Page 31 of Valor’s Flight (The New Protectorate #5)

Chapter Nineteen

A chill ran down Taevas’s spine. “You said he hired Monty for a week?”

“That’s what it sounded like, yeah.” Alashiya grabbed her bowl and stood. He watched her make a quick trip back to the kitchen with his heart jammed in his throat.

There was a chance the dragon had nothing to do with his capture, but he knew for a fact that at least one had been involved in it.

The idea that Alashiya might’ve been in the presence of that person, stuck between them and a man who thought nothing of harassing her, while he remained confined to the nest, filled him with a terrible, impotent rage.

Not at the situation, nor even at the aggressors, but at himself.

What was he good for, if not protecting the people he cared for?

He needed to warn her again, to make absolutely certain that she understood the risks of encountering that dragon or telling anyone he was with her, but Taevas found his ability to speak hampered by his shame.

How long had he dreamed of meeting her, only to find that when the time came, he was a burden, unable to so much as defend her from the threats he’d brought to her door?

He was Isand of the Draakonriik, but he’d been reduced to complete dependence on her for everything — shelter, food, and now defense.

The delicious food curdled in his belly. He’d set the tray aside by the time Alashiya made her way back into the room. She gave him a small, nervous smile and made to settle at her workbench again, but this time Taevas found his voice.

“You work too hard, minu metsalill. It’s late. You should stop.”

“I need to get this done,” she replied, head already bent over her task. “I’m behind, and I can’t deliver it late.”

Guilt gnawing at him, he soothed, “I’m certain your customer won’t mind.”

“I would.”

“It is good to be proud of your work,” he argued, “but not if it hurts you. Come sit with me. I want to speak to you more before my body betrays me again.”

He expected her to immediately refuse, but she surprised him with a long, thoughtful pause. “I really have to finish this.”

“Then bring it with you. Show me how you make such beautiful things. I’ve watched you work for days. Now I want to know everything about it.”

It felt like a victory when she eventually replied, “I can’t bring the whole thing over there, but… I could bring a smaller part, if you really want to see.”

“I do,” he emphatically replied.

She didn’t move right away, and he got the sense that she was warring with herself, like she was trying to talk herself out of it but couldn’t quite manage the task.

At last, she gathered her things and slowly made her way back across the room.

He wanted her, needed her in the nest beside him, but she settled on her cushion again — near enough to touch but too far for comfort.

Settling her various tools beside her on the floor, Alashiya spread a fine velvet sash across her supple thighs. The ends were pointed, and from each fell a delicate gold tassel. Across its length was a collection of celestial motifs wrought in gold, half-finished but unmistakably beautiful.

Taevas’s fingers itched to touch it. Without thinking, he reached for it, but Alashiya snatched it away. “Don’t touch,” she ordered, sounding appalled.

For a moment, he forgot that she had no idea who he was, nor that the sash already belonged to him. It didn’t matter. It was still his and he wanted it.

Drawing himself up as much as he could, he demanded, “Why not?”

“Because it’s for him, not you.” Alashiya eyed him suspiciously, like he might try and snatch it out of her lap again.

“Who’s him?” he asked, knowing full-well that sash went with his robe, which he’d had handmade and shipped to the atelier months ago.

He was fascinated to watch her cheeks darken with a flush. “He’s— It’s for my favorite customer. I’ve been making things for him for ten years now.”

“You started to say something else there,” he pointed out. “Was it his name?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know his name.”

He’d put that much together, but it still pissed him off to hear it confirmed. “Why not?”

“Because I work for a shop,” she explained, taking up her needle. “They handle the clients and send the commissions my way. I don’t need to know anyone’s name.”

Trying not to speak through clenched teeth, Taevas pressed, “And what do you call him, if you don’t know his name?”

“I call him Adon,” she murmured.

He wanted to focus on the skill with which she worked, the graceful tug and twist of her wrist as she threaded designs into the garment, but he couldn’t. Taevas had to flatten his hands in his lap to thwart the urge to touch it.

Mentally adding up all he’d paid in the last decade against her patched clothing and tumble-down house, Taevas asked, “And does this Adon pay you well for your hard work?”

Alashiya shrugged again. “The atelier pays me, not him. I get by.”

I get by.

Throat tightening with righteous anger, he forced himself to take a deep breath. It didn’t help. “What about gifts? Surely someone as skilled as you receives gifts of thanks for your work. Your Adon must have sent you something to show his appreciation.”

Where are my gifts, Shiya?

She gave him a funny look. “I’ve never gotten any gifts. Why would I?”

“Because Adon is grateful. And he understands how difficult your work is, how much time it must take, how your body must ache after so many hours. It’s the least he could do, sending you something to show his appreciation.”

Alashiya blinked several times, as if she struggled to imagine her favorite customer caring so much. Taevas ground his teeth together with such force, his molars squeaked.

“I doubt he thinks of me,” she replied, shaking her head.

“Why would he? For all I know, he probably doesn’t even commission his own clothes.

Maybe he has a stylist who does it, or a partner.

” She swallowed thickly. Her needle flashed in the light, the movements of her right hand turning a tad less graceful than before. “He doesn’t know I exist.”

His anger was momentarily knocked off-kilter. Watching her closely, Taevas asked, “Do you want him to?”

Alashiya’s needle stilled. She didn’t look up when she replied, “Like I said, he probably has no idea who I am and almost certainly has a partner.”

“Why would it matter if he had a partner or not?”

Her needle began to flash again, its flicker picking up speed as her hand moved more quickly. “I never said it did.”

“But you brought it up twice.”

“So?” Her jaw jutted out at a stubborn angle.

“So what if he did want to know who you were — and he was very single?”

Alashiya sucked in a deep breath and held it for a second. After a measured exhale, she answered, “Then I would still just be the woman who embroiders his clothes and makes up silly stories about him being her husband so she doesn’t feel as pathetic as she normally does. It wouldn’t matter.”

Silly stories about him being her husband? Taevas’s stomach somersaulted. He had plans to hear those silly stories, her shyness be damned.

Husband. She makes up stories about me being her husband! Taevas wanted to crow with victory. The giddiness of it made him feel nearly drunk. And aroused. Very, very aroused.

“What’s the difference between doing this for work and sewing for your husband?”

Alashiya looked like she’d rather he asked her to pull one of her teeth out and show it to him, but she still answered. “I take my time. I make it perfect.”

She was holding something back. He could see it in the stiff set of her mouth and the way she stalwartly refused to look at him. “Is that all?”

“I…” She let out a slow breath. Looking down at the sash, she stroked the gleaming stitches with reverence. “There are some things that are reserved for kin. For spouses.”

Feeling like he couldn’t get enough oxygen, he whispered, “What things, my Shiya?”

Her fingertip traced a tiny, sigil-like pattern he’d seen on his clothing many times. “Blessings. Prayers.” She skimmed the loose thread until she found the shiny silver needle again. “The strongest protection I can offer.”

Without hesitation, she pressed the tip of the needle into the pad of her thumb. Taevas hissed, reaching for her instinctively, but was stopped by the sight of a single drop of her blood slipping down the shaft of the needle and into the gold thread.

The faintest sizzling sound filled the air and the heavy press of magic compressed his lungs for the span of a heartbeat — just long enough for the blood to disappear completely.

A buzzing took up residence in his ears.

No wonder her magic has felt different for a while now.

Alashiya hadn’t just imbued his clothing with powerful wards and spells. She’d bound her magic to them with her blood.

He couldn’t catch his breath. It wasn’t just work for her. It was like the mending his isa did by the firelight — an act of care for her husband. It was a visible, tangible, real display of her claim.

His mind shot back to an image of his expansive closet.

Stomach swooping, he tried to wrap his head around how much of her blood she’d put onto each garment.

Too much, certainly, but also… He really didn’t know how to parse the conflicting feelings of pride and dismay over her hundreds of tiny sacrifices.

It was a sweet relief to know he’d cared for every piece like the treasures they were, but even so, he couldn’t help but feel like he hadn’t appreciated them enough.

He wondered when it’d begun for her. What was the first garment that wasn’t just for a client, but for her husband? He needed to know exactly which jacket, shirt, handkerchief, or sash it was. He needed to know so he could get it framed.

Gods, she claimed me with blood and magic and stories. I’m her husband. I’m her husband and the luckiest dragon in the fucking world.