Page 69 of Spellcast
His arms are solid bands of muscle holding me up, his chest at my back a supportive wall. I release a ragged exhale.
His hand against my ribs shifts, the barest stroke, and a new sense of panic swells to life in me.
“It’s late,” I say. “I’m ready to go to bed.” It is late, but sleepingis the last thing on my mind. The lie is my attempt to put an end to this, to insert space between us, distance and time, so that his hand on my ribs does not unnerve me, so that the next time we meet we are in our proper roles. Dragon and human. Captor and captive intent on escape.
His breath continues to fall, steady and deep against my hair, a comforting cadence. His arms relax. He reaches around me and lifts the sword from my hand, tossing it to the side. “Good.” A single clipped word. “I’m sure you’ll feel better after a night’s sleep.”
I don’t know if that’s true. I prod around carefully inside myself, uncovering what’s there. Resignation. Loss. A fiery, charged hum along my skin that feels like the air before a thunderstorm. I can’t imagine all those feelings will be gone by tomorrow morning.
He lowers his arms from me. “Let’s go then.”
“Let’s?”
“You don’t think me so foolish I will let you sleep on your own out here anymore. We tried that once. You lost that privilege.”
I glance to where I usually sleep, the pillow on the bench still bearing the indentation from my head. A queasy sensation starts twisting its way through me. “Where am I sleeping then?”
“In my den.”
In his den. With him.
“You jest.”
“No.” He takes my elbow and starts guiding me toward the tunnel leading to his chamber.
His words sink another layer. “Wait.” I yank my elbow from his grasp. “Did you sayanymore?” This isn’t even temporary? I swallow miserably.
He nods and reclaims my elbow, continuing us down the tunnel.
At his nod, panic surges in my throat, bilious, fetid as food gone bad. “You’re going to force me to share your den with you?”
He makes a tsking sound. “That’s an ugly way to phrase it.”
I give him a bristling look.
He looks back coolly. “It’s for your own protection, and I wouldn’t need to do it if I could trust you.”
A tightness squeezes around my chest, aching, hurting, making it difficult to breathe. “There’s that word again. Funny how you think trust can ever exist between us.”
We enter his den, and I’m allowed my first look at his private space...the place where he spends his nights.
It’s not a large chamber, but there are several dips and pockets within the stone walls creating natural shelves to hold items. A single flame flickers in a lantern sitting atop a tree stump that has been polished to a high shine and serves as a bedside table.
He possesses few personal belongings: a comb, a mirror, a dozen books. My eyebrow lifts. Apparently, he reads. And yet it is his collection of gems in all colors and sizes that astonishes me. They cast almost as much light as the lantern’s glow. The fortune these jewels could bring would feed countless families in Penterra. I make a small sound of disgust at the sight of them, here for mere decoration and vanity.
At the sound, he follows my gaze. “What? The gems?”
“Why do you feel the need to hoard such treasure?” Disapproval drips from my voice, thick as syrup.
“What? They offend you?”
I gesture lamely. “They’re valuable. They could feed an entire town for months, years even. To say nothing of the homes you could provide, clothing...all the things necessary for—”
“And is that what your kind does? Dohumanswho are in possession of treasure dispense it to those in need?”
“I—um—”
“Because, historically, your kind has raided our minns and killed us for our treasure for centuries.” His gaze turns as hard as the mountain holding us. “Tell me, did humans steal our jewels to support and feed the masses? Or did they use the gems they stole from us to decorate their castles and wear them about their throats and in their crowns?”
