Page 50 of Devoted to the Dragon

At the reminder, a chill sweeps through my body, and the images of my dead wolves in the dream are all I can see. A cry lodges in my throat, and my palms squeeze, the prick of something sharp digging into my skin. I uncurl my hand, my mind racing when I realize it’s a wolf’s fang.

My strange dream. The king.

I stare at the white fang gleaming in my hand, trying to understand.It’s an illusion. Another of the serpent’s mind tricks. It must be.

“The hallway is clear, but we must go now before someone returns,” Fennik urges. He keeps talking, but I can’t focus.

I’m slow as Fennik bustles around the room, stuffing himself into too-small clothes. Under other circumstances, it would be funny to point out how his bulging calves strain the fabric of the sweatpants. Still, I can’t muster anything more than groggy confusion.

He tosses me a T-shirt, and I struggle, unwilling to put the fang aside. Fennik’s arms are there, pulling the shirt over my head, and I surrender until the overly big shirt pools on my thighs.

Fennik’s hand cups my jaw, his eyes frantic. “We’re with the serpents. In their territory, I think. We have to go. Gunnar is still unconscious.”

His fingers skirt over the bite mark on my shoulder, and my body tenses. It’s a live wire of raw sensitivity, the magic electric. I stumble from the bed and out of his arms, unable to talk about what happened when I don’t understand it myself.

My eyes land on Gunnar. His big, beastly form is unmoving, and his body is covered in blood-soaked bandages.

Inside, my sleepy dragon roars to life with a great burst of fire, filling me with the urge to run.

“I’ve got him,” Fennik urges. “Once we get outside, can you shift and fly?”

I nod, watching as Fennik gently scoops up our mate. Gunnar groans in pain but doesn’t stir.

The ornate hallway is empty, as are the stairs. I move quickly, my dragon’s fire ready in my throat as we weave quietly through another hallway and an identical staircase. Three more floors are just as quiet and opulent as the rest.

“This is too easy,” Fennik whispers behind me.

I swallow around the fire in my throat. I don’t know how I know, but I’m certain the serpent has left us a path to escape.

A memory of him gently treating my wounds comes unbidden, and I squeeze the fang in my palm.

It’s all part of the illusion, a dream. Don’t trust the serpent.

On the last floor, raised voices carry from below. The wordsdragonandmaterise above the rest, but I don’t stop to listen. I creep down the landing and across the open foyer, but the floor remains empty like the rest on our journey.

The door slips open silently, and I wait for Fennik to carry Gunnar through before rushing onto a gravel drive and sprawling manicured lawn.

The shift comes easily, and my heart bursts with gratitude for my dragon’s return. She is anxious, her eyes cataloging threats as she bows, using her tail to lift Fennik and Gunnar onto her back and nestling them between two spikes. Fennik grabs hold, and my dragon leaps into flight.

No one comes, and she easily takes to the air. She flies high and fast, wanting to avoid detection while unprotected from cloaking spells in human territory. Every mile she flies, the burning tug in my chest urges me back to the serpent.

It’s not real. It’s a trick.

The fang curled in my dragon’s claw is heavier than the wolves on her back, screaming its objection.

Chapter 25

Fennik

The air is frigid, and I pull Gunnar’s slumped form closer as Randi flies with dizzying speed through the clouds. I have no idea where we are, the land beneath us a blur between gauzy patches of puffy white.

It’s breathtaking to feel her scales beneath me, to learn the texture of her rippled spikes, and to see the steam rising from her puffing breaths. But Gunnar’s heavy weight against my chest and the memory of the healing bite mark on Randi’s shoulder blots out the wonder of riding her dragon form.

I force myself to concentrate despite the cold, listing what I know.

The king ordered an attack.

I was hit by a dart protecting Randi.

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