Page 39 of Stolen
My Dragon’s scales rustle beneath my skin like armor ready for war.
I don’t like this game of pretending.
My Dragon doesn’t understand the need for thissoftness.
It is simply illusion.
All of it.
The neat, symmetrical face.
The smooth, tamed magic that hums along the edges of my body like a well-mannered breeze.
But then again—what isn’t an illusion?
How many centuries have I worn masks and played at civility?
For the comfort of mortals.
For politics.
For power.
This is no different.
And yetit is.
Because she’s different.
I glance at Jules where she stands beneath the golden light of the library’s dome, her fingers curled around the edge of a leather-bound tome, her cheeks flushed from some half-teasing remark she made a moment ago.
She radiates warmth, life, and maddening curiosity.
She turns and sees me, like she senses my approach. And I have to wonder at that.
Now she’s looking at me like I’m something tame.
Like I’m just a man.
And for some reason I can’t explain, that makes something twist inside me.
How would she react if I showed her my true form?
If she saw the curling horns that rise from my temples, carved with ancient markings older than her world?
The runes and rituals inked into my skin—sigils of air, war, and vengeance?
If my black wings burst forth, stretching wide and terrible, each feather tipped with obsidian?
If my hands morphed into what they really are—claws, not fingers, built for rending rather than caressing?
Would she scream?
Would she run?
Would she look at me with fear instead of curiosity?
Would she call memonster?
