Page 39 of Fragile Beings
Even indignant and more than a little alarmed, Paloma struggled to keep her eyes on his face as he casually answered, “It is now.”
A stiff breeze whipped up from the gorge to tangle her robe around her legs. Tugging the sides close to her body, Paloma sputtered, “No, no, that’s not why I— Listen, you are the dragon that landed on my deck last night, right? The lost one?”
The dragon shot her another dazzling grin. It was all fang and boyish dimples. With his long, deep red hair that curled around his nape and his easy smile, he looked more like he belonged in a dragon-centric boyband than in her yard.
Spreading his arms out wide, he answered, “That’s me! Your rogue, Artem Aždaja, at your service.”
“Artem.” Paloma cleared her throat. “Right, okay. Artem, look— I think you might have gotten the wrong impression about why I…” She trailed off, struggling to think of a way to phrase what she’d done the previous night without sounding out of her mind.
“You lured me here,” he finished for her, “with your fake dragonfire. I don’t remember a lot, but I remember that.” His grin faded into something sharper, hungrier. “You chose me.”
“I did lure you here, yes. But I didn’t…” Suddenly keenly aware of the fact that she had invited a strange dragon to her home without considering the fact that there was a man beneath the scales, Paloma shifted nervously from foot to foot. “I was just trying to help you.” She swallowed. Eyes skittering across the yard, she continued in a more subdued voice, “The town was going to call Patrol if you crossed the ridge. I couldn’t let that happen.”
She caught Artem’s shrug out of the corner of her eye. “I figured.” His fangs flashed with another grin. His chest puffed up, and there was a note of admiration in his voice when he said, “Very, very clever, sweet treat. Not many people know how to make dragonfire.”
Another stiff breeze threw Paloma’s hair into her face. Pushing it back impatiently, she took a wary half-step back. “Then why would you think—”
She let out a small shriek when one of Artem’s wings shot out from behind him. The deadly claw at the top nearly grazed her cheek as he curled the flexible membrane around her shoulder, effectively blocking out the worst of the bitter wind.
“You’re cold.” Artem gave her back a nudge, spurring her into movement as she did her best to avoid making contact with his claws. “We can discuss this inside your small dwelling.”
“I don’t know if I should let you in my house,” she replied, quick-stepping out of Artem’s personal space. “I don’t know you, for one thing, and for another, you’re naked.” She eyed his easy smile with distrust. “And you seem fine enough to me.”
“Yes, and I am very impressive, I know.” The dragon didn’t seem the least bit perturbed by her evasive maneuver. Easy expression unchanged, he artfully used his tail to halt her retreat. Yipping with surprise, Paloma backed up several feet. Artem followed her easily, his red eyes gleaming with humor. “I will give you two very good reasons to let me in, sweet treat.”
“And what are those?” Paloma’s heels hit the low step below her front door. Jumping with surprise, she realized that Artem had somehow managed to corral her back up the path.
Prowling closer, he extended one clawed hand to skim a lock of her windswept hair back over her robed shoulder. “First, I am not… quite recovered from the sickness,” he began, a hard-edged look of consternation briefly taking the place of his cheerfulness. “I will need to eat a great deal very soon to regain the strength I’ve lost in the time I’ve been roaming. And then I will probably collapse again.” He paused. “I will most likely sleep for several days.”
She blanched, recalling the poor dragon’s labored breathing the night before, and how his wings shook with strain as he struggled to fold them against his back. This dragon seemed whole and hale, but when she cast her eye down across his torso, Paloma was chagrinned to notice the way his wings vibrated faintly against his back and the very, very fine tremors that made his hands shake as he stroked another stray lock of her hair.
Before she could ask any questions, he casually continued, “And the second reason is that, should you leave me out here to sleep on your stoop, I have no plans to go away. When we set our minds to something, a dragon doesn’t give up. Ever. Haven’t you ever heard the story of the three dragon kings?”
Paloma rasped, “No. I don’t know anything about dragons.”
A sly smile curled the corners of his lips up. “You’ll learn.”
* * *
In hindsight, perhaps forcing himself to shift the moment he regained consciousness wasn’t his wisest idea, but he didn’t regret it. Being able to speak with his Chosen, to touch the silk of her hair, to feel her gaze skating over his naked skin, were luxuries he’d suffer for a thousand times over.
Artem pushed the pain in his body to the back of his mind. It was terrible, but it was nothing he hadn’t felt before. The Draakonriik military required every fit dragon to serve in its elite Draakon unit for at least five years. The training he’d received for that, and all the ways he’d pushed his body in defense of the Draakonriik since, were not so far off from how he felt then, sitting at the strange, pockmarked kitchen table in his mate’s pitiful little dwelling.
He did his best to cover his dismay as he swept his gaze around the room. Not even his more recent training for diplomatic service helped him completely hide it, though. What kind of home was this? It looked like someone had slapped three separate homes together with glue and tape — and none of them were great before the ill-thought out surgery.
While his mate seemed perfectly content, if nervous, as she fluttered around her strange little kitchen with its exposed sink and ancient gas range, Artem was appalled. A dwelling was essential to family life. It was a dragon’s pride, his most treasured possession, because it was where his mate and offspring were kept safe and comfortable.
To watch his mate fiddle with the knob on a gas appliance that went out of use nearly a hundred years ago made every instinct in him rumble with discontent. Under normal circumstances, he might have stormed up to her, swept her off her feet, and demanded she stay in a hotel with him until the proper arrangements could be made to renovate their dwelling, but such things were currently beyond him.
Effectively pinned to his creaky wooden chair by muscle spasms that made spots float across his vision every few minutes, he could only frown. And plan.
His thoughts weren’t entirely clear yet, but they were getting there. He knew that there were many important things he needed to do, like call his cousin to let him know what had happened, where he was, and that he would be settling down to roost with his mate in the EVP, whether the elves wanted him there or not. His parents would want to know what happened to him, and his loyalty to the Draakonriik meant he never wanted them to waste resources looking for him if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. Before the sickness, all that truly mattered to Artem was the ’Riik and the clan.
But that was before he met her.
Taevas sought to give him a diplomatic position somewhere in the UTA, citing Artem’s ability to “charm anyone, living or dead” as his qualifications, but those ambitions would have to wait. Mates came first. Once decided on, Chosen, they became the core of a dragon’s life. A dragon’s heart. Taevas, while unmated himself, would understand.
But calling his cousin would have to wait until he didn’t feel as though his stomach was turning itself inside out. Preferably, it could wait until he’d slept for a week straight and successfully wooed his Chosen, too.
