CHAPTER ONE
Mira arrived at the palace late at night. Her hair was plastered to her face, her long gown dripping from the storm that had cracked the sky open right on top of her an hour earlier. It still rained now, but not as much, not the great sheets of water that she’d thought might drown her.
It was impossible for her to feel rain and not think of Tarquin. It was in the rain, months ago, when she’d first seen him: a massive black form in the sky, onyx wings beating. When he’d landed in front of her, she’d been gripped with terror and the striking thought that if she were going to be finished, at least it would be by this fiercely beautiful creature. She’d never seen a dragon before, had dismissed the rumors of them as any rational person would, and when she found herself face to face with one, all she could think was how she’d been so wrong— and how her life was over.
It was, she supposed, in a different way than she’d thought at the time. Because he had shifted, right in front of her, and the monstrous beast had become a savagely lovely man. She hadn’t ever imagined that such a thing was possible, and when he strode right for her, she had the strange feeling that he was going to open his chiseled jaw and engulf her in flames. He hadn’t, of course, he’d just stalked in front of her and towered over her, staring at her as if he wanted to devour her. She just froze in place, staring right back, no longer noticing the wind howling or the rain pelting at her face.
She’d been at Dragongrove for three months when he’d arrived, but had only been conscious for the latter half of that time. After she’d recovered from the illness that had been plaguing the countryside for years, she’d decided to stay on as a resident of Dragongrove, to help nurse new patients— and to avoid returning home to the farm. She didn’t have any particular problem with her big family, but life had been so boring there, and she thought that the manor in which she was allowed to reside was the most beautiful place she’d ever seen.
How cruel for her, then, that after only a week since his arrival, Tarquin and his brothers had burned it to ashes. She’d barely had time to process that dragons existed. She’d also barely had time to grapple with her unrelenting attraction to the strange man who sneered at her, always; and passed by close enough to brush against her, often. There was nowhere for her to go after Dragongrove, although she’d envied Ingrid greatly who had found a mate in the new Dragon King and would set off to rule a foreign land. Not that the thought of ruling held any particular sway for Mira, but still— an adventure.
She’d returned home, forever changed with the knowledge of some kind of strange magic in the world, although she never breathed any of it to any of her family. It was her secret, her carefully guarded kind of adventure that had altered her view forever, and as she spent weeks working with her mother, she knew that she would never again be able to take any kind of pleasure in a life like that. Because there was so much out there— so much to be seen and discovered, so much for her to explore. The farm was tiny; Dragongrove had been massive in comparison.
She’d been on the verge of saddling up her horse and taking off for the unknown when she’d received a letter from Ingrid. Mira had begged her father to read it to her, and when he’d read it over quickly and his face had fallen she knew that it was good news for her. The new queen had informed her that Arnes was as safe as it was ever likely to be, and would she like to come visit, please? Mira had left soon after dark, forgetting to bring the letter with her, and choosing to forget that it asked her to write back about when she would arrive so that she could be escorted once she had crossed the border. She knew from one look at her father that he wouldn’t write for her, and no one else in the big farmhouse was capable of doing it.
She loved her family, despite her displeasure at the life they led. Mira was the youngest child and only girl, and as such had been forced into a role that she found uncomfortable— her father’s treasure and her mother’s doll. For as long as she could remember she’d fought against her mother’s daily grooming rituals, and although she appreciated the thought it wasn’t often that she appreciated the little feminine trinkets that her father had saved up to purchase for her. Her three brothers were better, although the one next to her in age, Colin, was her favorite. He’d helped her rebel from a young age, taking the blame when she didn’t want didn’t behave as a young lady should. He was expecting his own child now, and Mira secretly hoped it was a girl. A boy would be more useful on the farm, of course, but he would make quite a father to a little girl.
He was the only person she’d informed that she was leaving, and when he asked her about it, she told him everything that had happened; everything, including the unbelievable parts. She wasn’t sure if he believed her, but he’d hugged her tight and told her to send word when she had arrived safely, and then had stolen into the kitchen and emerged with more food than she thought she could possibly eat in a week. He’d helped her pack and as she rode off she found herself looking back at him, her elation at going tempered by leaving her favorite brother behind.
The journey had taken longer than a week, but by how many days she wasn’t sure. They’d all seemed to blend together in an endless cycle of countryside and shitty lodging, and by the time she’d finally crossed the border her mood had darkened. She just wanted to be there, to see the palace and the forbidden, hidden land. There was also the matter of Tarquin who she dearly hoped was there, even if she couldn’t possibly fathom what to say to him, even if she wasn’t sure that he’d remember the times they’d shared long, heated looks back at Dragongrove.
She was thinking of him again, then, with rain clinging to every inch of her, and her head craned back to see where the massive turrets of the palace disappeared into the sky. Dragons flew up there, although she could barely make them out through the dark; just a whisper of a wing or a shade of color flashing high above. She began to doubt herself as she approached the grand steps to the palace but steeled her nerves and proceeded forward.
She explained who she was to the first person she saw, clearly a shifter and seemingly a guard, and she breathed a bit easier when he promised to escort her directly to the queen. She kept her eyes peeled through the palace, taking in every inch of the opulent surroundings, and only kind of looking for a certain person. She saw no one aside from guards, though, and when the man guiding her paused in front of a grand gilded door and swung it open, she stepped inside without a second thought.
There was Ingrid, small and delicate and everything that Mira wasn’t. She was clearly exhausted, her face drawn and her eyes dark, but she smiled wide when she saw Mira, and rose from her seat to embrace her in a hug that suggested they were better friends than they had ever been. There was nothing insincere in it, just a clear desire for comfort, and Mira was surprised at how much solace she took in the embrace, forgetting to even be embarrassed that her gown had soaked water into Ingrid’s very fine one. Mira’s journey had been long, and now that she was finally here, she felt ready to collapse for a week or two.
“We weren’t expecting you,” Ingrid said, “I hadn’t heard anything back.”
Mira shrugged uncomfortably. “Sorry.”
“I’m so glad you’re here, though. You came by yourself through Arnes?”
Mira nodded. “I should have written, I’m sorry.”
Ingrid smiled warmly. “You’re here now, and safely. That’s what matters.”
Mira’s eyes traveled over the room, bright and warm and comfortable, with chairs and couches arranged around a great hearth. There were three women sitting side by side on one couch, and on a chair— Lily. She smiled at the woman she remembered from Dragongrove, the pretty and talkative friend of Ingrid’s who Mira had never known well, but had never shown her anything but kindness. Lily grinned at her, her lovely face transformed into something exquisite when she smiled, and Mira smiled back briefly before her attention was focused across the room. There he was, standing near the corner, against the wall, his arms crossed. He positively glared at her. The dangerous look pleased her in a silly way; he did, indeed, remember her. She watched him for a moment, her eyes wide and her head foggy, and before she could be embarrassed at the way she was staring, he was in front of her.
He watched her with burning eyes, just as he had the first time she’d ever seen him. She noticed the way his dark hair, as black as his wings, brushed his shoulders and curled slightly into his collar. She noticed the way his jaw was set, and the dark sweep of lashes over his deep black eyes.
The queen spoke again, startling Mira. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even think that you would need to change. And rest, I suspect. It’s— taxing, coming here; Lily’s only just recovered. It should just be a couple days, and then you’ll be just fine.” She paused for a minute, looking as if she were deep in thought. “Tarquin, show her to a room, please?”
Ingrid shot him a look that said something, but Mira had no idea what. He narrowed his eyes at the queen, but nodded.
Mira followed him out of the room, giddy and terrified, and when she couldn’t keep up with his long strides, he paused, grasping her wrist in his big, calloused hand, and pulled her behind him. The heat from his hand was intoxicating, his grip firm and hot. He spun around in the hallway without warning, still holding her wrist, and looked down at her.
“That was really fucking stupid,” he said.
Mira just widened her eyes and watched him. It was the first time he’d ever spoken right to her, and she absorbed all of the low rolling of his voice being directed right at her.
“You’re lucky to have even survived. The queen instructed you to have an escort.”
Oh. So that was what he was mad at her about? She just blinked up at him, confused why he cared and wondering why her head felt so foggy.
“That was really fucking stupid,” he repeated.
He said it just as she was examining his mouth, thinking about how lovely it was, and before she knew it she was laughing loudly, right in his face. “Fuck off,” she said, surprising herself at the venom in her voice. “I’m fine.”
He narrowed his eyes at her and turned from her again, holding her wrist all the while, and pulled her further along the corridor until he came to a series of doors arranged around several large chairs. He pushed open the nearest one and guided her inside, then stepped in after her and shut the door behind him.
The room had flowers painted along the walls, she noticed. It was all she was able to notice before his hands were on her cheeks and his lips were hot against hers. She couldn’t breathe or think or move, except to press her fingertips into his shoulders and cling to him as he kissed her like she’d imagined he would: fiercely, with lips and tongue and teeth all working to make her utterly his. And she was. She kissed him back— poorly, she was sure, having never kissed anyone before— and when the heat pooling in her belly was too much, she whispered his name against his lips.
He released her abruptly. The look he gave her was venomous, although he still held her face; he turned and left the room without a backward glance.
She stood there for several minutes, her clothes dripping wet and her legs unsteady, thinking distinctly to herself that her life had two phases: before Tarquin, and after that kiss.
A moment later she gathered her thoughts well enough to go through her bag and find her nightgown. It was only slightly damp, from having been in her sodden bag, but it was certainly better than the one she wore currently. She stripped with some difficulty, on shaky legs, and squeezed out her hair into a small puddle on the marble floor. She pulled on the nightgown and found a mirror on the wall to examine herself in. Her reflection was familiar, the same one she’d seen all her life. It was strange to see, though, because surely after what had just happened, everything about her would be different.
The room was cold, the fireplace unlit, but there was no fuel and she didn’t know where to begin. She turned for the big dark bed, the sheets seeming to have been freshly changed, and climbed in before pulling the heavy blankets up to her chin. Her breathing was still ragged, her thoughts still unsure.
A short, sharp knock on her door surprised her. She thought that she should get up and answer it, but the weight of the blanket was so lovely and her legs felt so heavy.
“Come in,” she mustered, her eyes heavy and protesting being held open.
Tarquin stalked in and scanned the room, before his eyes fell over her form in the big bed. “A servant will be in to light your hearth in a moment,” he said.
He watched her so intently she wanted to run, to him or from him she didn’t know, but she didn’t even have the energy to lift her head off of her pillow.
“I sleep nearby,” he said, when it was clear she wouldn’t say anything. “Call if you need anything.” He turned and left the room then, the door shutting hard behind him.
The thought of him sleeping nearby made her oddly content, and before she knew anymore, she was finally, blessedly asleep.