Page 40 of Dragons' Bride
My stomach churns. Discreetly gripping the edge of my chair, I close my eyes and coax my lungs to take long calming breaths – only to jump out of my skin when the cabin door swings open.
“I brought –” Tavias stops with his mouth slightly ajar, his gaze clinging to me as if he’d expected someone else in my place.
A shiver runs through me. “Is something wrong?”
"No. Yes." He growls, the scales along his temples ruffle and shift to a deeper purple tint. A very deep purple tint. Just like my dress. Tavias clears his throat. "Pretty," he says gruffly.
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
He steps in and clears his throat again. "Dragons hoard pretty things, not parade them about,” he says curtly and turns to leave, before stopping and turning back. I’m fairly sure that, for a moment there, he’d forgotten why he’d come. Now, he drops a carved box onto one of the chests. “For you. I’ll see you on deck. Don’t – don’t be late.”
I stare at the closed door. "What was that?" I ask. “And what could I even be late to?”
Nora covers her mouth, her delicate hand holding back a giggle. "I believe that was Massa'eve's general and heir to the throne feeling smitten.” She clears her throat, much as Tavias had. “It's sometimes hard to remember that under all the arrogance and power, they are flesh and blood immortals."
"Oh, right. Just run of the mill immortals."
The irony is lost on Nora. Skipping over to the box Tavias left, she opens it at once, her face lighting up in excited delight. "These are perfect, Lady Kitterny!"
She tips the box toward me. Perfect doesn't begin to describe the two dragon-shaped combs that lie within, each covered with diamonds and jewels. When I examine them closer, I can see that each of the princes's dragon colors are skillfully worked into the design. I've never touched anything as expensive. Hell, each little comb could feed a family for years where I come from. Probably in Massa'eve, too. "I can't possibly wear these," I whisper.
"Well, you cannotnotwear them either," Nora points out. "Given that Prince Tavias himself delivered them and all."
I run my finger along the gems. Each is cut perfectly and catches the light in a way that makes the dragons seem to glow with magic. "What if I lose them?"
"How?"
"Like drop them and not notice. I'm very good at dropping things."
"Like if you accidentally get into a brawl along the docks, completely destroy your hair and dress, drop the combs, and manage to not notice? And neither do the four hoarding, overprotective dragons surrounding you?"
Well, when she puts it that way… I sit myself back on the stool.
By the time Nora is done and I look at myself in the mirror, I can hardly recognize the lady who looks back at me. Then I touch the still itching slave brand on the inside of my forearm and the illusion disappears.
"Stars," Nora exclaims, rushing back to one of the chests. "I completely forgot the gloves."
She holds supple, elbow-high gloves for me to slide my hands into, and the last evidence of truth disappears from view.
The four dragon princes are already dressed by the time I come up on deck. Tavias, Cyril, and Hauck all wear exquisitely tailored military uniforms, though Tavias's jacket is decorated with so much golden embroidery that it is difficult to see the black material in places. Hauck's epaulets on the other hand hold only a pair of lonely gold bars for rank. The dragon stitched on their breasts matches the beasts on the combs I wear, while the wide sashes emphasize the princes’ taut waists and broad shoulders. They are a study of masculine perfection. Stars made flesh.
Beside them, dressed in a loose black shirt and pants, the preternaturally still Quinton manages to be simultaneously invisible and mouthwateringly gorgeous. If one is attracted to sociopathic dragons. The only color on him is in the form of a silver dragon embroidered on his collar. A matching dragon pendant that I’ve seen glimpses of before hangs from his neck. Of the four princes, Quinton is the only one openly armed, the sword strapped along his spine not looking very ornamental.
Tavias, Cyril, and Hauck all incline their heads to me when I approach. I curtsy back, the way Nora taught me.
“You look lovely, Lady Kitterny,” says Tavias.
“The dragon combs suit you well,” Cyril agrees, as formal as his commander.
“You look delicious, turnip.” Hauck runs his tongue over the tips of his long canines.
Cyril rolls his eyes.
Quinton turns on his heels and starts toward the other side of the ship.
I make a vulgar gesture toward his back.
Tavias catches Quinton’s shoulder and yanks the prince back, twisting him so Quinton and I face each other.
