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A dragon without its rider is a tragedy. A rider without their dragon is dead.
Don’t borrow tomorrow’s trouble.
My breath catches and my body warms, the traitorous bitch. You are not attracted to toxic men,
“You’re supposed to focus on the things that can kill you so you find ways to not die.”
Standing with the golden one tucked under an enormous, scarred black wing is the biggest dragon I’ve ever seen in my life—the unbonded black dragon Professor Kaori showed us in class. I don’t even come close to reaching its ankle.
“My name is Tairneanach, son of Murtcuideam and Fiaclanfuil, descended from the cunning Dubhmadinn line.”
“You are the smartest of your year. The most cunning.” I gulp at the compliment, brushing it off. I was trained as a scribe, not a rider. “You defended the smallest with ferocity. And strength of courage is more important than physical strength. Since you apparently need to know before we land.”
“Andarnaurram.” The sweet, high voice of the golden fills my mind. “Andarna for short.”
“This isn’t primary school. This is war—and you heard me say it once before, but the ugly truth those not on the front lines choose to forget is there are always body bags in war.”
“You don’t get to dictate how I feel. You might give the orders out there, but not in here. You don’t get to tell me we can fuck but I can’t fall for you. That’s not fair. You can only respect what I choose to do. So we’re not doing this again until I want to risk my heart. And if I fall, then that’s my problem, not yours. You’re not responsible for my choices.”
“I’m just…his.”
“I don’t deserve you.” His arm curls around my hips and he tugs me closer. “But I’m going to keep you all the same.”
“We’re riders,” Imogen says as another explosion sounds. “We defend the defenseless. That’s what we do.”
Gods, I want to haul her into my arms and love her until she forgets everything except how good we are together, but I’m sure that’s the last thing she’ll ever want again.
