Page 47 of Zachary

To my surprise, he smiles radiantly and throws his arms around me, squeezing tight. It only takes me a second to hug him back—his body pressed to mine feels too good to pass up, even through my thick parka.

Then he pulls back and takes my hand. “Come inside. You’ll freeze.” He’s still grinning.

Obediently, I follow him, stripping off my outer gear and absently noting how good the house smells as he closes the door. “You’re okay?” I ask, wanting to be certain, even though it seems like he is.

He nods as he leads me down the hall into the kitchen. The aroma of fresh baking is stronger here, the room cozily warmed by the heat of the oven. I can see something that looks like bread inside, and there are muffins cooling on a rack and a plate of cookies on the table. “You’ve had a busy morning.” My mouth waters as I stare at the cookies.

Ronan’s chuckle is like music. I haven’t heard him laugh enough, and I want to hear it more… and frequently. I want to make him laugh. This sudden rush of feeling is so surreal to me. How can I have disliked him last week and now want him? Were my cousins that right about my head being up my ass?

“I had some thinking to do,” he said, “and baking is cathartic. Sit and have a cookie. Do you want some tea? I’ve just boiled the kettle.”

I’m more of a coffee drinker, but I don’t mind tea. And the cookie’s the important part. So I say, “Yes, please,” then sit at the table and watch as he bustles around, spooning loose-leaf tea into a pot and carefully pouring boiling water over it. I haven’t seen tea made that way in about a century. I guess tea bags are more convenient, but there is something nice about the ritual of making it this way.

He brings the pot and two mugs over to the table and takes the seat across from me. “It just needs a few minutes to steep.” His hand reaches out to nudge the cookies closer to me. That’s a hint I’m happy to take, so I grab one and bite in. Chocolate, cinnamon, and vanilla explode in my mouth, and the moan takes me by surprise.

Ronan’s gaze is anxious on my face. “Good?”

I nod, too busy cramming in more cookie to speak, and he grins again, taking one for himself. Trying not to make it obvious that I’m staring, I take in every detail of his face. He’s been crying, yes, but he also looks… happy. Peaceful? There’s a sense of calm about him that I’ve never seen before. Since he got to Hortplatz, he’s been tense and stressed. Even this past week, when things were better, there was still this air of… something. Like he was haunted. It’s not completely gone, but it’s better.

Swallowing, I say, “So… catharsis?”

He nods, checks the teapot, and then pours the hot liquid into the mugs. “After yesterday… well, I think it was obvious that I have some unresolved issues. Although to be fair, it was probably obvious before that too. So this morning I called my brother.”

His twin—the one Gideon told us to step carefully around. “Are you close? Being twins and all.”

His shake of the head is accompanied by a grimace. “We will be, I think. We’re working on it. Things have been… difficult between us. Some of that was my fault, though I didn’t know at the time…” He shakes his head again. “I can’t tell you all of it. I’m sorry. But we were separated at birth and raised very differently. We only met again five years ago, and that was under bad circumstances.” Guilt chases across his face. “We’d come to an understanding, but I always worried…” He sighs. “It’s so complicated. Can we talk about this another time?”

“Of course,” I agree, even though I’m dying to know more. He and his twin were separated? And for some reason, it seems like Ronan feels he’s to blame for that? “As long as you’re okay.”

His smile comes back, softer this time. “I am. We had a good talk, and I’m more confident in our relationship now. Then I got to pound some bread dough and cry out the rest of my frustrations.” He shoots a wry look toward the oven. “So if the bread tastes salty, that’s why.”

I laugh, reaching across the table to take his hand and twine my fingers with his. The warmth of his hand and smooth slide of his skin on mine sends tingles through me. Leaning forward, I lift our joined hands and kiss his fingers, and he jerks in my hold, a wave of pink rising in his face. I start to pull back, wondering if I misread things.

He holds on tight. “I’m bad at this,” he babbles. “You probably guessed already. I-I don’t have much experience—I mean, I was sheltered—and then…” He trails off, mouth turning down in frustration. “Please don’t hate me.”

Anger stirs again. “I don’t hate you.” I keep my voice as level as I can, but he’s staring miserably at the tabletop, still clutching my hand like he’s afraid I’ll leave if he lets go. “Ronan, look at me.”

Inhaling deeply, he raises his gaze to mine. It’s uncertain, and I don’t want him feeling that way about me. Not ever.

“I don’t hate you,” I repeat firmly. “And I don’t care how inexperienced you are. You’re safe with me—we can go as slow as you need to. I guess… I just want to know if this is something you want. With me, I mean. Things have been… Well, it’s not like the beginning of this, us, has been all that conventional. We’ve both been distracted by other things in our lives. I think I’m safe in saying we didn’t see each other clearly at first.”

Some of the uncertainty clears, and he nods. “I wasn’t seeing anything clearly. I…” He clears his throat. “I wasn’t raised by dragons. An elf raised me. And I-I didn’t know much about dragons or my heritage until five years ago. I still sometimes feel like I don’t fit in. So being here as a representative of dragons when I wasn’t sure if I really was one…” He trails off and winces. “I felt like a fraud. And it was like salt in a wound—like I was being taunted for everything I don’t know yet. Except Brandt would never do that, and then I felt guilty for even thinking it.” He shakes his head. “It’s been confusing.”

I take a second to digest that. There are a lot of questions I want to ask, but I’m not going to push him… except on one thing. “Were you mistreated? By the elf who raised you?”

“No. Yes.” He sighs and looks back at the table. “Not how you mean. He never beat me or anything like that. I had the best of everything. If you’d asked me even ten years ago, I would have said I had the best childhood anyone could have.”

I wait, and his grip tightens on mine until it’s painful. When his eyes lift again, they’re glassy with tears.

“He bound my magic. My dragon. I-I couldn’t shift until after I met Brandt… and I didn’t even know what he’d done. Didn’t know what I’d been missing for thousands of years.”

Thousands?Pushing the thought aside, I cover our joined hands with my other one. “He mistreated you.” I can’t imagine having my innate demon self stifled. It makes my grandmother’s bullying trivial—though it does clarify his strong feelings about it.

“I suppose.” He seems reluctant to concede that. “I mean, he did… but not like… It could have been worse.” He sighs again. “I can’t talk about it. I’m sorry, I can’t.”

Something in the way he says that niggles at my brain, but it’s not important right now. All that matters is that he’s okay.

“Youarea dragon,” I say quietly. “It doesn’t matter that it was stolen from you before, or that you don’t know all the things other dragons your age do. You’re still a dragon.”

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