17. Quinn #2
Rafe’s lips curled into a smile. “I’ll be careful.” He stood in the center of the roof, tall and still against the city, and then the air around him changed.
There was no explosion. No grotesque ripping of bone or flesh. It was more like watching a hidden truth become visible. His human form expanded into shadow and motion, the lines of him lengthening, reshaping, unfolding.
His body rose in one long, sinuous curve, dark against the city.
Scales replaced fabric and skin, deep black with a burnished undertone that showed pink when the lights touched him.
His neck arched, powerful and elegant. Claws settled against the roof with surprising care.
His head lowered, eyes still Rafe’s somehow, gold-dark and aware.
I forgot how to breathe.
He was beautiful. Stunning.
Those were human words for human experiences. This was something older and stranger, immense and impossible. Awe opened in me so quickly it hurt.
“Oh,” I whispered.
He tilted his head slightly.
I pressed both hands to my mouth, because if I didn’t, something embarrassingly emotional might come out. Laughter. Tears. A noise only Max would understand.
“You’re…” I shook my head, uselessly. “Rafe.”
His long body coiled more tightly, careful of the vents and basil pots.
I stepped closer.
He lowered himself to the roof, forelegs folding, shoulder dipping to make a path for me. The gesture was so considerate, so aware of my height and fear and human limitations, that it nearly undid me all over again.
“You’re sure?” I asked.
He huffed softly through his nose.
I chose to interpret that as yes.
Climbing onto a dragon was less graceful than fantasy had advertised.
There were ridges along his neck, natural places for my hands, and he lowered himself more when I struggled to find footing.
His scales were cool beneath my palms, smoother than I expected but not slick, textured like polished stone that was alive under my fingers.
I settled where his neck met his shoulders, knees tucked securely, fingers gripping the ridge in front of me.
The city looked different from that height. Wider.
“Okay,” I breathed. “Okay. This is fine. This is incredibly fine.”
Rafe turned his head to look at me.
“I’m nervous,” I admitted.
His eyes held mine.
“I still want to go.”
He waited one more second, giving me a final chance to change my mind.
Then he gathered himself. The air tightened around us, stirring grit across the roof in widening circles, and he pushed off. For one terrifying, glorious moment, my stomach forgot what gravity was.
Then we were airborne.
I gasped, and it quickly turned into a laugh.
The roof dropped away beneath us. The streetlights pulled into lines.
Windows became constellations. The city opened in every direction, all steel and glass and motion, the rivers gleaming on either side like dark ribbons catching pieces of light.
Wind rushed around me, cold and clean, tearing loose strands of hair from my ponytail.
I tightened my grip, and Rafe adjusted at once, the long line of his body leveling into a smooth, steady glide until the panic inside me found something solid to trust.
“Oh my god,” I squealed.
The words vanished into the wind.
We rose above the avenue, then turned toward the river.
Below us, traffic streamed in red and white lines.
Rooftop gardens appeared and disappeared.
A rooftop bar glowed with people who had no idea a dragon was passing above them.
The Empire State Building shone in the distance, and beyond it the city spread bright and endless, every window holding some private life I would never know.
Even in flight, Rafe remained aware of every force around him, every angle, every potential consequence. But there was freedom in it. The air seemed to know him and make room.
We passed over the river, the water black beneath us, bridges lit in long sweeps of gold.
I saw the Brooklyn Bridge from above and made a sound that was probably not dignified.
Rafe curved gently through the air, giving me time.
The Statue of Liberty stood far off in the harbor, small and luminous, and the city curved behind her like a promise people kept making even when they failed at it.
I had lived here for years and never seen it like this. My eyes burned, and I told myself it was the wind.
Rafe flew north after that, leaving the densest part of the city behind.
The lights thinned, the air growing colder.
He kept the pace easy, never climbing too sharply, never turning without giving my body time to follow.
At some point, fear stopped being the main sensation, and wonder took its place.
Then we were over darker land, over roads and scattered houses, over wide lawns and old trees and pockets of water reflecting the first stars.
Rafe slowed.
Below us, an estate appeared out of the dark.
It was enormous. Not flashy, exactly. Too old for that.
A long stone house sat amid terraces and gardens, its windows warm with light.
A reflecting pool glimmered to one side.
Beyond it, an orchard sloped toward a broad open lawn that looked designed for something much larger than horses.
Paths curved through the grounds, pale under the moon, and low garden lights marked the edges without spoiling the dark.
I knew before I asked.
This was his.
But after all my internal jokes about estates and hedges and rich-person Narnia, the reality didn’t make me want to laugh. Because the place was beautiful, and I could see that it was loved.
From above, the grandeur resolved into signs of use: a warmly lit room, chairs left on a balcony, a path worn between the house and orchard. Nothing about it felt cold.
It felt inhabited.
The thought surprised me. Maybe I was only thinking of what he’d told me about his parents, about his father changing things for his mother without making the changes feel like loss. Maybe I was filling in details I couldn’t possibly see from the sky.
But as Rafe circled slowly, I had the strangest sense that he wasn’t showing me wealth.
He was showing me home.
Rafe circled again, slow and low enough that I could see a balcony with chairs set out for tea. The thought of him there as a boy—no, not a boy; as a man, watching his father change the world around his mother so she could remain inside it—made my chest pull tight.
I bent close to his neck, my cheek pressing against the warm scales.
“It’s beautiful,” I whispered, though he probably couldn’t hear me.
He flew us back to my building.
The return passed faster. Or maybe I simply lost track of time.
The city came back in a blaze, rising from the dark like something alive and unreasonable and beloved anyway.
He landed on my roof with more care than I had ever used stepping off a curb, settling into a loose coil as his claws touched down.
I didn’t move.
I stayed there, hands on his scales, breath uneven, heart too full for language.
Then he lowered himself again.
I climbed down on unsteady legs and turned just as he shifted back.
The transformation was no less stunning in reverse. Vastness folding into human shape. Serpentine length folding into shoulders, spine, and hands. Scales becoming skin. The impossible made intimate again.