Page 27 of Blood Singer

"But the more time I spend with you, the more the song changes." I moved closer without quite deciding to, drawn by the pull of her that had nothing to do with ghosts and everything to do with her. "It's still there, that faint echo of something old. But underneath it, over it, through it, there's something new. Something that's entirely, distinctly you. Your blood doesn't whisper anymore, Leila. It sings."

She went very still. "What does that mean?"

"I don't know," I admitted. The uncertainty should have terrified me. Instead, it felt like standing at the edge of a cliff and finally being willing to jump. "Blood singers are supposed to be singular. One person, one bond. The song doesn't shift or evolve. It simply is. What yours is doing, I have no precedent for it."

"Maybe it's not about anyone else at all," she said, her voice dropping to something barely above a whisper. "Maybe it's just me."

The possibility settled between us, quiet and enormous. If she was right, every conclusion I'd drawn about her since the moment she stepped off that shuttle was wrong. Or perhaps not wrong, just arrived at through fear instead of reason. I'd been so certain she was a replacement, a test, a cruel echo of something I'd lost. But what if she was none of those things? What if she was simply herself, and that was enough to remake me entirely?

We had drifted close without either of us acknowledging it. Close enough that I could see the faint scatter of freckles across her nose, the way the wind had pulled a strand of hair loose from behind her ear. She smelled of wildflowers and cold mountain air and something warmer underneath, something that made my dragon go still and attentive in a way it hadn't in a very long time.

"Kavan," she said softly, and the want in it was unmistakable.

I leaned toward her. Her eyes closed, lips parting just slightly. The distance between us became a matter of inches, then less, until I could feel the warmth of her exhale against my mouth.

And then I stopped.

The fear arrived without warning and hit hard. I'd stood in this exact place before, not on this mountain, not with this female, but with this same dangerous certainty that the bond was real and the dragon's recognition could be trusted. I'd been wrong then in the most permanent way possible, and the cost had been measured in burning villages and seven hundred and fifty years of sleep.

I pulled back.

Leila's expression shifted quickly, the openness closing down like a shutter. She stood and brushed her hands against her pants with brisk, precise movements. "We should probably get back. You mentioned meetings."

"Leila—"

"It's fine." She wouldn't look at me, and the scent of her hurt was like a hand around my throat. "Really. This was amazing. Thank you for showing me your dragon form and taking me flying. It was... it was incredible."

I wanted to explain. Wanted to tell her that pulling away had nothing to do with not wanting her and everything to do with being terrified of what wanting her might cost. But the words stuck in my throat, trapped behind centuries of caution and the memory of Marion's blood soaking into the earth.

So instead, I just nodded and started packing up what was left of our lunch. The flight back to the castle was silent, the easy joy of the morning replaced by tension and things we couldn't say. When I landed in the courtyard and she slid down from my neck, and didn't wait for me to shift back to human form.

She just said goodbye and walked away, her spine straight and her head high, leaving me alone with my dragon's frustrated roar and the knowledge that I'd just made a terrible mistake.

But I didn't know if the mistake was pulling away from the kiss, or letting her get close enough to want one in the first place.

Chapter 9

Leila

It had been one week, seven full days, and one hundred sixty-eight agonizing hours since Kavan pulled away from our almost-kiss on that windswept mountain peak. He had flown me back to the castle enveloped in a silence so suffocating that I could barely draw breath, and then he left me standing on the courtyard flagstones with nothing but a muttered goodbye and the phantom heat of his touch searing my skin.

I had spent every waking minute of that week replaying the rough catch in his voice right before everything fell apart. He had confessed that my scent carried the faint echo of Marion, and that when I first stepped off the shuttle, he heard what he believed was her blood song humming through my veins. The sheer impossibility of it kept me staring at the ceiling night after night while my thoughts ran in frantic circles. Marion had been dead for seven hundred and fifty years. I was thirty-three, raised in the humid salt air of Charleston, South Carolina, how was it even possible.

The realization of what that song meant was what truly chilled me. A blood singer was the absolute pinnacle of Drakhoni mating lore. It went far beyond chemical attraction or simple compatibility. It was an ancient, terrifying tether of soul and instinct, a fate woven directly into flesh and pulse.

I had no clue what that meant for me, or for Kavan, or for the combustible heat that flared between us every time he looked in my direction before violently pulling away as if I might burn him to ash.

Now, I stood at the edge of the formal reception Murdette had orchestrated. The room was packed with Drakhoni aristocracy gathered to toast the renewal of Alliance ties, and I was forced to smile and pretend my heart was not cracking down the center every single time I caught sight of him through the throng.

I told myself I was not counting the seconds, but that was just another lie.

The grand ballroom was magnificent in the most overwhelming way imaginable. Vaulted stone arches curved overhead, painted with sweeping murals of dragons soaring across violet skies, while massive crystal chandeliers refracted candlelight into thousands of shimmering prisms across the polished marble floor. My gown caught that shifting light with every step I took. The deep sapphire silk was heavily stitched with gold thread, tracing celestial constellations across the fitted bodice before cascading into a skirt embroidered with patterns resembling overlapping dragon scales. The neckline plunged lower than anything I had ever dared to wear back on Earth, the fabric hugging my waist tightly before spilling down to brush the floor. I had spent a solid hour fretting in front of the mirror, telling myself I only wanted to appear polished and professional, but my pulse knew better.

Drakhoni nobles crowded the hall in formal attire that put every medieval fantasy to shame. Tailored black and deep burgundy leather dominated, fitted so expertly to their broad, towering frames that it accentuated every line of muscle while maintaining an intimidating martial elegance. Intricate gold and silver filigree traced their collars and bracers, glinting beneath the chandeliers. Beside them, their human mates wore velvet and silk gowns of rich emerald, crimson, and gold, looking like queens out of an ancient tapestry.

The entire atmosphere felt intoxicating and undeniably romantic, exactly like the fairy-tale world I had daydreamed about as a child.

Yet I could not truly enjoy a single moment of it, because Kavan was standing across the floor near the musicians' dais, watching the crowd while somber strings played a melody hovering somewhere between a waltz and a funeral hymn, and he had not said a single word to me all night.