Draknart lay on his belly, his nose filled with Einin’s soft scent as she washed and dressed his wound, using a strip torn from the bottom of her shirt.

“’Tis not necessary, sweeting,” he said, all the while oddly liking the fuss she made.

“I can’t just leave you to bleed.”

“Why?”

She shrugged, then looked away. “You took me flying and swimming. You fed me. You kept me warm in the night.”

Her hands were small and delicate, her touch soft, yet he knew her arms were strong enough to wield a sword. Wispy locks of hair escaped her braid, creating a halo of sunshine around her head.

“Why have you been cursed?” she asked, meeting his eyes at last.

A cough rumbled around in his chest. She was not going to like this tale. Then again, ’twas not as if she liked much about him. None of her kind did. He was reviled.

For a moment, he wished it could be different, that he were a different kind of beast, that mayhap he hadn’t done all he’d done in the past centuries. But the past was the past, and he was the beast he was, no help for it.

“A hundred years ago or so,” he said, “I came upon Belisama’s priestesses at the river as they were tossing flower wreaths into the water for her as their gifts. They were comely lasses. We had a bit o’ fun.”

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “Meaning you swived them, then you ate them?”

He flinched.

She took that as a confirmation and shook her head with a sad look but did not stop caring for him.

“I deserved the curse.” He hung his head. Then he looked up again. “But it’s been a hundred years. Could Belisama not forgive me?” An exasperated grunt escaped him. “I tried to swive you, then eat you. You’ve forgiven me, and you’re just a wee maiden.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I have?”

“Haven’t you?”

“Yes,” she said on a sigh. “Can I blame a beast for being a beast?”

“You make me want to be less beastly.” The words came out unbidden. And since he was making no sense, he went all the way. “Should I then be more like the knights?”

He glanced toward the lake where he could pick up the splashing sounds Jon of Fernwood made as he swam for the opposite shore.

“You’re not entirely insufferable as a dragon.” She kept washing him, the wound deeper and longer than he’d first thought. “But you should not eat any villagers.”

“Not even if they come to my cave?”

“Not even. You are fearsome enough to scare them away.”

Every time she touched him, the touch tingled across his skin, and an unfamiliar energy surged through him.

Einin of Downwood made his heart live.

If dragons could love, he might be able to love one such as her. Of course, she could probably never love a beast like him. A dark mood settled over Draknart at the thought.

He watched her. Aye, she was fine. She was certainly fit for a god. Trouble was, Draknart was no longer sure he wanted to give her to Belinus.

Yet belonging to Belinus in Feyland would be best for her. She would live in the god’s palace. Nobody would ever whip her again; she’d be far from the clutches of the people of her village. In Feyland, she would not grow old but remain forever beautiful Einin.

As a cursed dragon, Draknart could offer her precious little: a dank cave, and human company for only a few hours each night. No, she would never choose that over Feyland. She didn’t think of him as an entirely vile beast, but a beast nevertheless.

“Are you going to ask Belisama to dissolve the curse?” she asked. “When we go through the fairy circle?”

“She swore that she would not,” he grumbled. “She’s that mad at me.”

Einin shot him a questioning look.

“I will ask the god Belinus,” he told her.

Draknart stayed still as she gently wrapped his wound in moss, holding it in place with a plaster of wet leaves.

When she was finished, she stepped back and inspected her handiwork with satisfaction.

“Now you rest,” she said, then walked away from him, toward the water. Halfway there, she turned back. “Would Belinus go against his own wife the goddess?”

“They argued some decades ago. He is no longer welcome in her glens and her palaces.” Then Draknart added, “He must be lonely.”

Einin stilled, her gaze examining him with intent, very, very carefully. “Why would he help you?”

Instead of responding, he looked toward the lake. The knight was now far enough so even Draknart’s superior hearing could not pick up the sounds the man made.

Draknart rose. “Let us go to the fairy circle. Twilight nears.”

Einin went with him, even stood in the middle of the circle with him, but as the sun dipped below the tree line, then dipped below the horizon and left the sky dark, nothing happened.

Draknart’s spiked tail beat the ground, setting an impatient rhythm.

“The sun stone must not be exactly lined up to the east,” he said then, and went to correct the stone’s placement. Then he adjusted another and another, the task easier now that he was dragon than it had been before. It still seemed to take forever. Mayhap because he kept on adjusting, turning the stones this way and that.

When he was finished, thinking he might have gotten it just right, Einin asked, “What else can we do? Is there anything I can do to help?”

“You could help me gather some branches,” he told her after a moment of consideration. He’d seen the humans crown the stones with green. Mayhap the gods liked that.

She hurried to the edge of the clearing and broke off thin branches from the evergreen bushes, brought them to him by the armload, then went back for more while he twisted what he had into large wreaths.

The night wore on as they decorated the stone circle. When it was all done to Draknart’s satisfaction, they drew back to inspect their handiwork. He thought it might just work. Of course, now they would have to wait another day.

“How will you convince Belinus to lift the curse? What will you give him in exchange?” Einin asked.

Draknart hated the answer. The plan he’d thought perfect just days before now seemed ill-conceived. Yet it was the only plan he had, his first real chance at restoration in a century.

“He is fond of beautiful maidens.”

“But—” Einin paled for a moment. Then all the blood rushed back into her face, and her cheeks turned an angry red. She flung her arms wide as she shouted, “You brought me for him!”

He ducked his head. “Aye.”

“You—” Her voice broke, not on fear, but on fury.

Draknart felt her stark expression of disappointment as sharply as if he’d been stabbed in the chest. Was that a sheen of tears in her eyes? She was rapidly blinking. Then she squared her shoulders, and he knew she was about to shout at him again.

“You will live in a palace,” he cut her off, then fell silent at the strange tone of his voice that sounded very much like begging, which could not be as dragons never begged. He cleared his throat. “You will lack for nothing. You will know neither hunger nor disease. Death will not touch you in Feyland.”

She swore like a goatherd, sparks flashing in her eyes, her hands gripping her sword as she backed away from him.

By the gods, Draknart loved her fire. Her fire was the truest and most beautiful thing he’d seen in centuries. If she stabbed him in the heart right now, it’d be almost worth it just to have met her.

“Have you ever asked me if I want to live forever?” she shouted with rage. She threw her sword at him, missed, then picked up a stone from the ground to hurl it.

Draknart didn’t duck. He let the missile hit him. He deserved that for not being honest from the beginning. He did. Now, as he watched Einin spin on her heel and march away from him with angry strides, his guts felt as if he’d eaten the fairy circle’s boulders for breakfast.

At the edge of the clearing, she turned again to call back. “Fine. I choose to go to Belinus. I will serve the god, and I will live in Feyland forever.”

No! The fire inside Draknart roared. To hear the words from her lips was like a broadsword slicing through his heart.

His muscles coiled. He raked the ground with his talons as he rose to pace. He hated the look of disgust on her face. He wanted that face cradled in his human palms, just before his lips descended on hers. He wanted that lean, strong body. He wanted her fiery spirit and her sharp tongue. He wanted her courageous heart.

He could keep Einin. He would. He’d bring a different maiden for Belinus. He could bring as many as a dozen, pick all the comeliest lasses from the village across the lake.

Aye. The god would have to settle for a different maiden. Because the thought of Belinus touching Einin filled Draknart with a murderous rage. Belinus would not take her soft lips. The god would not hear her sigh in passion. Einin would not squirm in pleasure under anyone but Draknart. She would not spar with anyone else. And if she traveled the world, she’d be flying with him.

She was stomping toward the deer path, probably to head back to the lake, avoiding his gaze, no doubt thinking about living in Feyland. Was she thinking of the god, thinking of seducing Belinus? Molten fury exploded through Draknart.

He surged forward.

“You will not give yourself to the god!” he roared. The birds in the trees took flight with a mad storm of flapping wings. “Einin of Downwood, I claim you by my dragon’s right.”

She squared her shoulders as she roared back at him, “I am a woman free and wild. I’m not yours to claim!”