Page 8 of Dragon's Flame
“The one where I get the girl,” Tarian said, closing the door behind them.
For eight hundred years,he had endured the Sirens’ schemes, their harsh words dripping with magic, their endless cruelty. When they weren’t torturing him, they whispered lies designed to rot his mind.
He healed, because he was part dragon. But the time had taken its toll.
So much darkness. So much pain. Never knowing if it would end, but refusing to die so long as there was even the smallest chance she was still alive. It was his fault she was destined to live forever—how could he bring himself to leave her? He’d had to be almost as mad as the Sirens themselves to survive and, in time, to whisper ideas back to them.
The scars from their attacks covered him: jagged lines across his chest and back, down his arms and legs. Their awful mouths had bitten him; their claws had scored his flesh with infections that had burned for years, and he hadn’t healed perfectly.
He’d hidden his scars with magic the moment Rax freed him, unwilling to let his brother see how vulnerable imprisonment had made him. Rax already thought him weak, and mad, for believing Seris was still alive.
If Rax had seen the truth of his scars and the shadows in his soul, he never would have let Tarian leave his side. Tarian pressed his hand against the mirror, letting its cool surface ground him. He had found her once. He would find her again. And this time, she would recognize him.
The small wound from the uniformed man—one he had unplugged in the shower to clean—still seeped green.
He put a wondering finger to it. Was it a magical wound? Had the projectile been poisoned? It didn’t matter—he’d heal eventually—he hadn’t been attacked by Sirens for eight hundred years to die from a magic-less attack now.
He tore a strip off of a pillowcase and carefully packed the wound—then Rocky’s turn was up.
Despite his word, Rocky had disagreed strenuously and was unable to sit still during bathing or trimming, so water and tufts of dog hair ended up everywhere, covering the bathroom’s tile.
But eventually, the creature emerged looking more agreeable—although his fur was wildly uneven in places.
“Don’t you feel better?” Tarian asked, stepping back to examine his work.
“No,” Rocky complained, shaking himself vigorously. “Do you?”
Tarian sat with that for a second. Now that he was clean, he had nothing left to hide. No excuse, if Seris denied him.
“Not really,” he confessed.
Rocky whined softly, his head tilting in sympathy, before stepping forward to lick Tarian’s palm.
6
KENNA
Cliff was everything Kenna had thought he’d be—and more.
The coffee shop was the final “are you secretly a serial killer?” test. But the second he walked through the door she knew she shouldn’t have bothered.
He looked exactly like his photos—pale skin, black hair, a little emo but with kind eyes. And he acted just like he did online: warm, confident, and slightly goofy.
“I can’t believe I’m really here!” he said as she stood up to hug him. He picked her up, spinning her lightly until her skirt swirled around her knees, then set her down with an easy laugh.
“I can’t either!” she said, beaming at him.
For a second, they stood there, caught in that awkward moment when either of themcouldhave gone in for a kiss. Both of them felt it. Both of them hesitated.
But then it passed, and Cliff’s hand found hers, tugging her back to the table she’d been waiting at.
“Can I get you anything?” he asked, glancing toward the counter.
“Yeah, I’ll take whatever’s most likely to be a 1975 song title,” she said, grinning.
Cliff tilted his head, pretending to think. “One iced latte called ‘Coffee for People Who Don’t Believe in Mornings,’ coming right up.” She laughed, and he continued. “I can’t believe I’m going to get to hang out with someone who’s completely tolerant of my love for The 1975 for a whole weekend,” he said, grinning. “We’re definitely going to have to record some of our conversations—my roommate doesn’t believe a woman like you exists.”
Kenna laughed. “Thank you,” she said. “I think.”
