Page 74 of Foundling

A soul needed a body—one without such a home became something not of this world. A wraith. Unnatural and feared.

Leita wouldn’t allow that to happen, not to Attalus. Her dragon was too beautiful, too vital.

But the more she fought, the more she understood that his body was just too weak. If she forced all the venom through its cycle, his body would give out.

As Queen, she had the power to do much. But raise the dead…no.

She had to get at least some of the venom out another way.

Without hesitation, Leita bent to sink her fangs into Attalus’s neck. His tough scales protected his throat, but she bit down harder, finding overlap between them to pierce the skin beneath. His pulse beat at her lips and his blood spilled onto her tongue.

Mouthful by mouthful, she sucked up the venom. The fight continued at his wound, but from elsewhere, her magic bore the venom up to the punctures. After two sucking pulls, she drew out little blood but instead a horrid yellow liquid that burned her mouth.

The venom gnawed and ate at the soft, wet flesh of her mouth, but Leita wouldn’t stop. Again and again, she pulled from his neck, drawing out the venom to make room for his life force.

She could hardly see through the bright glow of it, and as she fought for every inch of him, mouthful by mouthful, Leita swore she felt comforting hands at her back, bearing her up. Had she been able to sense anything else, she might have realized the faelands shored up her strength and offered its own, but Leita couldn’t think or feel beyond the next mouthful of venom.

Until, that was, blood hit her tongue again.

Leita coughed, shocked at the coppery taste. The venom, what remained of it, lay in globules of spit on the cave floor.

A great shudder rent through Attalus, then his expression finally softened. “Agae,” he murmured, his head slumping in her direction.

With a fingertip and a little more magic, Leita sealed the sore punctures on his neck. His pulse beat steadily there, and his breathing kept a normal rhythm.

She could hardly believe the mound at his side had flattened. His skin had gone warm, rather than burning, a hearty crackling fire rather than an inferno.

It…it’s gone.

Leita stared at her empty palm in disbelief. Her heart panged with panic for a moment, thinking his soul had slipped between her fingers, but no, it’d gone home.

Aching and stunned, she gently leaned down to press her ear to his chest. There, she heard the twin beats of his hearts, thumping along. She nuzzled his skin and kissed his chest. It was the best sound she’d ever heard.

Warm and utterly spent, Leita couldn’t find the will to rise again. The days of constant magic use, and the days before of heartache and frustration, all caught up with her.

And so, her mate’s blood on her lips and heartbeats under her cheek, Leita finally slept.

Attalus had woken to the sight and smell of his mate before, of course. Many times. So many, he didn’t believe it this next time, either.

Still, it was a pleasant delusion.

He blinked blearily at her starlight hair, reaching down to feel its silkiness. He was weak as a baby and just as hungry, but those sensations seemed far removed from his consciousness. Instead, he focused on the delicious slide of his fingers through her soft hair.

She really was a joy to touch. All softness—at least in her sleep.

Last time he’d seen her, she’d been nestled at his side, her head pillowed by his arm. He feared he might’ve admitted to the venom’s growing effect, but in this dream, she seemed none the wiser. Well, if this was his dream, she wouldn’t be angry with him anyway.

But, it was strange to find her lips bloodied in his dream. That was new.

He teased her plush lips with a claw, dried blood flaking away from the corner of her mouth. He’d blood on him, too, itchy stripes down his neck and chest.

Little by little, Attalus began to suspect this wasn’t a dream.

For one thing, he smelled too awful for this to be fantasy. And, while he was weak and hungry and exhausted, he wasn’t…dying. That sense of slipping away, of staring down the abyssal afterworld, had gone.

But that would mean…

Attalus stared at his sleeping mate anew.