It's just a lot. The Library, the training schedule, the oral history project—figuring out when I can actually work on it now. How everything fits together."
She didn't mention the trial. I let her not mention it.
"Moriyana's giving you flexibility?"
"Yeah." She relaxed a degree—this was easier ground. "The Library is still mine. That was non-negotiable. I'll have to carve out time for the oral histories somehow, but... It's a lot of context-switching, but I've done worse."
She set her fork down. Looked at me—really looked, the way she did when she was trying to figure something out.
"You're different," she said quietly.
I raised an eyebrow. "Different how?"
She tilted her head. "Steadier, maybe. Like you've found your center. Or maybe I'm imagining it."
"You're not."
The admission came easier than I expected. She waited—didn't push, just gave me space to say more or not.
I leaned back slightly, let myself feel the truth of it. "I've spent twelve years in operations. Built a company from nothing. Run missions that should've killed me." I met her eyes. "None of it prepared me for this."
"The bond?"
"The bond. Amrion." I shook my head, still trying to find words big enough. "This morning I woke up and he was just... there. In my head. Not intrusive. Not foreign. Like he'd been waiting for me to catch up."
Her expression softened. "What's he like?"
"Insufferable." The word came with a smile I couldn't quite suppress. "He reorganized my entire tactical framework while I was brushing my teeth. Told me my mission planning was 'chaos masquerading as organization.'"
She laughed. "Before coffee?"
"Before coffee." I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. "He doesn't just talk, Tess. He shows me. Filters thoughts, sharpens focus. Like a room I didn't know was dim suddenly lit."
"That sounds incredible."
She bit her lip. When she spoke again, her voice had gone quieter. "Why did you want it? Before the bond, I mean. What were you looking for?"
The question landed soft. Natural. But I went still—a fractional pause, a breath that came half a second too late.
She noticed. I saw it in the slight shift of her posture, the way her eyes tracked my face. But she didn't push. Just... waited. Gave me room to answer however I needed to.
That restraint opened something in me.
The words came slower than usual. Heavier.
"Access," I said. Not smooth. Not practiced. Just... true. "Leverage. The ability to protect people that systems have failed."
I stopped. Felt the weight of it settle between us.
"Being a Rider opens doors that stay locked for everyone else." My voice dropped. "And I've spent enough time on the wrong side of those doors to know exactly what it costs when no one opens them."
The truth sat there.
She held the silence. Didn't try to fill it with comfort or questions.
It undid me.
The memory came before I could stop it.
The front door, open when it shouldn't have been. The hallway light off. The smell—sweet and cloying, like overripe fruit and something chemical underneath. Incubus residue. Not mine.