Page 18 of Davoren
Wonderful. I'd just overdosed on magical fruit. The effects were already fading, leaving me wrung out and tingling, my body hyperaware of every sensation. Even the silk dress against my skin felt like too much stimulation.
I fled the gardens before anything else could tempt me.
Level six housed Davoren's workshop, and the moment I entered, I understood something fundamental about him. This wasn't just a workspace—it was a sanctuary. The walls held half-finished sculptures emerging from volcanic stone like they were swimming up from deep water. Dragons in flight, dragons at rest, dragons locked in combat or mating or sometimes both. His tools hung in precise order, each one obviously ancient and meticulously maintained.
But it was the central sculpture that stopped me cold.
She was small for a dragon, delicate where Davoren was massive. Her scales suggested midnight blue rather than his black-oil iridescence, with silver highlights that caught the light like stars. The pose was protective rather than aggressive, wings half-furled as if shielding something precious. But it was the face that made my breath catch.
It was me. Somehow, impossible though it seemed, the dragon's features held the echo of my human face. The same stubborn jaw, the same eyes that my mother had called "too clever for your own good." This was what I would become, what the bond would make of me when it matured.
I traced one sculpted wing with trembling fingers. The stone felt warm, almost alive, and my mark resonated with recognition. He'd been carving this before he found me. How long had he worked on it? How many decades or centuries hadhe spent imagining what his mate might look like in dragon form?
The detail was exquisite. Every scale had been individually carved, each one perfect in its imperfection. He'd given her—given me—scars. Small ones, the kind that came from living rather than grand battles. A chip missing from one horn. A pattern of scratches along the tail that suggested playfulness rather than violence. This wasn't an idealized version of what I might become. This was a real creature, with history and personality and flaws that made her whole.
My chest ached with something I couldn't name.
Level seven should have been forbidden to me. Scarlet had all but said so—doors that only opened to the completed bond. But when I reached the landing, one door stood slightly ajar, as if inviting me in. Or daring me.
I should have resisted. Should have respected the privacy of his space, especially after seeing something as intimate as that sculpture. But the mark pulsed with encouragement, and my hand was pushing the door open before my mind could form proper objections.
The room split itself down the middle like a heart with two chambers, each one speaking a different language of desire. I stood frozen in the doorway, trying to process what my eyes insisted on showing me while my mark hummed with interest that definitely wasn't entirely my own.
The first half made my mouth go dry and my thighs clench involuntarily. Restraints hung from the walls like artwork, each piece displayed with the kind of care usually reserved for weapons or jewelry. Which, I supposed, they were—weapons of pleasure, jewelry for the body. Silk ropes in jewel tones that seemed to glow with their own inner light, arranged in order from palest rose to deepest midnight. The knots holding them totheir hooks were elaborate, decorative, suggesting the rope work itself would be an art form.
Leather cuffs lined one section, but these weren't crude things. Each one had been lined with what looked like dragon scale, iridescent and smooth, designed to hold without harming. Some were delicate, meant for wrists. Others were thick enough for thighs or ankles. One collar—because that's what it was, no point pretending otherwise—had my mark burning so hot I pressed my palm against it to ease the sensation.
The collar was the deep blue of my dress, with silver clasps that looked like tiny dragons biting their own tails.
I moved deeper into the room, drawn by horrified fascination. A table held implements I recognized from whispered conversations and some that belonged to no gossip I'd ever heard. Paddles inscribed with runes that seemed to shift when I wasn't looking directly at them. One made of volcanic glass, polished to mirror smoothness, that would probably leave marks for days. Another of soft leather that looked like it would sting without bruising.
Crystalline objects in shapes that made heat flood my cheeks and pool between my legs. Some were obviously meant for penetration, varying in size from intimidating to impossible. Others had curves and ridges that suggested different purposes, uses I couldn't quite imagine but my body seemed eager to learn about. A bottle of oil sat among them, and when I unstoppered it, the scent made my knees weak—jasmine and something musky that bypassed rational thought entirely.
Chains that shimmered with their own inner fire, looking more like captured flame than metal. When I touched one experimentally, it warmed immediately to my skin temperature, and I could feel it wanting to wrap around me, to hold me in place for—
I jerked my hand back, breathing hard. Every item here had been chosen deliberately, arranged with the same precision Scarlet brought to everything. This wasn't a collection built from idle curiosity. This was a carefully curated arsenal of pleasure and pain, dominance and submission.
But it was the second half of the room that truly confused me.
Where the first half spoke of adult desires and dark promises, this side looked like—I struggled for the right word. A nursery, but not for any infant. The furniture was sized for an adult, but the styling belonged to childhood. Or perhaps to someone playing at childhood.
A massive cushioned area dominated the center, piled with stuffed animals. But these weren't ordinary toys—each stuffed dragon had been crafted with astounding detail. Scales that felt real under my fingers, eyes made from actual gems that caught the light, wings that moved naturally when I picked one up. They ranged in size from tiny enough to fit in my palm to one nearly as large as me.
Shelves lined one wall, filled with picture books written in draconic script. The illustrations were beautiful—painted with such skill that the dragons seemed ready to fly off the pages. But the stories themselves appeared simple, the kind of tales told to children about bravery and adventure and finding where you belong.
Art supplies occupied another section, but these weren't normal paints and pencils. The colors shifted and swirled in their containers like living things. Brushes made from phoenix feathers—or something that looked remarkably like phoenix feathers. Paper that shimmered with its own light, waiting to hold whatever image someone might create.
A wardrobe stood against the far wall, and when I opened it, my confusion deepened. Dresses hung inside, all beautifully made, all technically appropriate for an adult woman. Butthe styles—shorter skirts than propriety demanded, ribbons and lace that belonged on someone decades younger than my twenty-two years. They managed to be both innocent and indulgent, playful and provocative. I touched one, a soft pink confection with white ribbons, and tried to imagine myself wearing it.
The image that formed in my mind made me simultaneously embarrassed and inexplicably warm.
I found myself drawn back to the cushioned area, to the largest stuffed dragon. Its scales were black with oil-slick iridescence, so similar to Davoren's true form that it had to be deliberate. When I picked it up, it was heavier than expected, weighted in a way that made it satisfying to hold. Without thinking, I pressed it against my chest, and the similarity to holding something for comfort was overwhelming.
"I see you've found your future chambers."
I spun so fast I nearly fell, the stuffed dragon tumbling from my hands. Davoren filled the doorway, his presence immediately making the large room feel small. But he didn't look angry at my trespass. His ember eyes held warmth, approval even, and something else that made my mark pulse with recognition.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—the door was open and—"
