Page 104 of The First Scar
My eyes darted to Brannick for rescue. He put his hands up in surrender and backed away.
Coward.
Dreadscale's gaze hadn't moved from mine. "You've stood naked before your shadow, Scar-Bearer. But not before me." A pause, weighted and deliberate. "What do you say? Can I have this dance?"
Naked. What a word choice. My brain went somewhere unhelpful and stayed there. His fault entirely.
Gods help me. I don't know if I should slap him or run.
"I thought I had. I've stood before your Mirrorheart. I've laid myself bare for you."
Sure. Fine. I could flirt with an ancient dragon warrior. What's the worst that happens? He eats me. At least I'd die interesting.
A husky, devious chuckle rumbled out of him. "Then I must've missed the part where you stripped down and begged me to look closer."
Heat seared through me—deep and treacherous. I narrowed my eyes, fighting for composure. "Maybe you weren't paying attention."
Mischief lit his eyes. He stepped closer. "Oh, I paid attention." His voice dropped. "I'm still paying attention."
My knees threatened to buckle. That sounded like a threat. Or a promise. Or both.
Without breaking eye contact, he reached for the ribbon of my mask. Slowly. Purposefully. Unraveling it like he had all the time in the world.
"This is supposed to be symbolic, you know," I whispered. Lamely.
The mask fell away from my face. "All the most intimate gestures are."
I tried to swallow. Again.
"So what now? You gaze into my wounded soul?" I whispered.
He untied his own mask without looking away. Without breaking a sweat.
It slipped free, and his face, unmasked, was somehow more dangerous than before.
"No," he said. "Now you wear mine. And tell me what you see."
He lifted his mask with two fingers and stepped behind me. His fingers brushed my nape, knotting the ribbon. His breathgrazed the shell of my ear. The mask settled against my face—warm from his skin, smelling of smoke and cedar—and the eye-holes narrowed my world to him alone.
Memory-ink inside his mask flared against my cheeks.
KING'S LEDGER: BEAST. INNER LIE: I AM ONLY MY AXE.
A pulse of Mirrorheart slipped through the mask. I inhaled a flash of his first kill—blood and snowfall, the silence after.
I turned, my voice strong. "I see the scar tissue. And the male who taught me it is the power, not the problem."
His eyes darkened and he offered his palm. I set mine in it, our marks humming in tandem.
The musicians struck the three-quarter beat. We pivoted together, and the circle parted for us.
He led. I followed. His other hand found the curve of my waist and held there with a weight that rearranged my breathing. The waltz was slow, turning—each step a controlled fall that he caught before it landed. The packed earth was uneven under my boots and he compensated without looking down, adjusting his stride to mine, steering us through the gaps between other couples like he'd memorized the floor.
The brazier's heat found us on every third rotation—a wall of dry warmth that bloomed across my left side and then fell away as we turned. The other couples moved in their own orbits, murmuring to each other, masks traded, foreheads touching. Quiet, intimate sounds. Around us, a wider silence. A space the crowd had made without being asked.
No one dared intrude on Dreadscale.
His voice was a low thrum against my ear. "Ten heartbeats in my arms—can you hold the fusion… or will you break for me again?"
