“I grow on people.”
“Like a fungal infection, yeah.”
But here's the truth I'd rather die than admit: Chad's the only one who makes me feel like I might not totally suck at this whole darkblood thing. He pushes all my buttons, but sometimes that's exactly what I need. Our coven's too busy playing chess with my sister and her dragon boy to see what's right in front of them—we're all sick of this endless blood feud BS.
Maybe it's time someone tried to flip the damn table. Maybe that could be us.
16
ESME
Istare at the burned edges of my dress, tracing the scorched fabric with my fingertip. The smell of singed hair hangs around me like a cloud of failure. An hour I've been sitting here, perched on the edge of my bed, replaying every misstep that led to this moment: Dayn declaring me his future wife before his entire court, saving my life while simultaneously ending it.
“Esme.” Dayn's voice startles me.
I jerk my head up. “When did you come?—”
“Just like you didn't notice Rogon following you in the institute.” He shuts the door with a soft click, shaking his head. His disappointment somehow stings worse than the burns on my skin.
Heat rises to my face.
“I was just trying to?—”
“What the hell were you thinking?!” The words explode from him, his voice filling every corner of the room. I freeze, having never seen this side of him before.
His chest swells with each breath, nostrils flaring. Gold flickers in his irises like embers catching fire. A lock of midnight hair falls across his forehead.
“I had to at least try,” I say, voice steadier than my pulse.
“Colossal risk for what payoff?” The tendons in his neck strainagainst bronze skin. “You're skilled, Esme, but we're dragons. Our senses were honed against darkbloods centuries before you were born.”
“I won't apologize for wanting my freedom.” I lift my chin. “Why should my survival matter to you anyway? You're the one who dragged me underground in the first place.”
Dayn rakes his fingers through his hair, mussing it further. “Gods, Esme.”
“Answer me. Why care?”
“Our partnership matters. My word matters.”
“How convenient.” I push myself up and stalk toward the window. “From the man whose promises have been nothing but smoke since Heathborne.”
He inhales slowly, his gaze trailing from my scorched hem to my face. “You backed me into a corner back there.”
“If you want me to say sorry?—”
“I'm not delusional. You'd rather die than apologize.”
“We agree on something, then. I'd rather gouge my eyes out with a rusty spoon than become your bride.”
His mouth twitches: a fleeting, genuine smile before it vanishes beneath a sharp exhale and a raised eyebrow. “I'll have the kitchens prepare one. Extra rust.”
“This wedding cannot happen, Dayn.”
“This isn't what I wanted either.” His voice lowers fractionally. “Dragon ceremonies are binding.”
I blink rapidly against the burn in my eyes. My throat tightens as I swallow. The walls of this underground chamber seem to press closer with each passing second. The worst part is how my veins still sing for his blood, a craving that pulses beneath my skin like a second heartbeat.
“Then let me go,” I manage, my voice betraying me with a slight tremor. “You could give me that Salem buckle.”
