14. Arthur
ARTHUR
I had carried riders before—injured clan members who needed transport and hatchlings who wanted a bit of fun; my mother, once.
It hadn’t felt like this.
Artemis rested between my shoulders, her legs tucked along my sides, her hands fisted into the ridges of my scales. She was doing everything right. She was trusting me.
And I was painfully aware of her.
Every shift of her weight, every small adjustment of her position ran straight through me. Not just through muscle or bone, but deeper, in a place that had no business paying this much attention to a human librarian I had known for less than two days.
Why could she hear me when I directed my thoughts to her? Not even dragons in my clan could communicate with me through their minds.
I flexed my wings and angled us higher, focusing on speed and trajectory. Focus had always grounded me.
She shifted again.
Not to adjust her balance. Not to settle against the wind. This was different. Small. Repeated. Almost hesitant.
I felt it.
Heat flared low and sharp, instant and undeniable.
Oh.
Oh.
The vibrations of my body were affecting her.
I forgot to beat my wings and nearly lost altitude.
I corrected myself at once, mortified and fascinated in equal measure. She had gone still, clearly trying to pretend nothing was happening, which only made it worse. Her body reacted even as her mind scrambled for composure.
I should have changed course immediately. Instead, I let myself enjoy it.
I adjusted my wingbeats in a subtle pattern I knew would increase the low hum through my spine. Her reaction came instantly—a soft sound against my scales, and a mental spike of surprise that was not entirely unwelcome.
I smiled to myself, which was ridiculous. Dragons did not smile mid-flight because the woman on their back was accidentally aroused.
“You are safe. And very responsive.” I sent the thought before I could stop it.
Her response hit me like a slap wrapped in silk.
“Arthur.”
Heat surged through me, possessive and bright. The visceral feeling of “mine” rose in my mind before I could examine it.
I thought of her laugh. I thought of her clever hands flipping pages. I thought of her gorgeous body, soft and strong and exactly right where it pressed against me.
She squirmed, then swore at me, which only made me want her more.
I could have made it stronger with a slight increase in speed, and a sharper dive followed by a lift. That movement made experienced riders gasp.
I wanted to see what it would make her do.
But I refrained.
Instead, I adjusted my flight until it evened out, until there was less vibration and less stimulation. I paid attention to her words and her body, to the shift in her weight and the tension she was trying to hide. I paid attention to her, because she mattered.
It worked.
Her movements slowed. Her grip loosened. The tight edge between us eased.
“Thank you.” She sounded less flustered, and I was awed at how quickly she’d taken to sending the thought instead of using her speech.
“Always,” I replied, and the truth of it surprised me.
She moved again, this time with intention. She stretched out along my back, her weight settling evenly, like she trusted the sky and me equally. Then she reached into her pack and pulled out her journal.
I felt it before I saw it. The small scratch of pen against paper. The careful stillness of her posture as she wrote.
In mid-air.
Something warm settled low in my chest that had nothing to do with heat.
She trusted me enough to write while flying across the ocean on my back.
I adjusted my path without thinking, smoothing my turns, correcting for distance and current with half my attention. The other half stayed fixed on the intimacy of the moment and the fact that she felt comfortable enough to be herself up here with me.
Why did she feel so close?
Why did the connection feel finished instead of new?
Why could she hear me in my dragon form?
The answer lanced through me.
Fated mate.
The term did not arrive gently. It slammed into me and took something vital with it.
For a fractured second, I forgot how to fly.
Humans were not fated mates. Librarians from New York were not fated mates. The bond was rare even among dragons, and it could be ruinous if mishandled.
I rejected it on instinct alone.
My father’s voice rose in my head, sharp with certainty. This was not possible. This was proof that getting involved in the human world was a mistake. If he had been alive to witness it, the knowledge alone would have killed him again.
Then my mind betrayed me. Everything rearranged. Her weight on my back stopped being just weight. It became an anchor. A point of reference. The place my awareness kept returning to no matter where I tried to send it.
My priorities shifted without asking permission.
Altitude mattered only because it affected her comfort. Speed mattered only because it changed how safe she felt. Weather mattered only because it touched her skin. Distance mattered only if it pulled her farther from where she needed to be.
My people, my duty, my life’s work—all of it slid outward, still important, but no longer central.
She was central.
This was the moment my father would have called weakness. The moment he would have demanded correction, discipline, distance. I waited for the guilt. For the reflex to obey him even in death. It didn’t come.
I felt it in the way my thoughts curved back toward her even when I forced them elsewhere. In the way my instincts lined up behind one command and refused to move.
Keep her safe. Keep her warm. Keep her close.
The bond opened fully. A quiet, devastating knowing that didn’t ask whether I was ready.
I wasn’t. And yet I needed it like I needed oxygen.
My lungs constricted. My limbs felt heavy and weak, as if an ancient part of me had finally stood up and declared ownership over the rest.
I didn’t belong to myself anymore.
I understood the cost instantly. The scandal. The outrage it would cause among those in my clan who aligned with my father. I understood that my father’s legacy would not survive this truth. And with equal clarity, I understood that I didn’t care. Not one bit.
Now, I belonged to her.
I forced my pace to steady and my thoughts into clean, ordered lines, like I’d been trained to do since I was a child. Meanwhile, inside, everything veered toward one truth: I would burn the world down before I let any harm come to her.
I checked on her through the bond, careful not to reveal the shift inside me. She was warm enough, focused, and content. She was completely unaware that she had just become the axis around which my entire existence now turned.
That, more than anything, terrified me.
Then the sky changed. Thunder cracked close enough to rattle my bones, the sound sharp and wrong in a way that made my instincts rear hard.
Then the downpour came.
Before I could send a word to warn her, she put her journal away and pulled her hood up, settling flat against my back again, her body aligning instinctively with mine.
No hesitation. No panic. No fear.
The bond thrummed. Her trust was a weight, a responsibility that settled fully into my chest and stayed.
“Are you all right?” I asked, already scanning distance, altitude, options.
“I’m fine,” she sent back at once.
I began to descend anyway.
“We can’t stay up here,” I told her, keeping my tone light even as every part of me sharpened. “Lightning doesn’t care that I am an alpha. And it won’t spare you.”
Her protest came exactly as expected, quick and indignant. “I’m tougher than I look.”
I almost smiled. “I know. That’s not the point.”
“Where are we landing?”
Relief threaded through me. Curiosity was safer than defiance.
“Iceland,” I answered.
Even soaked and chilled, her interest sparked brightly.
I angled us down through the cloud cover, my attention locked on the terrain below and the small, precious weight pressed along my spine. Dark stone rose from the mist. Steam curled up where rain met heat. Moss coated the land in greens so vivid they looked unreal.
I landed carefully, every movement controlled, and shifted the instant her feet touched solid ground. The rain soaked through my clothes in seconds.
She grabbed my hand as she regained her balance, and I felt the tremor she tried to hide. Without thinking, my hand tightened around hers. I turned toward her fully, positioning myself between her and the storm, between her and anything that might follow.
This was not what I had planned for my life, but every instinct I possessed knew the truth now: it was better.
I scanned our surroundings, taking inventory of where we’d landed.
Black stone stretched in uneven shelves beneath our feet, jagged in some places, smooth in others, all of it wrapped in moss so bright it looked unreal.
Steam curled up from narrow fissures in the ground, drifting across the rain like something alive.
Water moved everywhere, slipping through channels carved long before memory, pooling in shallow mirrors that reflected the low sky back at itself.
Artemis stopped walking.
I stopped with her.
She turned slowly, her hood falling back, rain dotting her lashes as she took it all in. Her mouth parted, her eyes going wide.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” she said. “It feels like the earth is breathing.”
“It kind of is.” Then, because I couldn’t help myself, I continued, “Geothermal activity. The island sits directly on a rift between tectonic plates. Constant pressure. Constant movement.”
She cast an amused look my way. “You’re enjoying this.”
I shrugged. “I like places that refuse to sit still.”
She smiled at that and crouched carefully near one of the vents, holding her hands out just close enough to feel the warmth without risking a burn. Steam kissed her fingers and vanished.
“It’s warm,” she said softly.
Her voice slithered dangerously through my blood.
Then she shivered.
It was a small, barely noticeable movement, yet it still made me feel like a failure.
I shifted slightly, putting myself between her and the wind, pretending it was nothing more than habit. I wanted to wrap her in my arms and let my heat do what it was meant to do, but I held back. I wouldn’t risk making her uncomfortable.
“Give me one moment,” I said.
She looked up, curious. “Okay.”
I turned slightly away and pressed my thumb into the mark etched into the inside of my wrist. The old symbol responded at once, heat flaring beneath my skin.
Caliban appeared in front of me as if he had stepped through an unseen door, perfectly composed despite the rain soaking instantly into his tailored coat.
He looked around once. “You’re in Iceland.”
“We are. We need a secure place to stay nearby,” I said. “Just for the night. The storm should clear by morning.”
“Of course it will,” he replied. “Storms are very considerate that way.”
“And I need a parka,” I added. “For Artemis.”
His gaze flicked past me to where she stood, mesmerized by the steam rising from the ground.
“Naturally,” he said.
“Preferably one that actually provides warmth,” I added.
He gave me a long look. “Arthur.”
“Yes?”
“You are wet.”
“I noticed.”
“You are also hovering.”
“I’m merely being responsible and considerate.”
He sighed. “Stay where you are.” Then he vanished.
Artemis wandered closer, curiosity pulling her toward a narrow stream cutting through the rock. “How do people live here?”
“Stubbornly,” I said. “And with excellent building codes.”
She laughed, her breath fogging faintly now, and shivered again. Caliban reappeared a few minutes later, holding a folded parka and a small slip of paper.
“Cabin secured,” he said. “Quarter mile east. Paid in full. Key code is written here. It has hot water and a wood-burning fireplace.”
I let myself relax a fraction.
“The ones with central heat were already booked,” he continued. “But this one is structurally sound and not haunted.”
Artemis stiffened. “That was a possibility?”
“In my experience,” Caliban said calmly, “it always is.”
He handed her the parka. “For you.”
She took it, eyes wide. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, inclining his head. He gave me a look that bordered on a glare. “You owe me tea.”
“Several satchels of it.”
“I will collect later,” he said right before he vanished.
Artemis pulled the parka on and sighed in immediate relief. Her shoulders dropped. Color returned to her cheeks.
“Oh wow,” she said. “This is perfect.” She smiled at me, warm and unguarded. “You take very good care of people.”
Of you, a voice in my head corrected.
“The cabin is just over there,” I said instead, nodding toward a narrow path cutting through the moss. “About a quarter mile.”
She fell into step beside me, our shoes crunching softly on the damp stone.
“This place has an ancient, otherworldly feel to it,” she said. “Like it remembers things.”
“It does,” I said. “The land here has been remaking itself longer than most civilizations have existed.”
She bumped her shoulder lightly against my arm. “I’m glad you brought me.”
“So am I.”