Page 13 of Valor’s Flight (The New Protectorate #5)

Chapter Eight

The nymph watched him for several moments longer before she let out a long sigh and turned to fix her cup of coffee.

She said nothing more as she scooped sugar into an earthenware mug, and maintained that silence as she cut a thick slice of bread from a loaf.

He watched her spread jam on its craggy face with quick strokes of a knife.

He felt no hunger in his larger form, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate how good she and her breakfast looked.

The jam was raspberry, he thought, catching the tart scent on the tip of his tongue. It hardly felt like the time or place, but that didn’t stop a part of him from wondering how good she’d taste with a little bit of raspberry on her lips.

“As much as I want to kick you out, I’m not going to. You’re still injured, and you said you’re in danger. I’m not heartless. Just annoyed that I’ve had to wash all my towels twice in twenty-four hours. I’d just gotten the blood out, you know.”

Her back was to him. One of her elegant hands perched on the edge of the counter, and she appeared most comfortable balanced on one foot, with the top of the suspended one pressed against the back of the opposite calf.

A hint of silver on bronze skin caught his eye — the light catching what appeared to be faint scars that slipped out from beneath her skirt and wrapped around her calf like the branches of roots.

He’d seen scars similar to it before, but only on those rare victims of lightning bolts. They were more jagged, though, compared to the fine, root-like lines that were barely visible on her warm skin.

Taevas eyed them, his claws curling at the thought of tracing their branches with his fingertips. Every inch of her was made specifically to distract him from what he needed to be thinking about, and she seemed entirely oblivious to that fact.

She took a bite of her bread and stared out the partially obscured kitchen window. It was a perfectly casual sort of pose. Effortlessly beautiful. For a moment, she was just a stunning woman standing barefoot in her kitchen, enjoying a simple breakfast before setting about the rest of her day.

A peculiar tightening took root in his chest — a grainy, hot-to-the-touch sort of nostalgia for something he’d never possessed. The sight of her made him ache, not only because she was beautiful, but because the picture was somehow incomplete.

It would be the most natural thing in the world to come up behind her, to wrap his arms around her waist and dip his head to steal a bite of her breakfast. A buzz passed over his skin in a head-to-toe wave. His senses sharpened to an almost painful degree as his heartbeat throbbed in his ears.

The picture would be complete, he realized, when she didn’t stand alone.

Is she alone?

The thought startled him. The fact that he hadn’t thought to check was even worse.

Taevas lifted his head and took several quick breaths.

He forced himself to ignore the luscious cypress and woman, the unique syrupy-sweet magic in the air, then the scents of a long-occupied home.

He sifted through everything from old fires to laundry soap to beeswax.

Deep below it all were the faintest traces of other people, but they were so old they were barely discernible.

No mate, he thought, letting out a satisfied rumble. Or at least, no mate here.

He wanted to think it mattered because he couldn’t afford the risk of being seen by another stranger, but Taevas wasn’t entirely delusional. He’d stumbled across an unattached woman of unmatched beauty.

It was the natural, deeply dragonish inclination to snatch treasure when it was dropped into his claws. But he wasn’t like every other dragon, and he didn’t have the freedom to have his head turned by curvy nymphs in soft linen dresses. Not normally, and certainly not now.

And yet that buzz only grew stronger, almost uncomfortably electric. It was a lot like lust, but deeper. More dangerous. More.

Alashiya finished her breakfast and cleared the counter.

Taking up her mug, she turned to him with a shrewd look.

“I’m going to check to make sure the barn didn’t burn down in the middle of the night and then work in my garden.

After that, I’m going to fix your bandages and get on with the work I desperately need to finish for my— for Adon. ”

Taevas’s hackles rose instantly. He didn’t like how she said that name. He didn’t like it at all.

Who the fuck is Adon?

Tilting her mug menacingly in his direction, she continued, “You are going to stay here. You aren’t going to destroy anything or attempt to squeeze back out the door.

I only have the one house, dragon, and I can’t have you knocking it down.

I’m giving you one last chance, okay? If you mess it up, I’m calling the rangers. ”

Taevas had a lot of questions and even more objections to her plan.

Firstly, he didn’t like being ordered to stay like a dog.

Second, he thought it was deeply uncharitable to assume he’d destroy her dwelling by going in and out, considering he’d managed just fine the first time.

And third… in what universe did she think she was allowed to leave him behind? Again.

His impulse was to follow her without hesitation or, failing that, stop her from leaving his sight by any means necessary.

Snatch her and hold her if you have to, something ancient and desperate in him hissed. Don’t let her go.

It was the same need that had dragged him up the slight hill in the pouring rain, and it was the one that made his skin crawl.

Never, in all his life, had Taevas been ruled by instinct.

He’d watched from a distance as his fellow dragons lived their lives governed by it, their minds and their bodies forged into tools for its use.

Compulsion was the domain of others, and it was his immunity to it that made him so very different.

What’s wrong with me?

Uneasy, Taevas drew his gaze away from the object of his fixation and offered a quick nod.

He settled weakly down on the floor, his mind churning as sickeningly as his stomach, as she puttered around him.

The sounds of a wicker basket being picked up were followed by a low feminine grunt, then the door being opened.

Birdsong and the restless rushing sound of grasses blown about in the summer breeze reached him. A furtive peek over his shoulder revealed she’d left the door open, no doubt because it was, in fact, off its hinges and had to be rested against the side of the house.

Don’t watch her, he sternly urged himself. Don’t do it.

His normally steely will crumbled into nothing. After only a few minutes, he couldn’t resist draping his long neck across the floor so he could peer outside.

The sky was a vivid blue speckled with small fluffy clouds, and the world beyond the kitchen door was a cacophony of green.

It was unlike any garden he’d ever seen.

There appeared to be no order to it, no neat lines or planter boxes or geometric fencing.

Trees, their limbs heavy with fruit, hung over vegetables.

Beans crawled up the stalks of corn. Tomatoes bubbled up from a carpet of arugula.

There was no rhyme or reason to any of it.

And yet it was the liveliest garden he’d ever seen.

Not one inch of it appeared to be barren or struggling.

He could make out no irrigation system or spigot from where he lay.

It was as if the gods had commanded that one patch of earth to grow as it would, with the only order being that all things must be edible.

Alashiya fluttered in and out of view. She criss-crossed the garden, coffee in one hand and shears in another. She often paused to take sips from her mug before popping some bit of greenery into her mouth. He watched with rapt attention as she slowly devoured a juicy pear.

She appeared perfectly at home. Her bare feet were light and nearly soundless as she padded between the plants, slowly filling up her basket.

Something about it was uncanny, like the first time he watched spellwork being done.

The air around her seemed almost too clear, the colors too bright, and when she stooped to brush her fingers over a broad leaf, he swore it stroked her back.

He fell into something like a trance as he watched her. The pain and discomfort of his body was muffled when she was within view. Everything seemed just a bit more real. More right.

Time passed, but he barely noticed it. Taevas blinked owlishly when her form darkened the doorway.

Setting her full basket and empty mug down, she made quick work of rinsing her feet in a small basin of water by the door.

Every movement was effortless, utterly lacking in artifice or performance.

It was a beautiful sight, but something in him itched at the easiness of it, the implication that this was how she spent her days.

He knew how much work it was to grow one’s own food, to live off the grid. To do it alone was even harder. There were no breaks or shortcuts. There was just endless, grinding work. Fulfilling work, to be sure, but work.

Did she get to relax? Did she have anyone to depend on? What happened if she hurt herself? It wasn’t his business, but he couldn’t help the thoughts from flashing through his mind as he watched her.

She acted as though he wasn’t there, which irked him immensely, but he was too fascinated by her to do anything about it. He couldn’t help but wonder what kind of woman took something like having the Isand of the Draakonriik as her guest in stride.

The thought tickled something in the back of his mind. She… does know I’m the Isand, right?

After washing her haul in the deep enamel sink, she set the vegetables on the counter and wiped her hands on a towel embroidered with tiny yellow sunflowers. “Thank you for putting out the fire in the barn before you followed me,” she said, setting the towel back on its hook.