Page 24 of Dragons' Mate
Quinton lifted his head from Kit’s shoulder. “What are the three of you doing?” He was asking a damn lot of that lately. He tried to pull away, but Tavias seemed to have anticipated the move and gripped Quinton’s shoulder firmly.
"What we should have been doing all along,” Tavias said curtly, though the strange shame coating his words was impossible to miss. “Every time you came back from training too stiff to move easily. And every time you come back from another assignment with that silence of yours darkening your eyes.”
“Being a shadow is your job, Quinton,” Cyril said. “Being our brother, our pack, that’s what you are.”
“And being my mate. You are that too,” Kit added. “So deal with it.”
Cyril opened the vial, releasing an acrid scent into the air. “Unfortunately, this will hurt. Take some deep breaths.”
Quinton did take some deep breaths—he needed them to get on his feet and out of this… whatever this was.
“Oh no you don’t.” Kit’s voice was soft, but it was a clear order if Quinton had ever heard one. Her hand pressed against his cheek, keeping him in place. “You aren't going to fight.”
Before Quinton could object—or even clarify what he wasn't to fight, Kit brushed her lips over his mouth. The feel of her soft mouth made Quinton jerk forward for reasons that had nothing to do with the droplets of Dragon Tears that Cyril started to dribble onto his back.
It was like being on fire, from both the outside and inside.
Kit tangled her fingers in his hair. He knew she was trying to distract him from the pain, andruuuuut, it was working. He suddenly couldn’t care less if the whole of Massa’eve's western legion wanted to pour magic-infused acid on his wounds, so long as he could get drunk on his mate in the process.
“You are mine, Shadow,” Kit murmured against Quinton’s mouth as he savored her taste with every stroke of their tongues. “And I’m yours. And the pack’s. We are each other's.”
For the first time in centuries, Quinton’s mind went silent.
His brothers were just getting the final bandages into place—Quinton, still drunk on his mate and his pain swaying slightly—when the door to the chamber opened.
“Your Highnesses,” the entering servant kept his gaze on the floor as he deposited a stack of what looked like gray and purple uniforms onto a chair. “I am to tell you that it’s Orion’s will to depart earlier than intended. You are to leave now.”
CHAPTER11
Kit
Despite the windowless carriage in which we travel, I feel the moment we cross into the trial grounds, the rune on my back coming alive with a sensation akin to a dozen stinging bees. It only lasts a few moments, but it's enough to make Quinton grip the edge of the bench. The potion Ettienne had provided knitted his flesh together with ruthless efficiency, but there had been too much damage for even it to fully erase the marks from Quinton's back.
I want to put my hand over his thigh and remind him that he isn’t alone. Not anymore. Maybe it’s silly to think that my touch might give him relief, but I long to try anyway.
“Stop it.” Quinton half growls in my direction.
“Stop what?”
“Stop looking at me like you are contemplating a hug.” He makes the word sound like an attack. No, not an attack. He’d find a random assault less objectionable.
“I had zero intention of hugging you,” I assure him. It’s not even a lie. The thought of squeezing him with his back half flayed open was never a consideration.
He gives me a suspicious glare and goes about checking his weapons. We only have what we’d brought to the pledge ball, but Quinton is always armed. He pulls a knife out of his boot and hands it to me.
The blade is light and has a rose engraved on the hilt.
Hauck must spot the engraving the same time I do, because he snaps the weapon from my hand for closer examination. “Is this your version of giving a girl flowers?”
Quinton grabs the knife back from Hauck and thrusts it back into my hands. “Why in blights’ path would I give her flowers?” he asks defensively. “What would she even do with them?”
“My mistake,” Hauck says too innocently. We’ve been traveling in a carriage for over six hours and he is plainly looking for entertainment. “You must have gotten a flower engraved blade for yourself.”
Quinton bristles. I know him well enough to notice that the pain and stress has frayed the edges of his usual self-control—a fact that Hauck is plainly aware of and enjoying. Quinton’s jaw tightens. “It’s not my bloody knife. I retrieved it from Bianca’s target.”
“You are giving me a present you literally pulled out of a corpse?” I clarify. Hauck is right. This is fun. Especially after six hours of utter bouncing boredom. Honestly, I don’t even feel bad.
The tops of Quinton’s ears—and scales—turn pink. “It’s not a present.”
