Page 29 of Redeeming the Dragon

“I do,” he asserted. I waited, hoping he would expound more. Instead, he said quietly, “I am sorry it has been compelled upon you.”

Of all the things he might have said, his apologizing for my captivity was not what I’d anticipated. I blinked several times, wrangling words, trying to determine what to say. Before I’d come close to forming areply, he said, “I hoped it might cheer you while you work. Your efforts have not gone unnoticed. The gown will be beautiful on you.”

Why? Light curse him, why?

The compliment caused my eyes to fill with unexpected tears. Pressing my lips together, I quickly shifted my weight, lying next to him on my back, my face lifted to the ceiling.

Don’t cry, Lorna. Don’t you dare cry in front of him. Don’t.

I squeezed my eyelids shut and fought the sting in the back of my eyelids. Why did tears threaten? Because he’d noticed what I was doing, meaning my plan, in its initial stages, was working? Because he’d thoughtfully provided the mirror to keep me company as I worked? Because he’d complimented me?

I need no compliments from a dragon!I told myself fiercely, dashing a finger under the corner of my eyes to wipe away any traces of moisture.Neither do I need his sympathy. Nor his pity. Nor his gifts. Nor his pretty words. All I need from this beast is freedom.

Anger filled the cracks in my heart, sealing it, hardening it against further softening. Firming my resolve, I flipped over on my side, facing the wall opposite him, pretending he wasn’t there.

“Sleep well, lass.”

Grudgingly, I answered, “And you, Dragon. And you.”

Chapter 18

Several more days crept by in my lonely stone cavern. While the mirror did offer glimpses of home—and they did change, sometimes one spot on the island, sometimes another—I noticed the scenes never included humans. Occasionally, I could see fish leaping from the surf, or the fin of a dolphin just off the beach. Sometimes a wild boar would wander past or a stray dog, and of course, there were the gulls.

But no people.

Did the dragon think that by showing me no humans I would be less lonely and more content in captivity? I wondered, my lips twisting with bitter amusement as I stitched and sewed, stitched and sewed. I glanced into the mirror again, studying the black dolphin fins outlined against the blue of the waves. If I were home, I might throw myself into the sea, relishing its warm, salty, liquid embrace. I might swim out to the dolphins, pumping my arms and legs, seeing how close I could get to them and whether they’d allow me to swim with them.

Such memories brought a true smile to my face. It faded quickly as I glanced around my bare, stone bedchamber.

I sighed, and the sound echoed in the still air.

One part of this plan was simple. I did not have to feign homesickness. Day by day, the melancholy increased.

And the dragon noticed.

At night, when he came to my bed, and I woke up—which didn’t always happen—I’d find his hand next to mine as if he wanted to reach out and offer comfort but feared to touch me lest I awaken. Filled with curiosity, after I’d gauged by the deep, even rhythm of his breaths that he truly slept, I would allow my fingers to gently touch his. Holding my breath for fear of alerting him, I permitted my fingertips to gently trace the back of his hand, feeling every ridge, every line, every bone, every knuckle, every vein.

What did his fingers look like? I wondered. The hand felt like a man’s, but how did it look? Was his skin the same color as mine, or had it a different hue? Was he of an unnatural color—blue or green or purple, for instance—and that was why he hid in the shadows? Or was he scarred and disfigured, and that was why he hid? I could not feel any scars; that didn’t mean he had none. Perhaps they were on his other hand. After all, I could only feel the one hand between us.

Much as I loathed to admit it, touching his skin, feeling his flesh, his warmth, evoked a slight measure of comfort.

It is because he’s the sole person with whom you communicate,I told myself to ease my guilt.Otherwise, you are entirely alone. It’s how he is tricking you into being happy in his presence.

“Are you as lonely as you seem?”

That night, the voice floated at me through the darkness, startling me. I jerked my hand away with a gasp, mortified. Had he been awake the entire time? Had he also been awake when I’d explored his hand the night before?

Humiliated, I scooted away from him, grateful for the gloom that concealed my shame.

“Wh-why do you ask?” I stammered. Was he referring to me touching him? Or…

“Because,” he said, “when you sew during the day, you watch the mirror with such sadness.”

Ah. Then he had been observing me.“I am…unused to being alone,” I admitted, weighing my words. “I went from living with four other family members on an island full of people to a dreary existence in this cave where I am forever alone, seeing and speaking to no one.”

“You speak to me,” he protested mildly.

I felt my facial features bunch up in a frown. “I do not see you,” I reminded him. Which, again, left me curious as to why he came to my bed at night, in the thick darkness, where sight was impossible. “And I only speak to you sometimes. Did you think that would stave off loneliness?”

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