Page 14 of Delinquent Dette (Empty Nests #7)

Frikka

Hatchday Next

A little pup, a mix between coyote and Slang, played amidst the others. She, the only female dragon since the Welsh dragons disappeared, proved to be what we expected hybrids.

Luka, Leo, and Hallr’s bicolored pup, the youngest of their clan, sat primly, surveying his territory. He had the air of a jarl from birth, a duty in his heart to lead and protect. I told them I’d protect Blossom. No Drake will ever break her like a toy and throw her away.

That’s exactly what most Dettes were. Broken toys. “Big words. Always fear the bearers. Without us, there is only death. Broken toys bring no smiles. Even with us, there is death, sometimes.”

Sten sat nearby, watching. He’d waited long enough.

There was a new jarl born at a time when Dettes were to be revered.

Dettes had their own council and laws were being rewritten to exclude Dettes from property laws and give them the same standing as Drakes.

And from the liquidated assets of all the Drakes Frikka had disposed of?

Dettes coming home would have their inheritance. They’d be dragons, free and clear.

“C’mere, r?vhul.” Asshole. Frikka gestured for Sten, who slunk over, joining Frikka at his side.

He pulled Sten’s hand over, studying the hard lines of callouses and old scars.

He’d wielded sword and axe in Frikka’s father’s name and wielded tooth and claw for Frikka.

Over two hundred years ago, he’d chosen the Drake who sat beside him.

Two hundred years of pain had passed. With a single gesture, he shifted his claw and recalled the mark that meant his dragon’s name: feral grace.

The few marks were easy, cutting into Sten’s already marked-up hand.

And he didn’t flinch. He watched, breath held.

For a moment, Frikka could swear his heart didn’t beat.

“Dette?” The mark healed as fast as Frikka could make it, and it was too late to take it back. With a flippant gesture, he slung his leg over Sten’s lap.

“Happy hatchday, my love. You suck less than all the other Drakes out there. Even if Weston makes amazing nests.” Frikka jolted in surprise when Sten asked no questions, only drew claw and carved his dragon’s name.

Loyal and something that had no direct translation, but was the twitterpation of dragons in a playful mood.

Zoomies and wild romps. True “golden retriever energy,” as Leo might say.

“I’ll always admit when I’m defeated. You slay me, Frikka. But even if Weston’s nest is perfect, you’ll always be in mine come season. I promise.”

Frikka leaned into him and closed his eyes. He’d wondered what Sten’s mind sounded like for centuries. His dragon cried sometimes in want to hear the Drake’s heart.

My Dette, do you hear my heart? Sten’s mind cried out where their dragons lay deep inside.

I do! Frikka bit back tears as he absorbed the peace. And his mind was quiet. The gift that lay in a Dette’s mind to see the future, what made him a volur? It was gone. Why would Frikka need to see the future? It brought him misery, always watching for the signs of visions past.

Are you thinking what I’m thinking? Sten leaned in closer to Frikka, nose brushing the shell of his ear.

We stuff the remaining floppy penises in Artur’s mailbox? Frikka gave a bounce of excitement and clutched to Sten’s arm.

Gods, I love you. Never change.

Hatchday was a celebration of love, so when Sten nuzzled into Frikka’s ear, grinning, he listened with his heart. “What finally changed your mind, crazy Dette?”

Frikka couldn’t say for the life of him. It finally felt right. And it also helped that the two geese nesting by the pond, a bonded pair long descended from the jarl’s fine birds and the horrid beast of Sten’s old gander, had hatched their first clutch.

The male, Willy, which Cinder had named, did more than Orne did for the geese he bred. He tended Poppy, his female, and they bonded—mating for life as their kind often did under the right circumstances.

“Willy and Poppy’s eggs hatched this morning. It was like Freya telling me to move on.” Frikka sighed as footsteps approached, a large shadow covering them. Hallr.

“Come spring, I want an entire longboat filled with nestblossom for Frikka.” Sten grinned and Hallr shrugged.

“How about this?” Hallr leaned down and handed Sten two things—a glass vial, an old one where the glass had a hint of blue to it. In it had once been nestblossom, now lay only seeds. In his other hand, he held out a curl of tissue paper.

Sten unwrapped it and stared down at a single nestblossom, but something was different about it. The petals were variegated white and purple. Bicolored. “Boy?”

“I had a mutation. These are the seeds from them. I call them the jarl’s nestblossoms. They aren’t quite as strong as the wild ones, but they’re bigger and prettier.

Plant them where you see fit.” Sten knew many places that could use the seeds.

Their back garden and their old estate. The flowers would grow wild and free there.

“Come the weeks before spring, next, I want to start a new tradition.” Frikka stared up at the sky.

It would be their mating ceremony and a completion of the circle of their love.