Page 28 of Dragons' Mate
“Put me down.” I squirm, my new upside-down view of the ground less than inspiring. “I can walk.”
"And I can sing,” says Tavias. “That doesn't mean that I should."
"It is faster if he carries you,” Quinton agrees. Unlike with Tavias, there absolutely is judgment in Quinton’s tone. I bet he is remembering our endurance training from the Phoenix—or, more accurately, the lack of said training over the last few weeks.
He looks displeased. With me, or himself, or gravity, I don’t know. Probably all of the above.
I hate to admit it, but with Tavias carrying me we do move faster. Still, it’s another hour before we find a location Tavias deems appropriate and settles us into place. I’m not sure how Hauck finds us, but he is there within a quarter hour, a pack of supplies over his back. There isn’t much talk as we set up camp, with Hauck weaving a shelter together and Quinton dissolving into the woods to hunt for meat, which is probably his idea of a relaxing time.
Cyril remains sentry in the skies until the midday meal is ready. I hear him and Tavias arguing about something in hushed tones after he descends, but both go quiet when I approach. Cyril surveys every inch of me as if I’ve just come out of battle instead of the woven shelter.
“Should I twirl around for you?” I ask him.
“Not necessary.”
“Good, because I wasn’t actually going to.”
“Hmm.” Cyril’s shoulders are tense as he moves away from Tavias and settles by the cooking fire. Thanks to Hauck we have a pot, and Tavias taught me how to whittle sticks into spoons. There are no bowls but it's not as if we’ve not shared more intimate things than a soup pot.
I sit next to Cyril. Whatever is bothering him, he isn’t ready to talk about it, but when I brush my hand along his cheek he briefly leans into the touch. Hauck joins us as well, passing a flask of whiskey to Cyril. Trust Hauck to come back from a supply run with whiskey.
“Eat,” Cyril tells me. Feeding me seems to be a new theme with the dragons, and they all watch carefully as I dip my spoon into the shared pot.
The moment the soup touches my lips, the world narrows down to the symphony of flavors. There is the earthy richness of Quinton’s freshly hunted venison and touches of root vegetables Hauck foraged from beneath the damp earth. The natural caramelized sweetness of the latter contrasts beautifully with the venison's musky strength. My contribution to the cause, mushrooms that I found in a nearby shaded grove, add another umami edge that unfurls on my tongue. It’s as if the forest has leaped into the pot and now dances a tantalizing waltz in my mouth.
Quinton grunts softly. “Can you tone it down?”
“What?” I ask around mouthfuls.
“If I wasn’t watching what you are actually doing, I’d think you are finding release with one of these assholes just now.”
Hauck snorts.
I make a show of licking my spoon, which makes the front of Quinton’s britches twitch. Hauck’s chuckling turns into a howl of laughter.
“Is this normal?” I ask. “The way our emotions flow through the mating bond?”
Apparently that was the wrong thing to say because the amusement around the fire dies at once.
“No,” Cyril answers with curt frankness. “At least not to the extent that it seems to flow between the two of you.”
“Is that bad?” I ask.
Quinton opens his mouth to say something but Cyril cuts him off. “We don’t know. No one does. A dragon has never mated with a human as far as any of us know. Either way, I imagine the two of you will have to work out a way to separate your own impulses from those flowing through the bond.”
I think of what happened with Geoffrey’s taunts earlier and can’t disagree. I reach for more soup but before I can scoop it up, the forest shrieks with a distant battle cry that vibrates through my whole body. On its heels, I hear a mesh of snarls and roars, the thunderous clash of bodies and scales that silhouette the horizon for a moment before diving down.
Hauck’s hand wraps around mine, stopping me from spilling my soup. “That would be the start of the festivities,” he says with absurd lightness.
A savage, guttural howl echoes through the sprawling woods. None of the males look remotely surprised though.
“Packs have started attacking each other,” Tavias says, dipping his spoon into the soup. “It’s a common strategy. Some want to thin the competition, others will use the attacks to acquire supplies. It will go on through the night I expect.”
“Oh good,” I mutter.
“This is why securing high ground was important,” Tavias explains with way too great an ease. Of course. He’s used to leading legions into the blight, so camping in the middle of deadly creatures with murder on their minds is probably his idea of a Tuesday. “Which we did.”
“Is Geoffrey likely to come after us?” I ask.
