Page 59 of Dragons' Bride
“But I do not believe I’d physically be able to withstand the separation."
So much for easy. "So, what, you'd come with me?"
"Yes,” he says simply. Like that is the start and end of the discussion.
"And the Equinox Trials? The future of Massa'eve? The whole protection of the throne and ensuring your line of succession?" I feel my voice rise with each word. If Quinton runs off with me, he’ll be hunted in retribution for all the problems his sudden absence will cause. I don’t need to be a noble mastermind to put that much together. “You can’t just throw all that out into the gutter with a rutting ‘yes.’”
He just looks at me and says nothing, though the silence fills in the void quite clearly. Yes, I can. And will.
“You’ll do no such thing,” I snap. After all the effort of preparing for the Equinox Trials, I feel a strange allegiance to the mission I’ve been dragged into. Enough of an allegiance that it feels utterly wrong to outright sabotage it at least. Plus, there is the rest of the pack to consider. What will happen to Tavias and Cyril and Hauck if Quinton disappears? "There must be a solution that doesn't involve the utter destruction of everything everyone has worked for. What if we return to the palace and tell the truth? Will Ettienne still kill me?”
"No. That will destroy my usefulness to him for decades,” says Quinton. I hate hearing him speak of himself as a piece of machinery. I hate what he says next even more though. “More likely, he’d hold you hostage to ensure my good behavior. The cage may or may not be gilded, but it will be a cage.”
My stomach knots. “Can you get dressed please?”
Quinton unfurls to his feet. “You want me to leave?”
“No. I just want to think without being distracted by…” I wave my hand in the direction of his perfect, chiseled body.
“By what?”
"Just get dressed please. I need to think." I wrap the bed sheet around myself and pace the room, letting the fabric drag over the floor. Quinton gets himself fully dressed like I ask, but watching him pull on his shirt isn't helping me think straight either. I make myself turn away and slow my racing thoughts.
I can't run off without destroying the pack and their fight for the throne. Without opening Massa’eve to a possible civil war. I can't return to the capital without becoming a pawn in Ettienne's game to twist Quinton into a knot. What does that leave?
"What do you want?" Quinton's words hit me in the back, right between the shoulder blades. His voice fully composed now, its usual quiet self. Masculine and powerful and enough to send a shiver along my spine.
"That's what I'm trying very hard to figure out," I say without turning toward him.
"No," says Quinton. "I mean you, human. What do you want for yourself?"
"I..." I stop halfway through the phrase. It isn't a question that a slave is asked by a prince. Especially not in earnest. The obvious answer comes to me at once, the same answer that I gave the pack and then Ettienne. Freedom. Yet during the one day when I seemingly attain it, I feel as empty as ever. Freedom is more complicated than I first thought. "I want to make my own choices," I say.
"None of us have that," says Quinton quietly. "Not completely."
No, they don’t. Not even the princes of Massa’eve.
I stop at the window, surveying the inn's pasture and the dirt road beyond it. It's late and the moonlight shows only outlines of evening life. An occasional lantern passing through the night. People coming and going. Building. Doing something. When was the last time I felt that I'm doing something more worthwhile than ensuring a visiting noble has a clean chamber pot on which to set his ass?
Truth is, the first – the only – time I feel myself count for something is when I'm a part of the dragons' pack. When I think myself needed for the trials. When I think I can make a difference. I want that again – this time by my choice.
I twist back toward Quinton, my hands gripping the sheet with a bone-tight grip. "The women who Ettienne brought in for you. The real nobles and air touched. Would they do much better than me in the trials?"
"No," says Quinton, the lack of hesitation in his voice sending a rush of warmth through me. He slides his hands into his pockets. "They have the advantage of the prophecy behind them – but that's window dressing. It appeases the people, but it does nothing to help win the competition to begin with."
"And me?" I press. "Do you think I would do well at the trials? Would we stand a chance if we compete together?"
"I wouldn't have trained you if I didn't think so." Quinton is fully back to himself now, arms crossed over his chest as he leans against the wall and waits. Watches. Lets the silence linger and fill the room without offering anything to fill it or giving an ounce more information than he must. He hasn’t bothered to tuck away that silver dragon pendant of his, and I am not sure the oversight is accidental. I think he wants me to remember what he is.
I raise my chin, the wheel of rushing thoughts stopping its spin with the arrow pointing to one. Maybe it's not the best one, and it certainly isn't the smartest one, but there it is. "You asked me what I want. I want to compete at the Equinox Trials with the pack. And I want to win.”
Quinton stares at me, his perfect face unreadable. My heart pauses. The bite mark on my breast is quiet, giving me no insight into the male’s feelings.
A lot of help you are, I think at it.
“You want to compete at the trials,” Quinton says finally, repeating my words with an utter lack of emotion. "And then what?"
"I don't know!” I rewrap my sheet with more force than is required. “I don’t have the next three decades planned out. We win the rutting trials, and then we figure the rest out.”
