Chapter 8 Mina #2
“Nope, it’s me.” I bounce up and kiss his lips quickly, catching the brief taste of him—dark and rich like espresso.
“You always put me first. No matter what’s happening, I’m your priority.
You’ve given up teaching for me.” I bite my bottom lip, feeling the slight sting as I look up at him, guilt washing over me.
“You didn’t have to quit teaching. I’m okay, honest.” I place my hands on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath my palms, and look up into his eyes.
They shift to the crimson of his basilisk, slits and all, the color vibrant and hypnotic.
“I would burn this campus to the ground to keep you safe,” he says with a low laugh I feel more than hear, shaking his head slightly.
“Not teaching those little fuckwits has been a welcomed vacation.” He chuckles to himself as he arches a brow at me, the crimson of his eyes deepening.
“Have you considered being a teacher here? Shadowcarve could use you.” He presses his lips to my temple, the warmth of his breath fanning across my skin, and I smile, inhaling his familiar scent.
“When did that become an option?” I laugh a little to myself, the sound echoing in the empty hallway. Balor just spilled the beans ahead of time, his expression shifting to one of mild panic.
“Um...” He stammers as I walk towards Leander’s classroom, my dress swishing around my legs, the fabric soft against my skin.
I lean outside the door, listening to Leander retelling a battle to a bunch of first years, his voice animated and passionate, carrying easily through the wood.
When he concludes the class, the students come walking out.
Some trip over themselves when they see me standing outside of the classroom, their eyes widening, whispers following in their wake.
Leander walks out slowly, his focus on the book in his hand, brow furrowed in concentration.
“Hey, babe,” I say softly, my voice cutting through his thoughts.
“Oh, hey!” His face lights up the minute he sees me, eyes crinkling at the corners, then he dives in for a hug, his arms encircling me, lifting me slightly off the ground. His scent—clean linen and snow—envelops me.
I kiss him softly, his lips warm and yielding against mine, then motion to go to his office.
His eyebrows raise in question, a silent inquiry that makes me smile, and we head to the room.
The door closes behind us with a soft click, sealing us in privacy.
“Open your shirt,” I command. He arches a brow, curiosity, and heat mingling in his gaze, and Balor pats where his scale from me is.
Understanding dawns on Leander’s face like the sunrise, bright and beautiful.
He strips off his shirt in record time, the fabric rustling as it falls to the floor, and is practically bouncing out of his skin.
I pluck a scale off from close to my wrist, the pain sharp but brief, like the sting of a needle.
The scale gleams in the light filtering through the office window, catching and reflecting it in shards of emerald and silver.
I approach him, my heartbeat quickening with each step.
“This is going to hurt,” I warn, my voice low.
I don’t give him a chance to say anything before I stab him with my talon and plant the scale in the small wound.
His blood is warm and slick against my fingers, the metallic scent of it filling the air between us.
I dive in quickly and seal my lips around the wound, the copper tang of his blood exploding across my tongue.
His blood tastes sweet, like a candied apple, rich and intoxicating.
I purr, the vibration traveling from my chest to his as I taste his blood until it stops bleeding, the wound already beginning to close around the scale.
When I pull away, my lips are stained crimson.
The scale is alive and well on his chest, pulsing with a soft light that matches the rhythm of his heart.
The connection between us strengthens. I can feel deep in my bones, tying us together more completely than before.
One more mate left. His I need to make special. Maybe I’ll wait for art class.
Balor and I make it to art way ahead of Vaughn.
The late afternoon sun filters through the canopy of leaves above us, casting dappled shadows that dance across the grass as a gentle breeze stirs the branches.
I set up both of our art supplies like Vaughn usually does, the familiar scent of canvas, paints, and charcoal filling my nostrils as I arrange everything meticulously.
The plastic containers click softly against each other, and the sound of paper rustling in the wind punctuates the quiet.
When everything is set, I lean back against the rough bark of an ancient cherry tree, the texture pressing patterns into my skin through my thin shirt.
“You know you’re going to throw him off having everything ready?” Balor says as he leans back against the tree behind me, his warmth radiating against my shoulder blades. His voice carries the hint of amusement, low and rich like distant thunder.
“I know, but it’s so going to be worth it.
” I smile as I trace an image of Balor’s basilisk on the canvas in front of me.
The charcoal feels smooth between my fingers, leaving dark smudges on my skin that contrast with the pale canvas.
The scratching sound it makes against the textured surface is oddly satisfying, almost hypnotic.
What feels like forever later, though my phone tells me it’s only been fifteen minutes, Vaughn finally arrives at the art class.
His footsteps crunch on the gravel path before he steps onto the grass, the sudden absence of sound drawing my attention before I even look up.
The scent of him reaches me first—aged leather, cedar, and something uniquely his, a mineral tang that reminds me of rain on hot stone.
“You guys beat me for once,” he says, laughing a little, the sound warming me from the inside out.
He shakes Balor’s hand, their palms meeting with a solid slap that echoes in the clearing, before sitting next to me.
The grass whispers beneath him as he settles, his body close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin.
Before I say anything, I shift my hands, feeling the momentary prickle of scales replacing skin, a sensation I’ve grown to love—both alien and deeply familiar.
I take a scale from the middle of my forearm, wincing slightly at the sharp sting as it detaches.
The scale gleams in the sunlight, iridescent green with hints of silver at the edges, warm and alive in my palm.
I hold it up to Vaughn, watching his eyes track the movement, pupils dilating as he realizes what I’m offering.
“Will you wear my scale?” I hold it out to him, my heart hammering so loudly in my chest I’m certain both men can hear it.
The scale pulses slightly, as though it has its own heartbeat, and a drop of my blood traces a crimson path down my wrist from where I removed it.
Vaughn’s eyes widen, the blue of them deepening to the color of a twilight sky.
“Yes...” he breathes, the word barely audible over the rustle of leaves above us.
His hands shake as they go to his shirt, fingers fumbling with the buttons.
I can hear the rapid cadence of his breathing, feel the tension vibrating through him like a plucked string.
When his chest is exposed, pale skin catching the golden afternoon light, I don’t even warn him.
I drive my talon into his chest, feeling the resistance of muscle and then the give as it penetrates, hot blood welling up around my claw, the metallic scent sharp in the air.
I plant the scale there, pressing it into the wound.
The sensation of his flesh accepting my offering sends a shiver down my spine, an intimate connection beyond words.
Several moments pass, the world narrowing to just us and this act of bonding.
The scale lives as the wound heals, melding with his skin until it looks as though it’s always been a part of him.
The blood dries quickly in the warm air, leaving a rust-colored stain around the scale that now gleams against his chest, catching the light with every breath he takes.
We stare at it, mesmerized by the sight of my scale on his body, and then a creeping thought enters my mind, cold and insistent as winter frost. Will it live when he shifts?
I stare at it for several minutes, noting how it rises and falls with his breathing, how it seems to pulse with his heartbeat.
I look up into his eyes, finding them fixed on mine, dark with an emotion I can’t quite name.
“Will it live when you shift?” The question hangs between us, heavy with possibility.
His eyes flare at the thought, pupils expanding until only a thin ring of blue remains.
He pulls his shirt over his head in one fluid motion, the fabric whispering against his skin as it falls to the grass beside him.
Vaughn shifts slowly to his gargoyle form, and I watch, transfixed, as his skin turns to stone.
The transformation is always both beautiful and terrifying—bones cracking and reforming with sounds like splitting wood.
His skin hardening with a noise like sandpaper on rough stone, his breath catching and then deepening into something more primal.
My scale changes with his shift, appearing to look like stone, the same granite gray as his chest, but with the faintest hint of green still visible in its depths.
The air around us cools noticeably as his transformation completes, his body radiating the chill of ancient stone.
I can’t breathe for several minutes as I wait for Vaughn to shift back, my lungs burning with the need for air.
When he does, flesh replacing stone with a sound like ice cracking, my scale returns to normal, its green, and silver brilliance stark against his now-flushed skin.
The warmth of his human form returns, along with his familiar scent, now tinged with the earthy aroma that always accompanies his shifts.
“Whoa, my scale became stone when you did. Do you think it’s because of the iron dragon's ability of stone shape?” I look over at Balor, my voice slightly breathless, still caught in the wonder of what we’ve witnessed.
He tilts his head, thinking about it, the movement causing his dark hair to fall across his forehead.
I can almost hear the thoughts turning in his mind, like the distant grinding of gears.
“That would be my guess, to be honest,” he says finally, his voice thoughtful.
He smiles as he motions for us to pay attention as Nigel stands in front of the class, the professor’s authoritative voice cutting through the intimate bubble that had formed around us.
Mission accomplished—all of my mates now have one of my scales, a piece of me living on their bodies.
The knowledge settles deep in my chest, warm and satisfying like honey, binding us together in ways invisible but unbreakable.
As I turn my attention to the class, I can’t help but brush my fingers against Vaughn’s chest one more time, feeling the smooth surface of my scale against his skin.
Our connection is now physical as well as emotional.