Page 9

LYSANDER

T he human saw my true form.

I knew right away, before I spotted the cord of an amulet around his neck. His eyes kept flickering away, then back to me. His pulse fluttered in his neck. When my fingers brushed the coarse valleys of his knuckles, the swift intake of breath gave him away completely.

In place of the familiar knot of worry in my throat that comes whenever I’m in his presence, a new fear took up residence.

Does he find me different? Horrifying?

For some reason the answer becomes important to me, yet at the same time I’m loathe to know it. Syril said he’d give the human an amulet, but the true meaning of the action didn’t strike me until the moment I saw him, and he saw me. Saw me fully.

I have far more urgent problems. Nightmares, enemies on my tail, a foggy, uncertain future. Yet the thought of his firm gaze twisting away from me in revulsion turns my stomach. He’s been the only one to speak normally to me in so long.

The only one to touch me in years.

That night I sit in my hammock awake for no reason at all. When I go down the next evening, there he is.

My fists squeeze in the folds of my pants, probably wrinkling the fine linen.

I turn my back on the bar purposefully and go to a booth.

The Sanctum is packed with stoneskins for a fire show tonight, and I can hardly see the bar through the crowd.

I could have stayed upstairs — Orion would bring me a small glass of riigan wine to help with the nightmares.

The kitchen is closed anyway, so it’s not like I need to be here to take my dinner.

I shouldn’t be disappointed when the one who appears at my booth is Plato, not the human.

“Your Highness.” Plato bows, and it’s neither the ironic bow Orion always gives nor the sincere one I get from Lilian.

He gives me a smile that’s almost gentle and produces a second, smaller glass.

Red, orange, and pink liquids are layered like a sunset, with a spiral of cream.

Topping the cream is one of the candied cherries I not-so-secretly adore.

“From Ezra. A little apology. The line’s keeping him busy. ”

I will my wings to be still. “Of course,” I say tartly.

“I’m sure he’ll deliver your second round.” Now his eyes sparkle.

I huff. “That’s not necessary.”

The sweet cherry on my tongue makes me smile, though.

Ezra doesn’t deliver the second drink, even when the club quiets down. Plato gives me a rueful look this time and says nothing. Annoyance and worry spin together in my chest. He is avoiding me. Do I disgust him?

Maybe Orion and Plato have told him about me — how I’m hiding in The Sanctum like a coward, relying on Syril’s dryad magic to keep me safe while my sister is out there at the mercy of our enemies. Worse than revulsion, even, is the thought of his gaze skipping over me in dismissal.

I’m no warrior like Elsabeth. I’m not clever like our mother was.

I’m not brave enough to sacrifice myself like either of our parents.

I’m just me, a bundle of neuroses with frivolous pastimes like reading and costume-making.

Perhaps the human has realized he doesn’t gain anything from being friendly.

I can’t hide forever. Sunday is my night to fly. In spite of everything, the show still inspires a tingle of anticipation in me.

Uncharacteristic nerves seize me as I pull on my costume in the dressing room.

Normally the show grounds me. It doesn’t matter to me that I’m standing on stage in front of the entire club because the performance calms my always-racing thoughts.

The ritual of preparation. Bear’s calm presence.

Being cradled firmly in the ropes until I can no longer make any choices about where to move, I can just let go, knowing I’ll be held in place.

When Syril first proposed the whole thing, I was highly uncertain. Bondage ? I was a late bloomer — I hadn’t even entered my fertile age. The idea of getting involved in sexual play seemed silly.

Besides which, Bear simply refused to tie me up at first.

“A fairy? No fucking way, Syril.”

I’d heard him through the office door. I’d only been here a month, and I’m ashamed to admit Bear’s gruff demeanour frightened me.

Isolated as I was, spending most of my life in safe house after safe house, I had barely even met a gargoyle before, let alone a dragon.

I was eager to write off the whole idea.

Until Bear came out of Syril’s office and saw me quivering by the entrance.

He’d let out a growl of annoyance.

“You need it, ” he told me. “I’ll do it. But I won’t be your full time Dom, so don’t expect that from me.”

I didn’t know what he meant by needing it — I thought him highly presumptuous. I didn’t need someone to dominate me.

Later, I learned that’s just how he is. He looks at someone and decides what to make of them right away.

Like me, Bear is the son of a king. Unlike me, he’s been raised to rule his whole life, with four brothers competing for the throne alongside him.

I came to understand that snap judgments was a skill he cultivated out of necessity.

Plus, he was right.

When Bear ties me up, it’s what I imagine flying would be like.

Exhilarating, astounding, with an edge of fear.

With my missing wing I’ve never been able to fly like the rest of my kin, and soaring above the stage for a few brief moments brings me joy.

My thoughts pour out and leave me perfectly empty.

It’s worth paying Syril’s price — the costumes, the lights, the fanfare that lets him advertise the show and draw monsters into The Sanctum.

Even if I sometimes wonder what it would be like to be held afterward. Not by Bear, but maybe someone sweeter and gentler.

Being a fairy makes that impossible, though.

The noise of the club filters down the hall, reminding me the show isn’t just about me. A terrible thought flits through my head — will the human be here?

I shiver and try to push it away.

When I step into the wings Bear is already there, and he gives me a curt nod. “Ready?”

“Ready.” I strip the dressing gown off and leave it hanging on a hook. My costume glitters in the low light, and it’ll dazzle on the stage.

Stepping out from the wings is always the hardest part. After a lifetime hiding in the shadows, walking into the spotlight goes against every instinct. The emcee, a charismatic naga named Thrain, gives me the signal to walk on stage.

“Please welcome our lovely — and lucky — rope submissive, Prince Lysander.”

He flicks a hand at me with a flourish, and I take a deep breath.

Now is the time to walk confidently. I stride across the stage, focused on the mat, pretending I can’t hear the excited chatter of the crowd.

The lights obscure the rest of the club, turning the audience into blessedly indistinct figures.

When I reach the mat I turn to the crowd and bow.

A hush falls over the room. For the audience, this is all part of the show — the mysterious fairy prince in a scandalously sparkling costume, getting ready to be tied up by a dragon twice his size.

I understand it distantly, logically, but for me the thrill isn’t in this part.

I grip my hands together behind my back tightly and straighten as Thrain goes on.

“Now put your hands together for Bear, our master of the rope and one of the five illustrious dragonlords!”

That’s my signal to kneel. I get on the mat as the crowd cheers and whistles.

Tough leather boots stomp across the stage.

I don’t raise my eyes, playing the part of a submissive to Bear’s Dominant.

It’s easy to keep my gaze down — I don’t want to look up and see dozens of shadowy figures below the stage.

I would keep my eyes shut for the whole show if not for the fact that Bear insists I stay alert, for safety reasons.

My body fizzes with anticipation as Bear shows the crowd the rope he’ll be using today. I hold my wings still with sheer force of will, though they long to flutter and twitch.

Bear grips my shoulder tightly with a gloved hand and leans in.

“Focus,” he murmurs. “Your energy is all over the place.”

I suck in a breath. I can’t deny my thoughts are on the crowd. Even if the human isn’t here today, he will be eventually. Isn’t that what the amulet means?

Somehow, the thought makes me feel more vulnerable than getting tied up ever did.

Bear huffs. “Simple tie today. On your feet, and I’ll count you down.”

I clamber to standing, the mat clammy on the soles of my feet. Bear takes my shoulder and turns me around to face the back of the stage instead of the crowd. In spite of everything, the first knot calms me.

“Three,” Bear says.

“Two,” when the second one is in place. I deepen my breathing, pulling my focus back to the moment. The rough feel of leather gloves on my skin. The strident caress of the rope. The firm voice in my ear.

“One.”

Slowly, the spotlight and the crowd fade, and only the rope remains.