Page 5 of Dragons' Mate
Her citrus and cinnamon scent caressed Quinton’s senses and, despite the sting of contact, Kit’s touch felt healing. As if each brush of the cloth touched deeper than the torn flesh. No one had touched him that way. Not ever. The urge to lean into her touch, or better yet, to bury his face in Kit’s hair and inhale her scent, was near impossible to resist.
Quinton pulled away.
“Don’t you dare move,” Kit snapped at him, her eyes flashing with fury. “Not a single stars’ damned muscle,” Kit continued through clenched teeth. “I want this to hurt.”
He grunted uncommittedly but stayed still while Kit bound a makeshift bandage over his chest. He considered assuring her that if his plan to get them into the pledge ball worked, there would be plenty more bleeding gashes on his flesh, but despite her very own claim that she wanted him hurt,shewas the one who flinched each time the wound was touched.
“That’s as good as it’s getting. Don’t lose the dressing,” Kit said, finally stepping away to examine her handiwork. The bandage was snug, its ends tucked neatly under the binding. “I expected it to be deeper.”
"Yirel and Jared thought they were shooting a human and were too drunk to pull the bow properly," Quinton said tartly. "Plus, I heal quickly.”
Not this quickly, though. The mating bond was doing something to him on the physical level too, but he couldn’t understand—much less try to explain—what it was. He gestured to the bandage. "You didn’t need to do all this.”
"I don't have a lot of clothes and don’t need your blood ruining the dress." Kit waved her hand along the well-worn garment. “I’m not sure what attire one wears back to a palace from where she was banished on penalty of death, but there weren’t too many choices in the pack.” She paused. “Also… Thank you.”
"For what?"
"For taking the arrow meant for me, for starters."
"That isn't something you thank a mate for," Quinton said. "There is no other way. There never will be for me."
“You know, from someone else that might sound romantic,” Kit said dryly.
“I was simply stating a fact.”
“I noticed.” Shaking her head, Kit pulled her hair back and started braiding it with efficient strokes. Quinton had the sudden urge to braid it for her. He bet the hair would feel as silky against his hands as it looked. Kit pulled her shoulders back, reminding him of a warrior preparing for battle. "What do we do now?" she asked.
"We ride back to the capital. I’ll need a new shirt. And we need to stop in on a friend of mine." That last one was key. Quinton’s entire infiltration plan relied on Autumn’s help, which wasn’t a position he liked being in but was the best of bad choices.
"Friend? I didn't think you knew what the word meant, much less had one."
Quinton shrugged one shoulder. Most of Massa’eve would agree with Kit’s assessment. Hell, even his brothers would. But Autumn wasn’t from this continent and she wasn’t just a friend. Lady Autumn, sister to the king of the Slait Court, renowned scholar and visiting emissary was one of the few people in the world who knew of Quinton’sotherduties to the crown—those of a spymaster. It took one to know one.
Little as Quinton liked the idea of bringing more people into the deception, he knew when he was out of his depth. And getting his newly bonded, very mortal, mate into a ball that Ettienne was hosting? That was certainly in the deep end. Quinton pulled his cloak over his shoulders. "We will need help getting into the palace unnoticed.”
"Aren't you mythically good at unnoticed?" asked Kit.
"I am. But I don't usually have a human tagging along."
"Sorry for slowing you down."
"I'll have to get used to it."
Kit shook her head. “One day, I’m going to murder you in your sleep.”
CHAPTER3
Kit
Though I knew we’d need to ride through the night to make it back to the capital, I still wince as Quinton swings me onto the horse, a massive beast named Rook that's as black as the night around us. Rook dances immediately, clearly as aware of my inexperience as I am. The saddle leather is slippery beneath my thighs and I struggle to find a secure grip without the aid of stirrups, which are set to Quinton’s height.
Fortunately for both me and Rook, Quinton swings behind me a moment later, his body a solid line of warmth and stability against my back. One of his arms snakes around my waist, securing me to him, while the other takes the reins. I try my best to hide how comforting I find the power in his hold but Rook has no such scruples and immediately calms from an irritated prancer to docile steed.
Tell me how you really feel, horse.
The darkness seems to swallow us whole as Quinton nudges Rook forward, his hooves crunching on the gravelly path that leads out of the inn's stable yard. We're enveloped in the depths of a pine forest, the needles creating a muted, whispering sound as the wind sighs through them. Our only light comes from the moon above, its pallid glow illuminating the bark of the trees and casting ominous, skeletal shadows across our path. My skin prickles, raising the hair at my nape.
“Is it safe to ride at night?” I ask Quinton.
