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She always said butterflies are for good things, moths are for situations that could go one way or the other, and wasps are when you know you’re fucked.
I can tell he’s not going to budge unless I give him something, and as much as I’d like to give him a broken jaw right now, time is of the essence and I need to behave.
“Can’t be,” he whispers hollowly. “You’re dead.” “Do dead people tell you to go fuck yourself?” I ask wryly,
“Spark the flames, Ever.” “Ignite the infernos,” I answer automatically. “Ash the embers,” we both say at the same time, a small chuckle escaping us as we finish the chant we’ve exchanged back and forth since we were kids.
I bet this series will be a trilogy and these will be the titles.
My gaze catches on the bright white Lairwood Memorial emblazoned on the chest pocket of my top. I might as well be holding a flashing sign that says Here I Am! while doing a little jig for attention under a spotlight.
I tug the skirt on and then rip off my top just as someone comes sprinting down the aisle. She almost trips over me but luckily catches herself and continues to dash for the door, fear encouraging her to focus on getting out of here and not on the weirdo stripping in the middle of the store.
“Let me go,” I demand, all too aware of our compromising position and the distinct lack of clothing over parts of my body that are in direct contact with parts of his. Stradling the enemy is not how I’d prefer to die. “Why? So you can display your complete lack of survival instincts and run into oncoming traffic again?”
“In the wild, the prettiest things are often the deadliest,” she adds, staring right at me.
“That’s quite some ego your neck is supporting, Commander,” I taunt. “Explains why you’re so big though—gotta have plenty of room for all that shit you’re full of.”
“Because that’s what The Horde does. You can pretend otherwise, but we all know if you can’t claim, control, or comprehend something, you kill it.”
“You will address the scion with respect,” another male orders, a fulminating glare aimed at me. “If I respected him, I would,” I snap back, matching his glower.
“Sit,” he orders before striding over to stand next to Lorn. I scowl up at the brothers, fighting the sudden need to spend the rest of my life right here on this freezing floor now that I’ve been commanded to do the opposite.
The weak always swipe at the strong when they think they can get away with it.
“I don’t care who you are or what you’re the last of—if you cost me any of my Wing, you’ll beg for death long before I grant it.”
My head cracks hard against something—a wall, a fist, this asshole’s audacity—I honestly couldn’t say.
This place could double as a torture chamber or a great hall designed to host fancy balls and other opulent gatherings. Although, in my opinion, attending any kind of archaic dance would be a form of torture.
I would roll my eyes at the posh intonation he’s laying on a little thick, but my head hurts entirely too much, and it’s creating an irrational worry that my eyes will get stuck facing the wrong direction.
“Did you just high-five yourself?” Aeson asks. “It’s for my eyes. I’m proud of them,” I explain, but he looks even more confused.
Why do I feel so warm…and weird? I didn’t pee myself, did I?
Lol
But falling for a dragon, let alone Aeson Noctis, is about as smart as an injured gazelle sidling up to a lion for a cuddle. I’m, without a doubt, going to get eaten, and probably not in the way I’d enjoy.
“Are you done with your mantrum now?” I ask,
“Is this a good time for a “told you,” or should I hold off a little longer?”
“Why do you look like that?” Tove demands, a guarded look entering her gaze as she surveys me even more shrewdly. “Genetics,” I snark,
“I understand that help might be a foreign concept to you, but your stubbornness is only going to hurt you here.”
“Who’s guarding the commander if all of you are here?” I ask, waving away the lingering envy I feel over the way they adeptly and all too casually use their affinities. Ogdan tosses me a wide smile. “I’ll let the commander know you’re downright distraught over his safety, but worry not, Kindred, the rest of our Wing is with him.”
It took me a long time to accept that needing help wasn’t a reflection of weakness or some sort of failing on my part. Knowing that you can’t do everything alone, that no one is meant to, takes strength and fortitude.
“I’ve brought the latest fashions taking Four Tiers by storm. You’ll be the talk of the keeps and the envy of all. If you’ll just allow me to show you—” “Any of the latest fashions include pants?” I ask, cutting the female off just as she calls forward a rack of dresses that look like they’re made of strips of seaweed. “I don’t understand,” Seza clucks testily. I turn to her. “You don’t know what pants are?”
A BUTTER KNIFE. I’m going into battle with a fae-damned butter knife.
“And you don’t know me well enough to say otherwise, so go lick a leaf.”
Wyverns rival dragons in size and ferocity. Few differences separate our kinds, which is why, in the past, we’ve often nested and prospered together. Anatomically we’re different: dragons have legs, arms, and wings, whereas wyverns only possess legs and wings. We’re compatible when it comes to breeding, but any offspring produced by a coupling always results in a wyvern birth, never a dragon.
“Ugh, Chastain, I swear I’m going to sew your asshole shut!” Tove grouses, fanning the air in front of her face. “What?” the Channeler demands, and then the smell must hit him, because his face crumples with disgust. “I swear that wasn’t me!”
My days of running from the enemy are over. Now, they’re going to run from me.
“Who in the bloody fuck are you?” I snap at the drake. “Is that…are you threatening me with table cutlery?” he asks,
Call me Herm, I insist. And feel free to press a little closer. I’ve never been buttered before; the sheer anticipation is doing all kinds of things for me.” He shivers with exaggerated excitement, and I roll my eyes. “Does no one in your bloody Wing take anything seriously?” I ask with a sigh.
“They can’t have you,” he rumbles dangerously. “Great,” I snark, rubbing my neck. “I’ll be sure to let the Tainted know that the next time I see them. No doubt they’ll apologize profusely and immediately leave the city, never to be seen again. My hero!”
As always, the blood oath is to the death.” A cheer goes up from the formation of drakes as though they’re celebrating the possibility of their impending death. Crazy fucking dragons.
I’m not going to sit here and make nice while they tie their puppet strings to me and try to force me to dance for them. I don’t dance for anyone.
“I don’t think I’m ready for that kind of commitment, Aeson. It’s not you, it’s me. I’m just not in the right place in life, you know, for a death oath.”
Dragons are covetous creatures. We collect, hoard, and squirrel away anything and everything that we find valuable.
“He was worried you’d still be difficult even though you lost your…little agreement,” Lorn continues, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “Me, difficult?” I chirp. “That doesn’t sound right at all.”
“Let’s let it be a surprise.” I roll my eyes so hard it’s a wonder they don’t fall out of my head. “Not a chance. I hate surprises.” “I thought you were pretending to not be difficult?” he points out, a spark of mischief alighting in his gaze as he holds a hand out to me like he fully expects for me to take it. “You don’t know me well enough to surprise me with anything I’d like,” I tell him, ignoring his outstretched hand until he drops it back by his side. “And even if you did…the surprise would be ruined by the fact that I don’t like surprises.”
Loss is the price you pay for love.
I think it’s safe to say that one of Lorn and Aeson’s prerequisites for their Wing members was that they either had to be the size of a barge or look as though they singlehandedly consumed their entire Training Flight.
I keep telling myself that if we go down, all of these gargantuan drakes will break my fall, but the truth is they would shift and survive just fine. My broken ass would be the only one riding this thing into the rocks.
“I have never met anyone so determined to misinterpret and misunderstand everything around them,” he observes, and he sounds somehow both impressed and bothered. “You should get out more, then,” I quip.
“Thank you, Linden, I hope you and the roots are well,” Lorn greets, and the male dips his head, communicating both pleasure and confirmation that he and the roots are doing amazing. Whatever that bloody means.
Treasure looks different to every dragon. Some desire gold, others covet jewels or lands, and then there are those that deal in secrets and see the value in gossip.
I move to a vault storing thousands of books
My focus shifts from the vault to the heir, and I wait for whatever bomb he’s about to drop, or maybe it will be less bomb and more knife in the back. I guess we’ll see.
“Treasure looks different to every dragon,” I whisper to myself as I take the mirrors in. “I asked my father why he liked them so much when he was showing me around his office.
