Page 17

ALICE

F enrother growls to himself when I mention being abandoned in the Yeavering.

If I thought I was going to get answers, all I have are questions.

It’s clear he’s been in isolation for most of his life when he wasn’t being used as some sort of dragon mercenary by the Faerie.

Given most of what he knows comes from books which are simply not fit for the purpose, I’m wondering if he knows wrong from right at all.

Especially now I’ve explained to him exactly what sex is.

Well done, .

Fenrother’s tail flicks behind him as he watches me.

I can’t avoid the predator behind his eyes.

I can’t unsee the dinosaur which I woke to this morning.

“The Yeavering cannot have you, ,” he says, his voice dangerously low.

“You are mine.”

I’m not sure why I run, but I do.

Back out into the great hall, up the stairs, and into the bedroom, through to the bathroom where I shut the door.

I have no control over the locks in this place.

Hell, I don’t have any control over whether I’m clothed or not.

But I am damn sure I’m going to have control over whether I do anything with Fenrother.

And as for Queen Mab, she can go fuck herself.

Admittedly I’ll probably end up being turned into an earthworm, or worse, but given my only living relative pulled a gun on me and then sold me to the Faerie, at least I’ll live out a quiet life ingesting soil.

As I slump on the stone floor and drop my head on my raised knees, I have to ask whether all of this is SO bad I would want to be an earthworm.

Yes, Fenrother has acted like a monster, but then that’s because he is one.

A monster raised in isolation with only a handful of terrible books for company and instruction.

He knows what he has been allowed to know, and I can’t imagine Queen Mab hasn’t had some sort of skeletal claw in the process.

I can still feel her bony hand around my neck and the terrible draught whistling past my hair from the long, long drop onto the hard ground below the battlements.

The door to the bathroom opens, and a blue-scaled hand curls around the wood, thick claws tapping.

“Go away,” I say, extreme tiredness flooding through me and knowing it won’t make a shit of difference to Fenrother.

The hand stills, then it is withdrawn.

He actually did go away?

Fenrother did as I asked?

I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry.

And weirdly, yet again, I feel bad for him.

How is he supposed to know what to do if he has zero reference for his behaviour?

I get to my feet, cursing under my breath as I stumble over my skirts and go into the bedroom.

There is no Fenrother.

I go down the stairs, into the great hall.

The fire is burning, and there are chickens on the spits, but no Fenrother.

Taking a deep breath, I go into the library, which is, surprisingly, unlocked.

He’s not there either.

There is, however, a piece of parchment with fresh ink in the spidery handwriting I know belongs to him.

It appears he has been copying something out from one of his texts.

The Wyrm protects, the Wyrm provides, the Wyrm does as he does until his mate ripens and flowers.

She is his to claim, his to hold, his to pleasure.

And underneath this passage, Fenrother has written:

What if the Wyrm knows not of these things?

What if what the Wyrm knows is nothing at all?

’

My heart flips over in my chest.

He is not a monster.

Not at all.

And I told him to go away.