Chapter 16
Chapter
Sixteen
Do not allow singing unless it’s praise. Even then, only in tune.
-Humaning for Beginners: A Dragon’s Tale of Human Management
DAY THREE
The dragon used my brain like a mouse used a wheel, running, running, running.
Restless, snarling, relentless. I tossed and turned for hours, sheets tangled around my legs, sleep an impossible dream.
Across the room, Taron wasn’t faring any better.
He lay on a floor-pallet and shifted constantly, exhaling frustrated huffs that kept the air thick and electric.
When the first streak of sunlight dared sneak between the curtains, he groaned.
“Can we stop pretending to rest now?” he muttered.
“Ja, please.” I flopped onto my back, exhausted by sheer consciousness. I rubbed at the tender space between my neck and shoulder. Whatdoyouknow, I was sore from our bit of sparring. “What do you want to do today?” I grumbled.
“Not thinking would be nice,” he said, tracking my movements.
“First problem: if we can’t think, we can’t come up with something to do to not think.”
“Thankfully, I already have an idea.” Taron rose, all disheveled and broody, his hair mussed, his stubble darker, his jaw tight. The effect? Devastating. He was fantasy breathed to sizzling life, furious at the world but ready for a kiss.
With a dramatic flare I might have laughed about any other day, he strode over and tore back the comforter from my side of the bed, as if I might not have the strength to do it on my own. Then he reached for my hand, hesitated halfway, and dropped his arm.
“You want that massage I offered or not?” he asked, voice sharp as a dragon claw.
I blinked, trying to remember how to breathe.
“Ja. Even though you basically implied it’s a death sentence.
” I mean, this didn’t have to signify anything.
I was wearing a tank top and shorts. Perfectly normal, perfectly platonic.
Utterly dangerous. “Do your conditions still stand? All business, only some of it funny?”
“I’ll behave even if it kills me.”
I shouldn’t. “I want it very much,” I rasped, betraying all sense of chill.
His stance softened as his amber irises flared, catching the light and resembling molten honey. “Turn over.”
I rolled onto my stomach slowly, trying not to think about the scandalous things his voice did to my weakening self-control.
“Tell me if the pressure is too much.” Shirtless—a war crime if ever I’d seen one—he climbed onto the bed and straddled my thighs. His hands found my shoulders…and then I melted. “Or if you want more,” he said with a chuckle, the tension in him draining, too, as if he enjoyed my enjoyment.
“Just keep going,” I pleaded.
He was strong, ja, but deliberate. Focused.
No seductive strokes. Just relentless, thorough pressure, digging into muscles that had been coiled for centuries.
A moan escaped before I could stop it. My spine arched slightly.
His thumbs swept along a knot in my lower back, and I felt something inside me sigh.
I never feared he might strike. No need for armor. Amid the intimacy of the moment, only peace lay between us. A vulnerable, perilous peace that did strange things to my emotions. Rearranging, erasing, building.
He could have given the act a sensual turn, and part of me might’ve begged for it. Instead, he kept his promise. Before I knew it, my eyelids drifted closed, and the ache in my soul quieted beneath his touch. All too soon, the massage stopped.
I didn’t move, didn’t let myself look back at him, just reached behind and grabbed his wrist as if it was a lifeline. Perhaps it was. “Stay,” I whispered, raw.
He hesitated. And then he stretched out beside me, wrapping his arms around me and becoming a barrier to the world. Heat radiated off him. His scent—cedar and sun—wrapped around me, too.
I nuzzled closer, burrowing into the crooks of his body as though I belonged there. He threaded his fingers gently through my hair, kissed my temple and released a breath with no hint of frustration. Only contentment.
Finally, the dragon went quiet. Sleep claimed me with greedy hands.
I wasn’t sure how much time had passed when I stirred and found myself tangled in Taron’s arms. Realization struck as fast as lightning in a thunderstorm, and I blinked up at the ceiling in stunned silence. I slept. With him. And lived to tell about it.
Even more shocking? So had he. Taron was just beginning to stir, disoriented but warm against me.
For a moment, we merely breathed together.
When I forced myself to sit up, I noticed the marks on his neck and cheek.
The one left by my blood when we first met.
Days ago, but also a lifetime. It glowed brighter than usual, with a subtle pulse that echoed in my bones.
I frowned. So what did that mean? And why did I want to touch the spots more than I wanted to breathe?
Not reaching out physically hurt.
Beside me, he groaned and rubbed a hand over his face. “We better get up before I do something we’ll both regret.”
Regret. The word hit, a slap made of ice, waking the dragon. Burn him!
My heart thundering, I shot out of bed as if a catapult had launched me. I couldn’t stay cooped up in the palace with him. I’d cave and touch him.
“I’ll, um, return in an hour,” I called over my shoulder. “Busy day. Be ready.” I didn’t wait for a response.
A cold guestroom became my temporary sanctuary, where I scrubbed the scent of Taron from my skin, a woman possessed. I didn’t have the luxury to unravel what our accidental nap actually meant, or why I’d felt safer in his arms than I had in centuries.
Instead, I threw myself into damage control. From outside the window, I heard the snap of banners in the breeze, vendors hawking their wares and the clang of toy swords. The Firebound Festival.
The perfect distraction. If I couldn’t kill the heat between us, I could at least engross us both with a full-blown cultural spectacle. An authentic, tradition-drenched, festival-of-flames-style dragon ceremony the professor of ancient dragon lore might enjoy.
A subtle thank you? Not remotely. Effective? Hopefully.
Meanwhile, the dragon inside me grew louder. Needier. Its commands sharpened, seething just beneath my skin. I locked the beast down, again and again, one breath after another.
By the time I returned to my chambers, Taron stood dressed and calm on the surface, but tension tightened his jaw and shadows darkened his face. The much-needed rest we’d shared was wiped away.
We didn’t speak as I led him through the palace’s gilded halls and out into the open courtyard, where my people had transformed the space into a glittering homage to dragonkind.
Fire braziers were lit, dancers rehearsing and a feast already beginning to sizzle.
Low, sultry music drifted on the air, with drums that mimicked the quickened staccato of a dragon’s heartbeat.
“This is the Firebound Festival you discussed yesterday?” he asked, not even trying to mask his awe.
“Ja. A peek into the past.” Commander Granger had indeed tripled the number of guards. They marched here, there, everywhere, on alert.
The scent of honeycakes, emberbread and hearty cinderpot stew teased my nose.
We sidestepped several children of the workers in the palace as they raced about, smiles ear to ear.
Rows of brightly colored booths encircled the courtyard.
A clothier, with gorgeous scarves in every color imaginable, a blacksmith hammering a trinket from molten metal and beneath an awning shaped like a dragon’s claw, worked a calligrapher.
I guided Taron beyond a display of ceremonial armor, toward a row of people dressed as dragon champions and villains throughout the ages, each person calling out battle facts whenever we paused before them.
Taron tilted his head, studying a particularly gruesome weapon used by the shifter king who ruled before Lorik. “I have this,” he said. “The real one.”
“Because of course you do,” I deadpanned.
He grinned, irises gleaming with genuine enthusiasm. “You’re walking me through a living museum. This is a scholar’s dream.”
A quiet satisfaction warmed me. I knew how much he’d enjoy the festival. And that I was learning his moods so surely… well, that was tomorrow’s problem. I hated how much I liked his smile. I hated more how each time he flashed it my direction, the dragon inside me writhed.
Test him. He’s marked. If he survives, he’s mine. If he doesn’t, he was never yours.
It was the most the dragon had spoken in eons, and I had to grit my teeth against the pictures painted. One steeped in dreams come true, the other a certain nightmare.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a boy struggling to wrangle a runaway goat that had wandered into the edge of the festival prep. His little arms flailed as the goat gleefully knocked over a table, scattering bowls of corn, oats and barley.
“Excuse me,” I murmured before striding over.
The goat sensed my approach and went still mid-prance, spitting out a mouthful of grains. I crouched beside the boy and brushed a lock of hair from his brow.
“Your will must be stronger than the animal’s,” I told him gently. “But next time, maybe don’t walk him past a buffet of his favorite snacks. Hungry goats are a menace.”
The boy giggled, cheeks red. “Ja, my queen.”
I helped him to his feet and handed him the goat’s leash. As he offered an adorable salute, a man I recognized joined us, and both the boy and I grinned wide.
“Hello, Franz,” I greeted. Franz had served as my partner in training.
We’d risen in the ranks together and always had each other’s backs.
When I’d taken over as sovereign, I’d given him the job of his choice.
He’d chosen Warden of the Ashkeepers, commanding our scribes and protecting our Library of Legends.
“I’m so glad you’re here.” He and Taron should meet.