Page 62 of Stolen
I reach the ground and exhale, legs shaking from more than just the ride. I brush my hands down the leather leggings he had fashioned for me, enchanted to be warm and soft and protective.
“I hope you know,” I say, daring a smile, “you’ve completely ruined me for all other men.”
A low growl rumbles from deep within his chest.
“There are no other men for you,” he growls, voice thick with dark certainty.
The air thrums in response, a subtle storm of want curling between us.
His next words feel like a thunderclap inside my soul.
“You are mine,Myrrin. And I swear to you, I don’t share.”
And maybe I should argue.
Maybe I should challenge that possessiveness.
But I don’t want to.
Because somewhere in the wild, aching truth of me, I want to be his.
Entirely. Unapologetically.
The air charges again. Sparks flit across my skin, tingling with awareness.
And then, with a mighty growl, I watch as his form begins to change.
Scales dissolve into skin.
Wings tuck and fade.
Horns retract, becoming smaller, and dark waves of tousled hair tumble to his broad shoulders.
His muscles shift beneath golden-tan skin.
Ancient runes pulse faintly along his arms, his chest, and across his collarbones like branded whispers of his power.
He becomes Alaric again.
The man.
The Demon.
The Dragon tucked back inside, but still present.
He is all three at all times
All him.
And heaven help me—I think I’m already starting to fall in love with every part of him.
We’re in a secluded glade, ringed by ancient trees whose silver leaves shimmer in the filtered light.
A waterfall spills from the jagged mouth of a cliff, its waters glowing a bright, impossible shade of teal.
The falls crash into a crystalline pool that stretches like a hidden gem across the mossy earth, steaming slightly with warmth.
Birdsong echoes through the air—only it’s not birds, exactly.
