Page 28 of Power of Draken

One hand still clutching my dagger blade—I still need the physical pain to keep from erupting—I pull Lilith’s pendant from beneath my shirt and run my thumb over the iridescent scales at its core. Lilith’s hatchling scales from the first time she molted. She is the reason I’m here. Trying to make things right after I fucked everything up. Again.

But that’s the story of my life, isn’t it? I bring destruction everywhere I go.

“Hang on, Lilith,” I whisper. “Give me a chance to fix it.”

“Grayson?”

My head snaps up and I narrow my eyes at the approaching figure. The alchemist. Who is supposed to currently be in the lecture hall, conspiring with the other humans on how to best destroy lives and souls.

“Are you alright?” Rowan asks, her mane of chestnut hair escaping the bun she’d tried to harness it into. How can someone so damn delicious be responsible for so much pain? And how can my own core heat in response to the alchemist’s presence when I know exactly what her magic does?

“Why aren’t you at lecture?” I demand in a voice that Lilith calls my kill-now-talk-later tone.

“You’re one to talk.” Instead of backing away like any normal person would under the circumstance, Rowan closes the rest of the distance between us and reaches for my hand. The one gripping the dagger blade and leaking blood onto the ground. “Let me see.”

Of course she wants to see. She’d probably reach her hand into a wolf’s mouth to help with a sore tooth, too. Because somehow, against all logic and reason, Rowan Ainsley is… good. The kind of good that crosses the commandant she fears for the sake of delivering medicine to sick children in the slums. The kind that protects her friends even when she’s terrified. A naïve kind of good.

A part of me despises her for it.

My shadows swirl around my hand, but it’s too late now to cover the evidence. Rowan pulls her hand back from the darkness, but only to my elbow, where she grips me lightly. A tiny jolt of energy races from her fingertips into my skin, as if the connection between us is alive. Humming.

I don’t move, watching mesmerized as Rowan catches her bottom lip between her teeth, making it impossible to look away from her mouth. Does she taste the way she smells? Sweet and citrusy, like sugar-coated mischief?

Realizing the direction of my thoughts, I yank them back with a harsh jerk. Worry less about how she tastes, and more about why the hells she followed you. I pull my arm out of Rowan’s grasp and sheath the dagger, though I know it’s too late. She’d seen the blood.

I wait for her to ask the logical prying questions, ready to shut that line of effort down swiftly.

“Let’s… find something black and fierce-looking to wrap around that,” Rowan suggests instead. “Unless you want to walk around with a cloud of shadows around your palm all day. Because that just makes you look demented.”

Seriously?

“Did you just call me demented?” I clarify. “Because generally, only people who enjoy being in a lot of pain do that.”

She blinks up at me without fear, her hazel eyes seeing more than I’m comfortable with. “The workshop is just around the corner. I should have something there that we can use inside.”

The workshop. The alchemy workshop. A jolt runs down my spine. Kyrian, Logan and I had talked about destroying it before we left, but with all the wards and locks in place even Logan didn’t dare try to get in. But to be let inside by the alchemist herself? Only an idiot would pass that up. And I’m no idiot. Just a harbinger of destruction.

Motioning for her to lead on, I follow Rowan around the edge of the building and down a staircase to a basement level, where she runs her hand over the lock—which must be magically keyed to her—then pulls a key from her pocket. There’s a small spark when she turns it. Another layer of protection.

The humans layered their defenses, but, as usual, the weakest parts of any security chain are the people. Like the alchemist, now leading the fox into the henhouse. It’s so easy, I don’t even feel guilty,

The alchemy workshop is oddly cozy, considering the destruction that’s made within. Rows of shelves lining the stone walls hold neatly labeled metals, alchemical compounds, and herbs. The massive workbench in the center is cluttered with cauldrons and measuring devices, all worn with use, and there’s an entire wall of scrolls and books, theirspines cracked from frequent handling. The air hums with magic, threaded with Rowan’s scent.

This place—where they made the poison that destroyed Lilith’s future—doesn’t feel like a torture chamber. Just disciplined creativity and potent energy.

What were you expecting? Ulyssus demands in my mind. Diagrams of screaming draken? Tapestries embroidered with Eryndor’s tenets? Maybe wings pinned to the wall or severed limbs in jars?

I have no answer for him. I don’t know what I was expecting. Just that it wasn’t this.

Rowan pulls a basket from a shelf and brings it over to where I’m leaning against the worktable. “Would it be a waste of breath to ask what happened?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“Figured.” She unpacks gauze and a few vials that smell pungent even before she uncorks them. “So, who is Lilith?”

My spine locks. “Where did you hear that name?”

“From you.” She holds her hands up. “You sounded like you were talking to her when I found you.”

---