Chapter 20
ESME
Istare at the jagged spine of the mountains, which the sun has just dipped behind, dragging the last of the amber light with it and leaving Oakhaven draped in a heavy, indigo gloom.
We’ve spent the entire day scouring this damned village. I’ve stared at so many stone walls, wells, and doorframes that the textures of granite and limestone are burned into my retinas, but we still haven’t found any runes.
I’m starting to give up hope, honestly. My legs ache with a dull, throbbing exhaustion that feels like it goes deeper than muscle, and the cold wind bites through my jacket.
“Nothing,” I mutter, stopping in the middle of a darkened square. The old men have long since retreated to their homes, and the only sound is the wind whistling through the leaves.
Dayn stands a few feet away, his silhouette tall and imposing against the flickering light of a lone street lantern.
He doesn't look tired—dragons don’t seem to do 'tired'—but there’s a tightening in his jaw that suggests his patience is fraying. He scans the darkened buildings one last time, his hunter’s focus undimmed by the night.
“They're here,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “But we need rest.”
“So we’re giving up for the night?” I ask, not bothering to hide the relief in my voice. My body is screaming for a horizontal surface.
“We’re pausing,” he corrects, turning to me. “There’s an inn at the edge of the square. The Oak and Ember. We’ll find lodging, eat, and start again at first light.”
He starts leading me toward a large, two-story building with a sign that creaks rhythmically in the wind. A warm, golden light spills from the windows, and the smell of woodsmoke drifts out to meet us.
Inside, the tavern is a cacophony of low voices, the clinking of mugs, and the crackle of a massive hearth that dominates the far wall.
It’s cozy and cramped. It smells like drink spillages and sweat.
I feel every eye in the room slide over us—from a disheveled, pale woman to a man who looks like he could snap the main support beam with one hand.
Dayn leads me to the heavy oak bar. The innkeeper, a stout man with a beard that looks like a bird’s nest, wipes a glass and eyes us with wary curiosity.
“Meal and lodging,” Dayn says, his voice low. “Just for tonight.”
The innkeeper looks at Dayn’s rough linen tunic, then at my frayed fatigues. “Alright. Price list’s here.” He slides a laminated sheet toward us.
I reach for the small pouch at my belt, wondering if I have any human currency left from a previous mission, but Dayn is faster. He reaches into his own pocket and pulls something out. He drops it onto the wooden bar with a heavy, metallic clink.
The innkeeper freezes. I freeze.
Lying on the scarred wood is a literal gold coin. It’s thick, heavy, and stamped with the profile of a dragon I don’t recognize. It’s ancient, beautiful, and possibly worth enough to buy the entire tavern and the three houses next to it.
The innkeeper’s eyes nearly pop out of his head. He reaches for it with a slightly trembling hand, testing the weight. “This... This is gold, sir?”
“Is it enough?” Dayn asks, his tone bored.
“More than enough, sir! More than enough!” The man practically trips over himself. “I’ll have the stew brought to the table immediately. Best we have!”
I wait until the innkeeper has hurried off toward the kitchen before leaning in toward Dayn, my voice a sharp whisper. “A gold coin, Dayn? Really? Why don't you just wear a sign that says 'I have a hoard and I’m not afraid to use it'?”
He looks down at me, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. “It was the first thing I found in my pocket. I didn't think he’d mind the change.”
“He’s currently wondering if he can retire to the coast, you idiot.
You’re supposed to be keeping a low profile, not recreating a scene from an epic fantasy.
” I can't help the small, huffed laugh that escapes me.
“Is that how you handle everything? Just throw precious metals at the problem until it goes away?”
“It’s efficient,” he says, gesturing toward a small table in a dark corner. “And it ensures we won't be disturbed.”
As we sit, the innkeeper returns, looking flustered. “Begging your pardon, sir, but a tourist bus came through earlier. I only have the one room left. It’s the master suite—best view of the valley—but... well, it’s only the one. I assume you two are an item and that won’t be a problem?”
My stomach does a slow, heavy roll. Of course. One room. It’s so cliché it should be a crime. I look at Dayn, expecting him to demand another room or suggest we sleep in the stables, but he merely nods.
“The one will be fine,” he says.
I feel the heat rising in my cheeks. “Dayn—”
This has been done in way too many fantasy novels.
“Eat your stew, Esme,” he says, his gaze fixing on the steaming bowl the innkeeper places in front of me. “You’re running on fumes.”
The stew is thick and savory, but I struggle to focus on it. All I can think about is that upstairs room. One room. Close quarters. The whole night.
By the time we finish, the tavern has started to empty out. The innkeeper leads us up a narrow, creaking staircase to a door at the end of the hallway. He hands Dayn a key and says goodnight before disappearing back downstairs.
Dayn unlocks the door and steps inside.
The room is small, dominated by a large, four-poster bed with a thick wool comforter. There’s an ensuite bathroom, a small hearth that’s already been lit, and a double window overlooking the darkened square.
And that’s it.
I stand in the doorway, my arms crossed over my chest. “One bed.”
Dayn starts unbuckling his boots. “The innkeeper said it was the best room. He didn't say it was a palace.”
“It’s one bed, Dayn. One.”
“I can count, Esme.” He looks up at me, his eyes appearing dark in the firelight. “I’m a dragon. I can sleep on the floor if your Salem sensibilities are so offended. But the stone is cold, and I’ve spent the day walking as a human. I’d prefer the mattress.”
“I'm not saying you have to sleep on the floor,” I mutter. “I just... I didn't think...”
“Stop thinking,” he says, pulling his tunic over his head.
The firelight dances over the broad planes of his back, the powerful muscles of his shoulders, the scattering of scars that tell stories of centuries of war.
He looks magnificent and terrifyingly solid.
“We’re married, Esme. In case the blood-bond and the diplomatic alliance slipped your mind.
Sleeping in the same bed is hardly the most scandalous thing we've done.”
He slides under the heavy comforter, propping himself up on one elbow. He looks entirely too comfortable, his presence filling the small room until there’s no air left for me.
I stand there for another minute, until exhaustion finally wins. I move to the bathroom sink, quickly scrubbing the day's dust from my face, then kick off my boots. With my fatigues on, I climb into the other side of the bed.
The mattress is soft, far softer than I’m used to. I lie on the edge, my back to him, staring at the flickering shadows on the wall.
“You're going to fall off,” Dayn says, his voice a low vibration behind me.
“I'm fine.”
“You're vibrating with tension. It’s like sleeping next to a live wire.”
I feel the bed shift as he moves. Then, a hand settles on my waist. His palm is hot, even through the fabric of my top, and the weight of it is like an anchor that pulls me back toward him.
“Dayn,” I warn, my voice sounding more breathless than I wanted.
“Relax, Esme. I’m not going to bite. Unless you ask me to.”
He gently pulls me back until my spine is flush against his chest. The heat of him is absolute, a dry, baking warmth that melts the chill right out of my bones. I should move. I should protest. But I’m a traitor to myself. My body recognizes him. My body craves this.
I let out a long, shaky breath and lean into him.
The silence of the room is broken only by the crackle of the fire and the steady, heavy rhythm of his heart against my back. It’s soothing, a draconic lullaby that starts to pull me under.
But then his hand moves.
His thumb begins to trace the line of my hip, a slow, deliberate motion that sets my nerves on fire. He nuzzles the back of my neck, his breath a hot, cedary puff against my skin.
“Esme,” he whispers.
I turn in his arms, not to push him away, but because I need to see his face. The firelight turns his eyes into liquid gold, burning with a hunger that feels meant for me alone.
My heart is frantic against my ribs, but I don’t try to cage it. I search his face, the sharp, aristocratic lines softened by the orange glow of the dying fire. There is no king here, no dragon prince, just… a man who looks for me in every shadow I hide in.
“What do you want, Dayn?” I whisper. “Truly? Beyond duties and obligations? I should be the last person in the world you’d be compatible with.”
“Compatibility is for people who want a quiet life,” he replies. He reaches up to brush a stray lock of hair away from my eyes. His mouth slants. “That’s never been me.”
“But why—”
“Why you,” he completes. His eyes hold mine, steady, unwavering. “Maybe because you have a fire that burns in the dark, Esme, even when you try to snuff it out yourself.”
I feel his arms tighten fractionally around me, and a small exhale leaves my lungs.
“Maybe because I want the way you look at me when you’re deciding whether I’m lying. When you’re suspicious. When you’re insulting me.” His quiet breath ghosts my temple. “Maybe I want the way your jaw sets when you’ve decided you’re going to save the world, even if it destroys you.”
He pauses, and when he speaks again his voice is lower.
“Maybe because we’re warped reflections of each other. And you see me—every arrogant, difficult, unworthy part of me.”
A thin breath leaves me. A long silence stretches through the room. “Didn’t expect you to admit that,” I breathe.
“What?”
A fragile pause hangs between us.