15. Artemis
ARTEMIS
Icelandic cabins truly belonged on the cover of a fantasy novel I’d secretly read on my lunch break. With the mossy landscape and the steam drifting through the air, it looked like something out of a fairy tale.
The cabin sat low against the land, dark wood against black stone, tucked into a rise like it had chosen this spot very carefully and then refused to move for several centuries.
A thin ribbon of smoke curled from the chimney.
Warm light glowed through the windows, beckoning us in from the rain and the gray.
I stopped walking. “This is obscene.”
“The weather?” Arthur asked.
“The cabin,” I clarified. “It’s aggressively charming. I feel personally targeted.”
The corner of his mouth tipped up into an adorable half-smile.
It was even better up close with its simple lines, small porch, and a door that looked solid enough to keep out storms and whatever else the universe wanted to throw at us.
I pressed my palm briefly to my heart, just to check.
Still alive. Still me. Somehow also in the middle of Iceland after riding on the back of a dragon.
I didn’t know how to process that in an emotionally healthy way, so I didn’t even try.
The inside of the cabin was tiny. It had one main room that held a narrow table with two chairs, and a couch that looked like it had seen exactly three people in its lifetime, and approved of maybe one of them. A large stone fireplace, where a dwindling fire burned, dominated one wall.
“This is adorable,” I said. “I could live here. I would become mysterious. People would write think pieces about me.”
Arthur set his pack down—the one he’d stored in that pocket realm—and walked through the space, clearly assessing safety, warmth, logistics.
“There’s a bathroom through there,” he said, pointing. “Hot water.”
The bathroom was small but clean. Shower. Hooks on the wall. A stack of thick towels and two robes folded neatly on a shelf.
I picked one up. It was soft and fluffy, and wonderfully warm. It was mine now.
Arthur hovered in the doorway, and I was suddenly very aware of the space his shoulders took up. He glanced at the robes, then back at me.
“I think,” he said carefully, “those are more your size.”
I looked at him. Tall. Broad. All quiet strength and restraint and competence. Wet hair pushed back. Jacket soaked through. Everything about him radiated calm and control.
Also, so motherfucking hot.
This was a problem.
I immediately scolded myself for that thought. Loudly. Repeatedly.
Focus. You are on an adventure. A historic, once in a lifetime, possibly never repeatable adventure involving tectonic plates and geothermal activity and ancient lands. And dragons. Focus on that.
Arthur cleared his throat.
“I’ll get firewood,” he said. “Hopefully I can have the fire built up before you’re done, so it won’t be cold when you come out.”
“That would be… great,” I said, aiming for normal and landing somewhere near stiff. “I won’t take long. Probably. Unless I accidentally dissociate under hot water. Which happens.”
He nodded like that was perfectly reasonable, then turned and headed back out into the rain, already focused on the task, already protecting me from discomfort I had not yet experienced.
I closed the door and leaned against it for one solid second.
I was living a fairy tale.
I didn’t want it to end.
I stripped out of my damp clothes, hung them carefully, then stepped into the shower.
Warm water hit my shoulders, and I groaned in sheer relief. Tension I had not realized I was carrying drained away piece by piece.
I still couldn’t quite believe all this was real, but it was. I was in Iceland. The man outside getting firewood could turn into a dragon at will. I had flown on said dragon’s back.
A strong, ancient, terrifying creature… splitting logs so I wouldn’t be cold.
I braced my palms against the tile and let the water run down my back.
My brain betrayed me, flipping through memories the same way I scanned a glossary.
The way he had caught me when I slipped on the ice.
The way his voice dropped when he said my name.
The way he had stepped between me and danger without hesitation.
The way he had saved me.
I hated how that word bloomed in my chest. Like I was a fucking helpless princess.
I didn’t want to be the kind of woman who needed saving. I didn’t want to be soft and small and grateful for protection.
But when he had shifted—
God.
The memory slammed through me.
The sheer size of him. Power coiled under scaled muscle. Wings carving through the sky like they owned it. The sound of wind rushing past as he carried me above mountains and ice and sea.
The heat of him beneath my palms.
The way the world had looked smaller from his back.
The way I had felt safe.
My breath quickened.
The water was hot now, sliding down my spine in slow, deliberate paths. My body reacted before my pride could shut it down. Heat pooled low in my stomach, sharp and electric. My thighs pressed together instinctively.
Oh no.
No.
This was not happening.
I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to focus on logistics. Research. Dragons. Bloodlines. Survival.
Instead, I saw Arthur turning his head mid-flight, golden eyes catching the light, making sure I was okay.
Instead, I remembered the vibration between my thighs during the flight, and how good it had felt.
A low sound slipped out of me before I could stop it.
I pressed my forehead to the tile, embarrassed and flushed even though no one could see me.
This was ridiculous.
This was biology. This was adrenaline misfiring. This was trauma bonding.
This was absolutely not me being turned on by the fact that a powerful, beautiful man could become a powerful, beautiful dragon.
Except—
My body didn’t give a damn.
My pulse thudded between my legs, insistent and humiliating. The water traced over hypersensitive skin, amplifying every nerve in my body. His voice echoed in my head. I don’t mind needing you.
Needing me.
The memory of his hand at my waist. The steady heat of him, and the strength he held in check so carefully.
Hot water cascaded over my breasts, over my stomach, lower. I sucked in a breath as sensation spiked, sharper now, more focused. My hands moved without permission, tracing the path the water had taken, rediscovering skin that felt too sensitive, too awake.
I bit my lip and failed to stay quiet.
I imagined his hands instead of mine—those large and devastatingly capable hands. Teasing my clit, fingers sliding in and out of me. His chest against my back. His voice, low and rough, close to my ear.
My body answered the fantasy immediately.
Heat tightened, coiled, then pulsed outward in waves until my knees buckled.
I pressed two fingers inside myself, massaging my clit with my thumb, wanting to feel more pressure, more fullness.
I moaned, leaning on the tile for support.
The marble was cool against my burning skin, and the contrast made everything worse. Better.
I gasped, shoulders tensing as sensation crested and rolled through me, bright and overwhelming and deeply, embarrassingly satisfying.
It was fast and intense. It shattered me. Made my thighs shake.
When it faded, shame rushed in, sharp as cold air.
I leaned my head back against the wall and let the water continue to fall.
This was reckless.
This was dangerous.
This was exactly how women ended up losing themselves to men who could burn down kingdoms.
I hated how fast I unraveled.
Hated that a man—this man—could make me feel like this without even touching me.
But under the hate was something else.
Want.
Raw, undeniable, powerful want.
I let myself feel it.
Just for a moment, here, alone, with the steam rising around me like a shield.
When the aftershock of the orgasm faded, I quickly finished showering and stepped out. I wrapped myself in the robe, welcoming the warmth it provided. I hadn’t turned on the heater, and the room was drafty.
I stood there for a moment, feeling alive in a way that had nothing to do with danger and everything to do with being exactly where I was.
The scent of woodsmoke caught my attention when I stepped back into the main room. Arthur was good at many things, that much was obvious. And I was going to have to figure out how to survive being this aware of him without losing my mind.
Later.
I would deal with that later.
The fire wasn’t roaring, just steady and warm, like someone had built it with intention instead of flair.
The kind of fire you trusted. The cabin felt even smaller now.
Or maybe I was more aware of it. One room.
One couch. One table. One man standing a little too close to the fire, sleeves pushed up, so handsome it should have been illegal.
I tugged the robe tighter around me and immediately told myself to stop doing that. I was not a Victorian orphan. I was a grown woman. I could handle standing around in a robe.
Arthur turned when he heard me.
I watched his attention land on me in slow motion. His focus sharpened, then very deliberately softened, like he was choosing calm on purpose—for me.
My hair was still damp. I could feel it cooling against my neck. The robe gaped just enough when I moved to remind me that I wasn’t wearing anything underneath it. My legs were bare. Crap, I hadn’t thought this through.
Arthur definitely had.
He didn’t stare, but he also didn’t look away too fast. His gaze tracked, assessed, then settled somewhere respectful. He had a very controlled expression on his face, like it cost him something, and that gave me a little thrill.
“Are you warm enough?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said quickly. “I mean. I will be. Eventually. Heat is a process.”
“Here,” he said, reaching for a folded blanket draped over the back of the couch. He stepped closer and lifted it, then paused. “May I?”
I nodded, because my ability to form coherent sentences had temporarily left the building.