Page 121 of Stolen
Why me?
Seriously. Why didhepick me?
Why did Alaric—this towering, terrifying, impossibly beautiful man who commands the wind and storms, turns into a mighty Dragon, and has the hearts of an entire people—choose me out of billions?
Not just people on Earth, but across what I now know is a multiverse of realms?
What could he possibly see in me, a bartender from Jersey who can barely make a latte without a sarcastic quip?
My body aches with every step as we walk down the long corridor toward the bedroom we share.
I’m bone-deep tired, bruised in places I didn’t know could bruise.
And it’s not just the battle that weighs me down.
It’s everything Dauphiné said—dripping with venom and jealousy, yes, but also with a bitter truth I can’t quite ignore.
That Alaric has taken consorts before.
That he’s had lovers.
That maybe I’m just another passing infatuation until something better comes along.
I mean, yes, he claimed me, but what do I know about mate bonds? What if the magic gets old?
Will he grow bored with me once everything settles?
Once the novelty wears off and I’m no longer the strange, fascinating mortal with a smart mouth and a soft heart?
I don’twantto think like that.
Ishouldn’tthink like that.
But after the day we’ve had, the doubts sneak in like smoke under a locked door.
The children are safe now.
Shade made sure of it—she’s already overseeing the families returning to their quarters while Kael, Dagan, and Thorne reinforce the wounded sections of the Eyrie and push the makeshift infirmary farther from the keep with their magic.
Alaric’s decisions today have been swift and right. He is every inch the Lord.
But none of that matters now.
Not to me.
Because the war I’m worried about is the quiet one inside my heart.
When we enter the bedroom, I hesitate by the door.
I don’t want to sit on the bed like this—in our battle gear, covered in soot and blood and magic residue. It feels wrong.
This moment between us needs something different. Somethingreal.
And as if he senses that too, Alaric turns toward the fireplace, waves a hand, and two high-backed leather chairs appear, facing each other like we’re about to negotiate a peace treaty.
Maybe we are.
He gestures for me to sit. I do.
