Page 21 of Dragons' Bride
Neither of us says a word when we eventually pull apart. Beyond the round window, the seas are continuing to argue, the sun settling toward the horizon. It’s not night time yet, but between nearly dying and then taking Quinton, I’m exhausted. I know the smart thing now would be to leave and get some rest, but today doesn’t seem to be the day for smart choices. So, instead of showing myself out, I walk over to Quinton’s cot and climb up, my face set in challenge.
“You are insane,” he says quietly.
I can’t argue that.
Yet, instead of throwing me out, Quinton settles beside and pulls me against his rock hard and still naked body. I curl into his warmth, savoring the ironic safety of his hold and the quiet satisfaction that now fills the cabin. When I can finally move again, I turn and rise up on my elbow to run my hand along his chest. Warm, damp skin, interrupted by scales and scars, meets the pads of my fingers.
Quinton puts his hands under his head, tensing when I brush the sensitive spots, but making no move to defend himself either. If anyone had told me that Quinton would ever let me – or anyone – touch him freely, I’d have laughed. And yet here he is. Here we are.
"What's this one from?" I trace a nasty scar that crosses the line of Quinton's scales at his collarbone.
He doesn’t need to look. “One of my instructors. I was a colt still, roaring at the restraints of training. By the time the fight was over, I had a few marks to remind me of my duties. That one was from his talons.”
I wince and kiss the mark. As a slave, I thought I’d drawn the harshest lot in the deck, but I don’t think so any longer. My hand slides off, this time to trace a long mark crossing Quinton’s abdomen. "And this one?"
He stretches. "A sclice. It’s one of the blight’s creatures. It had a shadow ore blade and got a lucky shot.”
I frown, remembering what Nora told me about Quinton’s occupation. "I didn’t think you fought the blight.”
“Not usually. But Cyril got word that a group of sclices had gotten their hands on shadow ore, which drains our magic, and needed help.”
“Oh.” I file away the bit of knowledge about shadow ore and continue to map Quinton’s body, now touching a tiny mark along his jawline. It’s so small that I only see it because of how close we are, yet the prince stiffens when I brushed the tip of my finger against it. "What – ”
"It was a scratch,” he says tightly, pulling away. Tension crackles along his skin. “From someone whose life I took.”
“They had some serious nails on them.”
“She did.”
Even knowing as little as I do about dragon anatomy, I can’t imagine a set of nails leaving a permanent scar. I wonder if it was perhaps Quinton’s own body that kept the scar from fading. I run my hand along his shoulder, hoping the steady pressure might ease whatever demons that mark carries. “Was she… was she someone you knew?”
“Yes.”
“Someone you cared for?”
He swallows, his voice tight. “Someone my brother cared for.”
I touch the mark again. A physical manifestation of something that had sliced open Quinton’s soul. The urge to dig deeper pulses through me, a need to wash and sooth the wound I’d just found. I can feel Quinton’s pain. And I don’t like it one bit. I open my mouth to ask the next question but the prince cuts me off before I do.
“Her name was Lola,” he says curtly, everything about him changing suddenly. “She was alive and now she is not.” His voice reclaims its cold distance, as if trying to annul the intimacy we’d stumbled into.
“Was Lola – ”
“The question and answer game is over, human.” He slips off the cot and grabs one of his traveling cloaks, which he lays on the floor.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Going to sleep.”
“On the floor?” I already miss the feel of his body terribly. “Quinton – ”
“We are done.” He turns his back to me, but his nakedness now feels like a shield instead of an invitation. That connection between us feels blank and empty. A black void with no sound. I want to say that I’m sorry, to apologize for prying, but I can’t find the words. Don’t know if they’d even do any good.
“Go to sleep, human,” Quinton orders. “After the way you humiliated yourself today, we’ve more work to do than I thought. We start at dawn.”
There is a subtle cruel undertone to Quinton’s words, the kind I’ve never heard before. A chill races along my spine.
12. KIT
