Page 60 of Stolen
Alaric lands with a gentle thud, wings flaring wide before folding against his back like velvet shadows.
The ground quakes softly beneath his massive form, the scent of scorched wind and ancient power curling through the air.
The moment his Dragon touches the ground, I’m breathless. And not just from the flight, but from the place he’s brought me to.
I don’t know where to look first, so I look down. At my Dragon lover.
He’s so big. Like really big.
I mean, hello? He’s a mother-freaking Dragon.
But I don’t scream. I don’t faint. I don’t run.
I just can’t stop staring.
Because wow.
Just wow.
I should be used to this place by now.
This realm.
This magic.
The impossible beauty that seems to thread itself through every rock, every breeze, every word that slips from his lips.
But Alaric, in his full Draconian form?
That hits entirely different.
He is majesty carved from starlight.
Power born of the oldest myths.
Grace so staggering it steals the breath from my lungs.
His scales shimmer like liquid armor.
Like midnight threaded with silver, like someone gathered stardust and shadows and whispered life into them.
They ripple over him as he moves, catching the sunlight through the canopy above in dazzling bursts.
And then he turns. Slowly.
His majestic head swiveling toward me. Those eyes—molten and intelligent—find mine.
And everything in me stops.
Because he isn’t just some mythical creature anymore.
He’s him.
He’s Alaric.
And he’s looking at me like I’m his.
Like I’m something wondrous. Something rare.
