21. Arthur
ARTHUR
“I know our mission is urgent,” Artemis said as we pulled on our coats, “but I’d love to explore just a bit before we go.”
I paused with my hand on the door.
She was watching me carefully, already braced for refusal, as if asking for joy was a risk she’d learned to calculate. The cottage still smelled faintly of coffee and wood smoke. Outside, Edinburgh waited, gray stone warmed by the afternoon sun, the air sharp and alive.
Explore.
I had dreamed of this city long before I ever saw it.
As a teen, tucked into the edges of clan territory, I had read about traveling the world in contraband books.
Ancient streets. Layered history. A place where past and present pressed so close they shared walls.
I had imagined walking here one day, anonymous and unburdened, experiencing the city the way humans did—casually and without any purpose beyond being present.
I had mentioned that yesterday, and she’d remembered.
When I was seventeen, I’d traced maps of Edinburgh from a banned travel guide and folded them into the margins of a clan ledger so my father would not see.
I’d memorized street names the way other boys memorized battle formations and told myself that one day I would walk those roads as a scholar.
Or a tourist. Or simply a man with no one watching him.
I had never once imagined I would arrive here as an alpha with a crisis at my back—or with a beautiful woman at my side.
“That would be acceptable,” I said. Restraint was still my default language, even as something warm and unsteady spread through my chest.
Her face lit up, quick and bright. “Great. Okay. Just a little. We’ll walk. There’s a pub not far from here. I saw it on our way in.”
A pub.
I followed her out into the street, the door closing softly behind us.
The neighborhood sloped gently downward, stone buildings stacked close together like they were keeping secrets.
Laundry fluttered from upper windows. The smell of bread and damp stone and something fried drifted through the air.
The streets were narrow and uneven, clearly designed before anyone had thought speed was a virtue.
She walked with her hands in her pockets, taking it all in like she was filing it away for later use.
“This place feels like it’s thinking,” she said. “It’s almost as if the city itself has opinions.”
“I agree,” I said.
She smiled at that.
I watched the way she looked at the buildings—not as scenery, but as text.
As something to be read and argued with and loved.
I had once imagined walking these streets alone, anonymous.
It had not occurred to me that the better version of the dream involved someone beside me, translating the world into something brighter than I would have seen on my own
The pub announced itself before we reached it. The low hum of voices seeped into the street, layered with laughter and the clink of glass. A chalkboard sign leaned against the wall, advertising lunch specials in handwriting that suggested confidence rather than legibility.
Artemis pushed the door open and stepped inside without hesitation. I don’t want this to be a blur,” she said quietly. “If everything falls apart later, I want to remember we were here. On purpose.”
I followed.
The air hit me first. Warm and dense, alive with the smell of yeast, roasted meat, and old wood soaked through with decades of conversation.
The floorboards were dark and worn smooth, the ceiling low enough that I had to mind my head.
A fireplace crackled along one wall, and the bar gleamed with polish and use, bottles lined up like trophies behind it.
I stood there a moment too long.
Artemis glanced back at me, amusement already tugging at her mouth. “You okay?”
“Yes,” I said. “I am… assessing.”
She snorted and guided me toward the bar, where she slid onto a stool. I took the one beside her carefully, knees already negotiating for space.
The bartender approached, a woman with sharp eyes and a practiced smile. She looked at Artemis, then at me. Her smile sharpened.
“What can I get you?” she asked. Then, to me, “Want to open a tab?”
I froze.
Tab.
I looked at Artemis.
She leaned in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Okay, so first of all, she’s flirting with you.”
I blinked.
“She is,” Artemis continued. “Second, ‘opening a tab’ means she wants your number.”
I felt the weight of the moment settle squarely on my shoulders. This was clearly a test. Of what, I wasn’t sure. Social competence? Mating etiquette? Human ritual combat? I had no idea.
I straightened anyway. My posture defaulted to formal when I was uncertain, which in hindsight was not helping.
“I’m flattered,” I said carefully. Honesty seemed safest. “But I—” I paused, words tangling. Heat crept up my neck. “I am not… seeking a contractual arrangement at this time.”
Artemis made a strangled noise beside me.
The bartender raised an eyebrow.
“I’m sorry,” I added quickly, aware that something had gone wrong but not yet sure what. “I mean, I am open to beverages. Very open. Enthusiastically so.”
The silence thickened.
Artemis bent forward, coughing into her hand, shoulders shaking violently.
The bartender stared at me like I had just introduced myself as the ghost of the pub.
“It means I keep track of what you order,” she said slowly. “So, you don’t have to pay after every drink.”
Oh.
The realization hit with devastating clarity. Artemis had played a trick on me.
My ears burned. I could feel it. Actual heat. Dragons were not meant to blush. This was an evolutionary oversight.
“I see,” I said, nodding once, too many times. “Yes. That makes significantly more sense.”
Artemis had fully lost control by now. She was laughing openly, face red, eyes wet, one hand braced on the bar for support.
“I am so sorry,” I told the bartender, sincerity pouring out of me in waves. “I am new to this environment. And flirting. And… tabs.”
The bartender snorted. “No tab, then?”
“No,” I said quickly. “Absolutely not. I do not believe I am ready for that level of commitment.”
That sent Artemis over the edge.
Artemis wiped at her eyes. “You’re never allowed to live this down.”
“I accept this consequence.”
Artemis ordered for us. A local ale for herself. For me, she hesitated, then chose a whisky distilled nearby, something traditional and uncomplicated.
When the glasses arrived, I lifted mine cautiously. The first sip burned, then spread through my chest and limbs like a slow exhale.
I had always avoided intoxication. Dragons are fire by nature; losing our wits is rarely strategic.
But this warmth was not the sharp unraveling I had feared. It was controlled. Contained. Much like the bond coiling quietly between us, it was present, undeniable, and increasingly difficult to pretend was incidental.
I wondered, not for the first time, what it would be like to choose something simply because I wanted it.
“This is… good,” I said.
She grinned. “Mine too.”
We sat there, shoulder to shoulder, the noise folding around us, the city pressing close in the best possible way. For a little while, there was no urgency. No pursuit. No lineage unraveling at our feet.
Just the two of us, having a drink in a pub. And the strange, quiet miracle of being exactly where I had once dreamed of standing.
For one reckless moment, I imagined staying here, renting an apartment, losing myself in the rhythm of the streets. Letting my title dissolve into anonymity.
Letting Artemis walk beside me without consequence.
The fantasy lasted less than a heartbeat. Dragons did not get to retire into storybook cities. And I did not get to choose the shape of the world.
But the wanting lingered.
The cool, clean wind pressed against my wings. Beneath us, the ocean spread in a dark, endless sheet that caught the light like hammered metal. Flying always centered me. The rhythm of it. The certainty. Lift, balance, forward motion.
My thoughts kept snagging on the memory of the pub.
Artemis had laughed so hard she’d nearly folded in on herself.
I hadn’t known embarrassment could coexist so comfortably with happiness.
I was glad we had gone. Glad I had stumbled through it instead of avoiding it.
Artemis had turned my ignorance into levity instead of discomfort.
And in doing so, made space for me to be exactly as uninformed as I was.
It had been strangely disarming. I hadn’t realized how much effort I usually spent trying to hide what I did not know until she made it safe not to.
Artemis sat securely against the ridge between my shoulders, legs tucked in the right spots.
She had the journal open, pages weighted carefully, hair braided tight against the wind.
Even here, even now, she read with the same fierce focus she brought to everything.
The world could be falling away beneath her, and she would still finish the paragraph.
“This marginal note is arguing with the main text.” Her thought brushed deliberately against my mind, precise and intentional. “That seems important.”
I adjusted my wings slightly, angling us into smoother air, my attention split between the horizon and the very specific way her thoughts were reaching me. “You’re sending that thought directly to me.”
Her delight sparked immediately, bright and unmistakable through the link. “Yes. I figured out how to aim it instead of just… thinking loudly in your general direction. Like focusing on a specific shelf instead of the whole library.”
Pride rose in me, quick and warm. She had learned this in hours after deciding she really wanted to try. No hesitation. Just curiosity and precision.
And guilt followed immediately after.
Because I knew what she was to me.