Page 20

Jules

The Eyrie—The Bedroom

“Oh my fuck! My hair. What is going on with my hair? ALARIC!”

That’s the first thing out of my mouth once I can string two coherent thoughts together after Alaric rocks my entire nervous system into blissful, obliterated goo.

Not once.

Not twice.

Okay, maybe three times, if we’re being honest.

But semantics aren’t the point here.

The point is—what the fuck happened to my hair?

I scramble toward the edge of the bed, grabbing the gilded hand mirror that lives on the nightstand like it’s going to save my life.

And what do I see?

Gray.

Okay, not really.

More like silver.

Freaking silver streaks. Like tinsel and glitter, but prettier.

Tons of them shimmer right through my previously all-dark, healthy, glossy-brown hair that I’ve always— quietly, not obnoxiously —loved.

I’m not especially vain. But come on. I had good hair! And now?

I’m rocking what looks like early-stage magical girl menopause.

“I mean it, Alaric,” I snap, turning toward him. “What the hell is this?”

“Streaks of starlight, Myrrin . The mark of the Lords of the Eyrie. Now we match,” he drawls from the bed like he’s auditioning to be the cover model of Fantasy Sultan Quarterly .

One of those silk sheets is slung across his hips in a lazy V, but otherwise?

Seven full feet of smug, muscled, tattooed Demon Dragon Lord is on full, glorious display.

I hate how good he looks.

Like, viscerally.

It’s not fair. I never look that good.

“And I disagree. You look fucking amazing,” he adds with a grin that’s pure sin, reclining back on his elbows like my minor existential crisis is foreplay.

I narrow my eyes. “Fine. Not gray hair. Silver streaks. But why? I mean, who authorized this?”

“Magic,” he answers, completely unbothered. “The Eyrie. The Fates. Me. The zareth. Take your pick. You’re mine now, and Nightfall doesn’t want anyone to doubt it or to forget it. Well, something like that.”

I throw a pillow at his head.

It bounces off harmlessly.

“Come back to bed,” he says, extending a hand in that smooth, confident way of his.

Like sin with a side of smirk.

I frown at him. Amused, but trying not to show it.

“You look beautiful, Myrrin. I mean it. I like that we match now.”

That gives me pause.

I glance at him again and— huh?

I hadn’t noticed it before, but his raven-dark hair is streaked too. Threads of silver shimmer through it like moonlight cutting through shadow.

Ethereal and impossibly perfect.

The Fates didn’t just mark me. They marked him too.

And not just his hair.

Now that I’m paying attention, I can see it—on the curve of his horns, in the subtle glow on his collarbone glyphs, and even along the edges of his wings, which I’m just now realizing he can tuck in and out of reality at will.

Which, okay, is kind of neat. Especially for bedroom antics. Because wings. You know, they can get in the way of things.

Of course, it all suits him.

Of course, he looks like some seductive, post-apocalyptic fairy king.

Meanwhile, I look like I lost a fight with a glitter bomb.

He crooks a finger at me. “Come. Back. To. Bed.”

“Not until you explain why my hair looks like I got hexed by a glam rock witch.”

He chuckles, deep and amused. “It’s a mark of power. Of belonging. Of Fate.” He lifts a brow. “And if it helps, I think you look like a goddess freshly fallen from the sky.”

I try to hold my glare. I really do.

But he’s all lean muscle and silver-shadow and sincerity, lounging half-covered in silk like some decadent prince of sin.

And I’m just me.

Slightly freaked out and also hopelessly, stupidly smitten.

“Fine,” I mutter, crawling back under the covers. “But no more nookie. I don’t want to wake up with a tattoo of your ass on my forehead.”

Alaric chuckles low in his throat, already curling his massive frame around mine.

“Myrrin, I assure you, that will not happen.”

I shouldn’t love it when he cradles me close. But I do.

That velvet heat of his body pressed to mine?

It’s addicting.

He makes a contented noise and wraps his arms around me.

I narrow my eyes.

“Alaric.”

“Hmm?”

“No tattoos. Anywhere.”

“Of course not.”

A pause.

Then, far too casually, “Well, not yet. But I admit, my Dragon sigil on your back? The tail snaking around your hip? Perhaps later.”

“What?!”

He must see the weariness in my eyes, because he lifts the blanket and pats the space beside him with a crooked smile.

“Shhh. Sleep now,” he murmurs, tugging me close. “You’re safe, and you’re mine.”

And despite myself, I melt right into him.

Silver hair and all.

I mean, we’ve been tangled up for hours, and there’s no clock in this room, or come to think of it, in this whole dang realm far as I’ve noticed.

I have no idea if it’s even morning, but my body is starting to crash.

“Sleep,” he whispers, voice a sinful purr in the shell of my ear, “Dream of all the wonders of us.”

“But Alaric, I don’t like needles?—”

“No needles. Just sleep now. We’ll talk tattoos and markings later, my viyella .”

And damn it, I do as he says.

I fall asleep in the arms of a Dragon.

Marked, claimed, confused as hell, and just a little in love.

Because who needs normal hair when you’ve got silver strands of magic and a mate who holds you like you’re the only treasure he’s ever hoarded?

A warm breath stirs against the back of my neck.

My body aches— in the good way —and I’m snuggled against a literal wall of muscle and heat that is Alaric, who’s currently spooning me like he owns the position.

Which, to be fair, he kind of does.

Or did, several times over.

I’m somewhere between dreams and reality, vaguely aware of how content I feel for the first time in what feels like years.

Until, suddenly, BANG.