Page 19 of Court of Secrets and Flames (Dragons of Tirene #2)

Chapter Nineteen

Tears sting my eyes as I continue to plunge toward the ground.

The air howls past with a screaming ferocity, echoing the raw emotion bubbling from my throat.

I can’t believe she did this to me.

And as if one betrayal today wasn’t enough, white-hot agony lances through my back.

The female dragon swoops closer, her sinuous form blotting out the sun.

My fingers claw at my tunic while a burning, humming sensation builds to a crescendo beneath my skin.

As the ground races up to meet me, some primal instinct forces me to roll my body.

I squeeze my eyes shut and pray.

Ziva, keep me…

Just like that, the excruciating pressure between my shoulder blades pops, and the pain vanishes. An air current snatches my body, slowing my descent and jerking me sideways as I flip through the air like a feather in a windstorm.

A foreign image invades my head.

Once I understand it, I almost burst into relieved tears.

The image is of me. With wings. Huge burgundy and gold wings stretching wide from both sides of my body.

Holy shit.

A torrent of dragon emotion follows. Joy. Pride. Relief. Acceptance and—oh wait, apparently one of those fire-breathing jackoffs finds my deadly plunge amusing.

Oversized asshole lizard.

My former mount soars beside me, and I meet her piercing gaze. Understanding blooms in the back of my mind.

She didn’t betray me. She must have sensed my wings and decided to give them a little push, like dropping a child into deep water to teach him to swim.

Hopefully that means she would have intervened and saved me before I hit the ground, but who knows. Dragons don’t suffer weaklings, so it’s equally possible she would have shrugged my death off as a sign that I’m undeserving of the dragoncaller title.

Shock propels my wings outward, broad sails catching the currents. Air buffets against their span.

The female dragon shifts, aligning her flight with mine. Her young have yet to fully develop and hatch, but she’s willing to guide me through my first attempts at flight long before she can teach her own younglings.

Following her example, I cup my wings and catch a thermal before coasting through wisps of clouds. The female’s bugle slices the skies, and I can’t help but laugh in return.

As far as apologies go, I suppose this one works.

I am flying. Truly flying. On wings that are irrefutably mine.