Page 32 of Foundling

“Just what have we gotten ourselves into?” he whispered to her.

He was almost hoping she’d rouse enough to respond—even if that was to punch him in the nose and kick him off—but she remained motionless in his arms. Alarming, yes, but he’d be more worried had her breathing or color changed. Instead, she was the picture of serenity, lost in an apparently deep, pleasant sleep.

Attalus decided he wouldn’t be too cut up about it when she nuzzled into his shoulder, seeking more warmth.

“Ah, doe, don’t go soft on me just yet.” He liked her prickly; he wouldn’t know what to do if she was nice to him.

Although landing somewhere safe enough for a respite and falling right into the path of his true mate was all well and good, Attalus could admit what a complication this was. Fleeing Highhome resolved nothing other than his own immediate execution; he’d no doubt he was now a fugitive. Araxos wasn’t known for giving up or having mercy.

That meant finding some sort of solution to his problems.

It couldn’t be chance, though, that his flight had led him straight to his very own fae mate. A powerful fae at that. Powerful enough to clear away a wildfire and summon a heavy rainstorm.

Everyday fae can’t do that. He wasn’t certain, but he heavily suspected that was true.

“Just who are you, Leita?” He needed to know, even if the answer only brought more trouble.

There was no going back for Attalus. He understood that. Fae mate or no, he couldn’t return to the Droplets so long as Araxos believed him guilty. Attalus had no stomach for raising an army, nor getting himself killed by trying to return and plead his innocence.

That left him with two options as he saw it. Continue on and try to find Theron and Briseis. Or stay with Leita, whatever that might mean.

The former would be safer. The latter depended on Leita putting up with his continued presence.

It was an easier decision to make when she was soft and agreeable in his arms. Without home or kin, he could already feel himself cleaving to her. It was the bond of true mates, yes, but it was also something borne of desperation. Not the healthiest foundation to a new bond, perhaps, but that was the way of it for folk dictated by fates and deities; they didn’t get to choose the circumstances.

Something was coming, and it seemed they’d been brought together to face it.

Not long after the rain began, the unicorn mare came into sight, trudging through the sheet of water cascading over the cave entrance. Just inside, she shook out her mane and coat, and Attalus lifted a wing to defend his charges from the onslaught.

“Do you mind?” he grumbled.

The unicorn whickered at him, bobbing her head and that deadly horn. Her liquid black eyes fixed on Leita in Attalus’s lap.

“She collapsed after bringing the rain,” he explained. “I carried her inside. That’s all.”

The mare nickered, waving the point of her horn from Leita in Attalus’s lap to his own head.

“You insult me. I’d never lay a hand on someone so vulnerable, especially not my mate.”

Raising her head, the unicorn pawed the ground threateningly. From around his neck, Slinky hissed and bristled. Two irate females in a standoff—exactly what he didn’t need.

“Now see here,” he reasoned, “you were gone and I was there to catch her. Should I have left her in the rain?”

The unicorn huffed and grumbled, her dove-gray nostrils flaring.

“I think you both are just going to have to get used to the idea of me.” He nodded, confident that he occupied the moral high ground, but less confident that that mattered to a unicorn. “Besides, you’re wet and smell of damp fur whereas I am dry and warm.”

With a noise that sounded suspiciously like Leita’s scoff, the mare dipped her head to take a dramatically pointed sniff of him. Slinky scrambled up atop his head, using his horns for cover as she bit and sniped at the mare—and got a great puff of hot air in the face for her troubles.

Attalus returned the mare’s significant look with a scowl. “I’m aware, thank you. I challenge anyone to come so close to dying then spend days in a cave and smell better than I do.”

He didn’t care for the soreness between his hearts at the reminder that he was dirty, smelly, naked, and penniless. Not the way he’d wish to meet his true mate. He’d been lucky to at least be wearing a few of his horn ornaments and earrings while fleeing, but they were a mere drop in the sea of riches his mother had left him, Theron, and Briseis. As a diadochos, he was also entitled to his share of the royal hoard. At least, before he was declared a traitor.

Normally, he’d have royal wristlets, gauntlets, and bracelets of pure, spelled gold that shifted with his form. Necklaces and rings and circlets and belts and gems were meant to adorn his ruby-red scales. A Savrakae with merely a single set of horn adornments and caps was a poor dragon indeed.

However, he rarely wore all those trappings when he visited Bargarad and the other coastal cities. Unless he was negotiating and needed his adversary to understand whom they dealt with, he usually visited his favorite drinking dens and brothels without most of his regalia. Too much adornment made for slower flying, too.

But damn, what he wouldn’t give for Leita—and the unicorn, too—to see him properly. Fully adorned, scales buffed, hair combed, and horns oiled. His kilts were of the finest linen and muslin, tooled with gold and precious stones. His robes were lined in the most luxurious silks, embroidered with gold and silver threads.