Page 25 of Foundling

Attalus sat up slowly, careful not to make the marten fall.

From her perch, she flexed her claws in his hair and made happy squeaks.

“That little beast has barely left your side.”

The fae woman stopped a few steps away from him, a wooden plate in her hands. As she leaned down to place it on the ground before him, the marten hissed and spat threateningly.

Attalus vaguely remembered finding animals beneath his wing after landing in the wildfire. A few martens had been amongst them. Strange. He’d seen their cousins the otters and the minks before; all were curious and playful creatures, though not usually so brave.

The fae returned the marten’s threats by baring her own fangs. “I won’t forget this disloyalty, weasel.” Those hard sapphire eyes of hers seemed almost to glow, making a shiver run down Attalus’s scales.

He cleared his throat. “I believe she’s a marten.”

“I know,” she grumped. “Now eat. Can’t have you fainting again before you tell me why you’re here.” Standing, she went back to the fire she’d made at the mouth of the cave, where more fish roasted on a spit.

Attalus picked up his plate and inspected the small pile of grilled fish to give himself something to do. At least, that was his aim, but the moment he smelled the delicious meat, his stomach grumbled fiercely and he forgot any other thought.

Looking around himself, Attalus realized, “Are there no utensils?”

“You have claws…”

“Indeed.” He said it with confidence he didn’t feel. “No napkins either?”

She turned to share a long, unimpressed look with the unicorn beside—fucking shit, there was a unicorn, a unicorn mare!—her.

Fuck, he’d never seen a unicorn before, but everyone knew the stories of how brutal and vicious they could be. Even orcs shuddered at the sight of them, and they were a hardy lot. It was said a unicorn horn was sharp enough to pierce even dragon scales, was stronger and tougher than steel, and could grow back if somehow broken. And, most chilling of all, the females were particularly ruthless.

The unicorn stared at him with eerie liquid eyes. He nearly jumped a foot off the ground when his mate erupted in a peal of laughter.

When she noticed how he looked between her and the unicorn, his eyes wide and appetite forgotten, his mate said, “Thalia says to use the weasel to wipe your mouth if you must,” as if that explained anything.

She was still chuckling about what the unicorn definitely hadn’t said when she picked another fish from a basket and gutted it with her claw, easy as could be. Spilling the guts into the fire, making it crack and hiss, she tossed the raw fish in the air for the unicorn to snatch up like some demonic gull.

Gods, he’d thought the fae to be a more…delicate, academic sort of people. He’d never imagined they could be so…earthy.

His stomach still churned uneasily, but when the unicorn mare looked at him again and shook out her mane, Attalus made himself busy portioning the tender white fish. Using his claws to cut manageable chunks, he fed himself by the tips of his claws.

From their place near the fire, he could hear the fae and unicorn chortling together—no doubt at his expense.

What exactly had he landed in? An alternate world? Had he slept far longer than he’d imagined?

“I didn’t start the fire—I found it burning,” he said, his tone more annoyed than he’d meant.

His mate’s laughter died away, and he quickly found he was sad for it.

“I dreaded as much,” she sighed. “That complicates matters.”

“How so?”

Rather than answer, she pinned him with a shrewd stare. For a long, uncomfortable moment, the only sound echoing down the cave was the pop and sizzle of the grilling fish.

“Who are you, dragon?”

He swallowed his bite, eager to answer but also…not. There was so much bound up in his title, so much he’d never wished for. It was bad enough he was a dragon in the faelands, but an uninvited, fugitive royal dragon? Insupportable.

Yet, she was his mate, strange as she was. His mate who’d somehow found him and cared for him. Healed him. The venom still coursed through his veins, it was true, but she’d seen him through the worst of it.

He could offer, if not his title, his name at least. “I’m called Attalus,” he said. “Please, what might I call the mate I’ve waited so long to meet?”