Chapter 8
Attalus caught his fainting mate in his arms, not displeased to have the chance to hold her but certainly displeased over the circumstances.
“I knew you were pushing yourself too hard,” he complained to her unmoving face.
He sighed, lifting her into his harms, and walked them quickly back into the shelter of the cave. On his shoulder, Slinky chittered and shook out her damp coat before sniffing disdainfully at Leita’s starlight hair. The marten glowered at him, apparently not liking that he carried two females.
Attalus shrugged.
Within the relative shelter and out of the rain, he sat cross-legged on the ground, Leita cradled against him and Slinky making herself comfortable under his hair. Given a chance, he devoured the sight of his strange little fae.
When she wasn’t scowling, she looked so young. Fae were longer lived than even dragons, so she could be far older than his eighty years. She certainly carried a jaded attitude as though she’d lived a long life already.
That all seemed a little harder to believe as he traced the smooth arches of her brows first with his gaze and then his thumb. He didn’t like the thought of her being jaded. Surly, fine; spirited, absolutely; but truly cynical…what could she have gone through to make her so?
His thumb glided over the soft smoothness of her forehead, and he admired the green and purple iridescence of her faintly lilac skin. It was as though she sparkled from within, gleaming like abalone shells or beetle wings. Perhaps not the most romantic comparison, but beautiful nevertheless.
He knew her brows and lashes even to be silvery white, but up so close, he could truly appreciate their delicate color.
He hadn’t noticed before, but she had a smattering of plum-colored freckles across the bridge of her nose.
How charming. His mate wasn’t the wispy waif most other fae seemed to be.
Even lax and still in his arms, he could feel the strength of her limbs and soft curves of her hips.
She was a perfect morsel, especially when she snipped and snapped at him.
Was it normal for his cock to stir the meaner she got?
He was having a hell of a time keeping that bit of anatomy in check, what with her withering glares and sharp tongue.
A kilt wouldn’t have gone amiss, even if he was often content to walk about in just his scales.
He somehow knew that she’d hold an erection against him, which would then only make it worse.
No, if he ever wanted to show off his rather impressive cock to his doe properly, he’d need to play this situation carefully. She was as skittish as she was surly, his strange little mate. A feral woodland creature.
Blast it, now there was a story he needed to hear. Sooner rather than later.
“Just what have we gotten ourselves into?” he whispered to her.
He was almost hoping she’d rouse enough to respond—even if that was to punch him in the nose and kick him off—but she remained motionless in his arms. Alarming, yes, but he’d be more worried had her breathing or color changed.
Instead, she was the picture of serenity, lost in an apparently deep, pleasant sleep.
Attalus decided he wouldn’t be too cut up about it when she nuzzled into his shoulder, seeking more warmth.
“Ah, doe, don’t go soft on me just yet.” He liked her prickly; he wouldn’t know what to do if she was nice to him.
Although landing somewhere safe enough for a respite and falling right into the path of his true mate was all well and good, Attalus could admit what a complication this was.
Fleeing Highhome resolved nothing other than his own immediate execution; he’d no doubt he was now a fugitive.
Araxos wasn’t known for giving up or having mercy.
That meant finding some sort of solution to his problems.
It couldn’t be chance, though, that his flight had led him straight to his very own fae mate. A powerful fae at that. Powerful enough to clear away a wildfire and summon a heavy rainstorm.
Everyday fae can’t do that. He wasn’t certain, but he heavily suspected that was true.
“Just who are you, Leita?” He needed to know, even if the answer only brought more trouble.
There was no going back for Attalus. He understood that. Fae mate or no, he couldn’t return to the Droplets so long as Araxos believed him guilty. Attalus had no stomach for raising an army, nor getting himself killed by trying to return and plead his innocence.
That left him with two options as he saw it. Continue on and try to find Theron and Briseis. Or stay with Leita, whatever that might mean.
The former would be safer. The latter depended on Leita putting up with his continued presence.
It was an easier decision to make when she was soft and agreeable in his arms. Without home or kin, he could already feel himself cleaving to her.
It was the bond of true mates, yes, but it was also something borne of desperation.
Not the healthiest foundation to a new bond, perhaps, but that was the way of it for folk dictated by fates and deities; they didn’t get to choose the circumstances.
Something was coming, and it seemed they’d been brought together to face it.
Not long after the rain began, the unicorn mare came into sight, trudging through the sheet of water cascading over the cave entrance. Just inside, she shook out her mane and coat, and Attalus lifted a wing to defend his charges from the onslaught.
“Do you mind?” he grumbled.
The unicorn whickered at him, bobbing her head and that deadly horn. Her liquid black eyes fixed on Leita in Attalus’s lap.
“She collapsed after bringing the rain,” he explained. “I carried her inside. That’s all.”
The mare nickered, waving the point of her horn from Leita in Attalus’s lap to his own head.
“You insult me. I’d never lay a hand on someone so vulnerable, especially not my mate.”
Raising her head, the unicorn pawed the ground threateningly. From around his neck, Slinky hissed and bristled. Two irate females in a standoff—exactly what he didn’t need.
“Now see here,” he reasoned, “you were gone and I was there to catch her. Should I have left her in the rain?”
The unicorn huffed and grumbled, her dove-gray nostrils flaring.
“I think you both are just going to have to get used to the idea of me.” He nodded, confident that he occupied the moral high ground, but less confident that that mattered to a unicorn. “Besides, you’re wet and smell of damp fur whereas I am dry and warm.”
With a noise that sounded suspiciously like Leita’s scoff, the mare dipped her head to take a dramatically pointed sniff of him. Slinky scrambled up atop his head, using his horns for cover as she bit and sniped at the mare—and got a great puff of hot air in the face for her troubles.
Attalus returned the mare’s significant look with a scowl. “I’m aware, thank you. I challenge anyone to come so close to dying then spend days in a cave and smell better than I do.”
He didn’t care for the soreness between his hearts at the reminder that he was dirty, smelly, naked, and penniless.
Not the way he’d wish to meet his true mate.
He’d been lucky to at least be wearing a few of his horn ornaments and earrings while fleeing, but they were a mere drop in the sea of riches his mother had left him, Theron, and Briseis.
As a diadochos, he was also entitled to his share of the royal hoard.
At least, before he was declared a traitor.
Normally, he’d have royal wristlets, gauntlets, and bracelets of pure, spelled gold that shifted with his form. Necklaces and rings and circlets and belts and gems were meant to adorn his ruby-red scales. A Savrakae with merely a single set of horn adornments and caps was a poor dragon indeed.
However, he rarely wore all those trappings when he visited Bargarad and the other coastal cities.
Unless he was negotiating and needed his adversary to understand whom they dealt with, he usually visited his favorite drinking dens and brothels without most of his regalia.
Too much adornment made for slower flying, too.
But damn, what he wouldn’t give for Leita—and the unicorn, too—to see him properly.
Fully adorned, scales buffed, hair combed, and horns oiled.
His kilts were of the finest linen and muslin, tooled with gold and precious stones.
His robes were lined in the most luxurious silks, embroidered with gold and silver threads.
He was supposed to be princeps, damn it. Even if it’d nearly gotten him killed, he still considered himself as such.
As the unicorn mare stared down at him, Attalus began to worry she might see all that and more. Orcs had the right of it, these unicorns truly were unnerving creatures.
Suddenly, the inside of Attalus’s skull itched before a piercing pain stabbed him from right eye to nape. His sinuses throbbed, and his tongue nearly lolled out of his mouth.
It was over after only a moment or two—and replaced by something far worse.
I’m watching you carefully, lizard, said the unicorn, directly into his mind.
Attalus groaned. “Oh, no…”
Oh yes. Your piddly bond with my foal would’ve allowed me to speak to you eventually, but I’m forcing the matter.
“Piddly…?” he mouthed.
If you think crashing into her life gives you any sort of rights to her, think again.
“You make it sound as though I have nefarious intent or meant to crash here.”
Didn’t you? Drawn by the allure of a beautiful, powerful mate?
“No, I…” Attalus could hardly believe the half-silent argument he was having. With a unicorn. “I followed the fire.”
Hmph. Shaking out her mane, the mare began to pace. At any rate, that’s quite enough familiarity for one day. Release her now.
“I think the both of us are quite comfortable where we are, thank you.”
Oh, I’m just sure you are, lizard.
“I’m beginning to think the two of you mean that derogatorily.”
You don’t say. The unicorn’s sarcasm washed over him, as did her hot huff. Then I shall join you.
“That’s not—”