Chapter 20 Rhavor
“A week,” Rhavor murmured.
As the event wound down, the guests began to trickle out into the cool night air. Laughter faded into the shadows. Lanterns flickered lower.
“So,” Arla said, turning to Sylvie with that blunt orc honesty, “you understand that you have to stay here for Rhavor to remain on the property. No loopholes.”
“I know,” Sylvie said, her voice steady, anchoring him. “I agree.”
Rhavor felt his heart roll slow and heavy in his chest, a tectonic shift of muscle and heat. Only then did it truly hit him.
Sylvie had never actually been inside his house.
“Pyjama party time!” Julian announced, already striding toward Rhavor’s front door with a grin far too bright for the hour.
“I think,” Vera cut in smoothly, her lips twitching with dry, knowing humor, “it might be best to leave the two of them to get used to... the situation.”
Julian’s face collapsed into an offended pout, his lower lip nearly hitting his chest, as Myrtle herded him toward the car like a stray goat.
“You might need moral support,” he tried, throwing a desperate look over his shoulder.
“No,” Rhavor said flatly. One word. Final.
That ended it.
By the time the dust settled and Myrtle had physically dragged Julian away from his last hope of a sleepover, the yard finally went quiet. The silence was absolute, broken only by the distant, rhythmic hum of the forest.
Just him. And her.
Rhavor cleared his throat, the sound rough and gravelly in the stillness.
“Thank you,” he said. It sounded inadequate the moment it left his mouth—thin and flimsy against the weight of what she was doing for him.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her. He’d been half-obsessed with her since the moment she’d practically fallen into his arms—a tangle of vanilla scent and soft curves. And now—because of Ronda’s dirty dealing—Sylvie was actually here. On his threshold.
“I’m sorry you got pulled into this,” he added quietly, his jaw tight. “You shouldn’t have had to play these games.”
“I did it because I wanted to, Rhavor,” Sylvie said.
Of course she had.
His dragon purred low in his chest, a vibration that hummed in his marrow.
Her bright eyes met his—warm, teasing, and devastatingly right—and something inside his chest tightened until it ached.
“First,” he said, stepping closer, “you should see the place.”
Before she could protest, he reached down and lifted her easily into his arms. He cradled her against his chest as he carried her over the threshold.
Having her there—warm, soft, and smelling faintly of sugar—felt dangerously right. Carrying her inside felt like a claim he’d been waiting a lifetime to make.
“Well,” she said lightly, her arms looping around his neck as she took in the dark wood and stone of his hallway, “what are you going to show me first?”
“The most important room in the house,” he said with a smirk, feeling the rumble of it in his chest. “The kitchen.”
She laughed as he set her on the counter. His hands lingered at her waist a second too long, his palms burning through the fabric of her dress.
“I want you to feel comfortable here, Sylvie.”
What he didn’t say was that he wanted her to stay forever. That his hoard instinct was screaming to drag her to his bed, lock the door, and throw away the key. His dragon was already marking the air, whispering mate the moment her boots hit his floorboards.
He forced himself to step back, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the edge of the counter.
“You’ll take my bedroom,” he said, his voice a low growl of restraint. “I’ll sleep in the living room. On the sofa.”
Her brows lifted, a flicker of surprise crossing her face.
“I don’t want you to feel pressured into anything. You’ve already done more for me than anyone ever has.”
She blinked, her gaze searching his. “What if I want—”
He shook his head gently, his heart hammering against his ribs, and pressed his thumb to her lower lip to silence the thought before he lost his mind.
“Settle in first,” he said roughly. “I want you to feel safe here. Truly at home.”
“Okay, big boy,” she replied, her voice soft and knowing.
The way she said it—half tease, half affection—nearly sent his control into the dirt.
He brought her to his bedroom. He wanted—desperately—to see her in his bed, her chestnut hair fanned out against his dark sheets. She looked perfect. Exhausted, but perfect.
Every instinct in him roared to claim her. To mark her as his so clearly that even the stones of the house would know.
Instead, he stepped back into the hallway.
“Rest,” he said.
Then he closed the door behind him before he could change his mind.
***
He was up before sunrise.
He could feel her presence in the house even before he opened his eyes—a golden thread of awareness pulling at his soul. His dragon stirred with a quiet, bone-deep contentment he hadn’t felt in years.
He made breakfast—the scent of coffee and sizzling bacon filling the air—left it warm on the stove, and headed out to the farm. Work didn’t stop just because his life had detonated into a million glittering pieces.
He grabbed Tommy—the most stubborn, thick-headed little goat who refused his mother’s milk—and sat down in the dirt of the pen.
The young ones weren’t used to dragons who didn’t threaten them.
To keep them calm, he folded his wings tight against his back and wore sunglasses and a battered straw hat over his horns.
He looked ridiculous—an industrial-sized predator playing nursemaid.
Tommy still refused the bottle, letting out a pathetic bleat.
“Can I—?”
Sylvie’s voice floated toward him, light and airy.
He looked up, and his heart stopped.
She was wearing his shirt—his favorite charcoal one. It hung far too big on her small frame, belted loosely at the waist with a bit of twine, skimming her thighs in a way that made his mouth go dry.
She looked devastating. A complete train wreck for his self-control.
She took Tommy from him and sat in the dirt beside him, settling the goat in her lap with practiced ease. The little traitor latched onto the bottle immediately.
Rhavor stared, his jaw hanging slightly open.
“How did you do that?”
“My parents had a farm,” she said calmly, a small, self-deprecating smile playing on her lips.
“You never told me.”
“You never asked.” She glanced up at him with a smirk that reached her eyes.
Rhavor looked away, his throat tightening. “I want you to know how much this all means to me, Sylvie. This land... it means a lot to me.”
He sighed, the sound heavy. “I can’t be uprooted from this place. I want you to know that. But I can’t expect you to just accept this. It’s a package deal you didn’t sign up for.”
“I like the package already,” she said softly, her gaze returning to the goat.
Rhavor’s chest constricted—sharp, physical.
She looked down at the shirt, her cheeks flushing. “Sorry for stealing this. I need to get some things from my flat. I’m a bit... underdressed for farm work.”
Before he could tell her she could wear every bloody shirt he owned—or, even better, wear nothing at all —a dust cloud rolled up the driveway.
A car approached, the engine whining.
Arla, Julian, and Myrtle tumbled out of the vehicle, looking far too pleased with themselves—like they’d spent the morning plotting a coup.
“We thought you might need a few things!” Julian chirped, waving a hand at Sylvie. “Essentials!”
“I’ll handle Tommy,” Arla said, taking the goat from Sylvie’s lap with a smooth motion. “You two go inside. You look like you need coffee.”
They walked back toward the car. When they moved the “essentials” to the house it looked more like an entire household had been packed into bags and boxes and shoved into the trunk.
Julian unzipped one bad dramatically and pulled out a sheer lace dress and a slip that shimmered like liquid silk in the morning sun.
Not remotely farm-appropriate.
Exactly what Rhavor wanted to see her in.
He smirked despite himself, his gaze lingering on the silk.
“Thanks,” Sylvie said quickly, her face turning a vivid shade of crimson as she snatched the lace and silk before anyone else—namely, Rhavor—could admire them too closely.
“Don’t worry,” Vera added, opening another bag. “We brought the practical things too. Boots. Jeans. Things for the mud.”
“So,” Arla said as she stepped inside the room, her presence filling the room, “what’s the plan?”
“We’ll spend the next week unpacking and trying not to strangle Ronda,” Rhavor muttered, leaning against the counter.
“We won’t back down,” Sylvie said firmly.
He stilled, his eyes snapping to hers.
“If it’s money they want,” she said, steady and certain, “we’ll get it. We’ll find a way.”
We.
His dragon lifted its head inside him, roaring with approval.
We. It sounded right. Like a puzzle piece clicking into place after years of being lost.
Arla smirked, her arms crossed over her massive chest. “Your chickens better grow a sixth gear, Rhavor. You’ll need orders coming out of your ears to get Ronda off your back.”
Vera stayed quiet for a moment, thoughtful, her gaze tracking the dust motes in the air.
“What if we offer something they’d value more than money?” she said slowly.
Rhavor frowned. “Meaning? Ronda only values things she can spend or use as leverage.”
“I think we have something they might want more than a simple payout.”
Julian and Arla exchanged a sharp, knowing glance.
“What?” Rhavor asked, suspicion flaring.
“A Drakoryte seed.”
“It’s already planted,” Rhavor said, thinking of his own inheritance. “In the back field.”
“Not yours, little dragon. Mine,” Vera said.
All their eyes turned to her. The air in the kitchen thickened, heavy with the weight of old magic.
“You have a Drakoryte seed?” Rhavor asked, his voice a whisper. “I thought it was only passed down the male lineage. Grandfather was specific.”
“Well, your grandfather didn’t know whether he would have any male heirs in the end, did he? He was a practical man. He left me the Drakoryte as a backup. Your seed came from your father’s side.”
“I can’t take your seed, Vera. That’s your legacy.” Rhavor shook his head.
“You can and you will,” she said firmly.
“A Drakoryte seed,” Arla breathed. Even Julian went silent.
“It’s extremely valuable on the human collectors’ market,” Arla continued, her tactical mind already spinning. “Rare. Coveted. It would buy you enough breathing room to sort out the deposit.”
Rhavor’s jaw tightened until it clicked. “I’m not trading our heritage.”
“What about the farm?” Sylvie said softly. She stepped closer, right into that radiator-heat radiating off his body. “You love this place, Rhavor. You’re attached to it. Isn’t this land part of your heritage now, too? It’s what gives you strength.”
She met his gaze with everything she had, letting him see the fierce, unwavering belief in her eyes.
“You know how collectors are,” Vera said. “They have more money than sense. The moment something truly rare appears—it becomes priceless.”
He didn’t like it. Not one bit. But he understood leverage.
“I can draft a proposal,” Arla said, already reaching for a pen. “Offer an alternative settlement. Give them something to chew on while we dig in.”
“An alternative,” he repeated slowly, his gaze still locked on Sylvie.
Arla nodded once.
And for the first time that night, it felt as though the tide might be turning.