Page 40 of Dragons' Future

I’m not sure how we got here, much less where here is or how this has become my decision. All I can tell is that we're in a pasture, its sheep residents keeping far away from us. The air is fresh, filled with the scent of pine. It’s a stark contrast to the stone confines of the citadel, where I last remember being. Which begs the logical question of… “How did we get here?”

“We flew.” He frowns at me. “You flew. In dragon form.”

I process that for a heartbeat then twist in a circle. Leesandra and her pack are in the distance, some of the males still in dragon form. On the other side of the pasture is a vaguely familiar looking solitary wooden cabin nestled among a grove of towering oaks. The land then dips into a small valley, where I think I see a babbling brook that meanders through the underbrush. In the opposite direction, a dense pine and spruce forest dominates the landscape. Something makes me think there might be a lake there too. There is nothing else by way of civilization though, not that I can see or hear anyway. In fact I know there is nothing else close by. No towns, no other homesteads, no anything. I’m certain. Or at least my dragon is.

"Where are we?" I ask Cyril.The hatchling in my arms lets out a squawk and I let it down, where it starts flapping its wings and running circles around the eggs.

"Hell if I know." Cyril is tense, his attention not wavering from me and the hatchling. “You’ve had us flying for days. What’s the last thing you remember?”

I rub my face, trying to regain my bearings. "I remember being in the citadel chamber with Emric. He was hurting you, and he was furious. He was going to harm the pup. And then…” Then there was a rush of magic and energy and air and panic. Then I was me, but not me. “What happened then exactly?"

"You mean after you shifted and released enough magic to take the citadel’s roof clear off? After that, you took off like a banshee, and we've been playing where is Kit going to try and land ever since. I've had to grab you by the scruff of the neck in mid-air each time you angled toward the ground or into a mountain face. You suddenly being able to fly didn’t make you suddenly able to land. Darren’s pack has been helping too—they saw the explosion and came.”

"Look, she is human! Or fae. Whatever!” Lee’s hopeful voice exclaims as she and the males emerge from the other side of nearby the hill. “Does that mean we are finally stopping?"

"Let's not get too close to an unpredictable mama dragon and the hatchling, lest we want to be eaten or taken into the skies again, shall we?" Darren grabs Lee around the waist and pulls her against his chest, his orange hair flying in the breeze. He isn’t quite in as bad of shape as Cyril, but he’s exhausted too.

I cringe. "I’m sorry.”

Cyril grabs my shoulders. “You single handedly took down Emric, broke us out of the citadel, saved my life, the hatchling’s, the eggs, and your own. Don’t you dare be sorry.”

Well, when he puts it that way. I sigh and nestle my forehead against Cyril’s shoulder. He pulls me tightly against him, his hands brushing up and down my spine.

“Do you know what you were looking for?” Cyril asks. “You seemed very determined to get here. Magic kept bursting from you, waves that pushed us along. I lost my bearings several times, but we seem to have moved close to the mortal realm.”

I shake my head. I have no idea. But the essence inside me that I know is my dragon is relaxed now. Whatever the dragon was looking for, it’s satisfied here. It feels safe here. And maybe I do too.

"I'm pretty sure I'm not shifting anymore," I tell Cyril. "Also, I don’t actually know how to shift on command.”

"Yes, well that hasn't stopped you before," Cyril points out. “If you didn’t have the pup and eggs, I might have let you crash just to get a bit of a rest.”

"You wouldn't have."

"No," he admits. "I'm not Quinton. Though the speed with which you were trying to break your neck, I think even he would have interfered." Cyril pushes me back to arms length and examines me again, his expression turning serious. "How are you feeling?"

"Exhausted and more than a little disoriented," I confess. “I really shifted? Into a dragon?”

“Into the most beautiful dragon I have ever seen.”

I reach toward his face, where blood still coats his mangled scales and brush my finger delicately along his skin. It’s then that I see his hand, and the sigil that’s on his finger. Ettienne’s sigil. The one only the king of Massa’eve is to wear. The pain I’d felt through the bond hits me again, my eyes stinging at his loss. “Cyril?—”

“Don’t.” He swallows. “Not yet.”

I nod once and suddenly the gap between us is gone, and Cyril’s hands are on my waist, gripping me with a fervor that echoes through the bond. He pulls me against him, our bodies colliding, our arms gripping each other desperately. His eyes, blue and intense, lock onto mine, reflecting the relief and terror that’s still simmering through me. Then he is kissing me, soft at first, then desperate and demanding as my mouth parts for him.

His kiss is all-consuming, as if making up for each unspoken word. My body and soul respond with equal fervor, my hands clutching at his shirt, pulling him closer, afraid to let go even for a moment.

The world narrows. It’s just us, our rapid breaths, the desperate kiss that deepens with each stroke of tongues. Cyril's hands roam over my back. My fingers thread through his hair. Our bond sings, taking over my body until I can think of nothing else but the overwhelming sensation of being alive and with him and in the now. Stars. I love him. I love him so so much.

“Hate to interrupt and all, but we are about to have visitors,” Lee points out. “And the little dragonling is trying to set the sheep on fire.”

“What?” I mutter, only half listening as Cyril and I pull apart and gasp for air. There is a flicker of raw vulnerability in his eyes that mirrors my own. Our foreheads touch, our breaths mingling, the intensity of the kiss still lingering like an echo. “What visitors?”

“The ones who own the sheep, I imagine,” says Darren. “I better go see to our other luggage before they find it.”

I raise a questioning brow at Cyril.

“Later,” he says.

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