Page 64 of Ignite the Infernos

“In addition to the six of you chosen for trial, I will be selecting twelve more for special assignment,” Aeson declares out of nowhere, and I’m proud that my head doesn’t snap in his direction while I blurt, What the fuck? “Once we’re settled, we’ll meet with you individually. Until then, lunch is served on the sim deck.”

“Fall out,” someone barks officially, and Aeson guides me off to the side so the neat rows of drakes can file out of the room.

I try to study them, to start ranking them in my mind based off of appearance alone, but my attention is pulled from the task the second a barrage of delicious smells distract my nose. I look over to find a long table overflowing with steaming dishes and all sorts of other delights. Needing no further invitation, I follow the delicious aromas to the feast and unapologetically take a seat. I have no idea where all of this came from, but I don’t care.

My stomach rumbles greedily, and a strange, painful sensation ripples just beneath my skin, like my dragon is trying to get to the food because I’m not moving fast enough. I start filling my plate before anyone else has joined me and dig in.

You snooze, you lose.

One by one, Aeson and his Wing occupy the chairs around me, and out of nowhere, a vicious growl surges up my throat and slips out of my mouth.

Aeson’s low chuckle has me clamping my mouth shut, and I look over at him, both shocked and confused. “No one is going to take your food. Eat as much as you want; we won’t touch a thing until you’re done.”

Relief washes through me, which makes no sense, and then I realize I’m hunched protectively over my plate like some starved feral beast.

What in The bloody Bearing?

I straighten my spine and look around like I’ve come to my senses, but in truth they’ve momentarily abandoned me.

“It’s normal,” Aeson assures me, and yet I find I’m not reassured in the slightest. “Your reveal is going to push your instincts to the brink, and the bond is going to encourage you to nest,” he explains further when I continue to stare at him like we’re no longer speaking the same language.

“Sounds itchy,” I mumble, and Ogdan snorts out an unexpected laugh. I turn to the Burner and level him with a glare. “Done punishing me?” I snap, and his smile dims.

“I’m not punishing you, lass,” he defends.

“What do you call this, then?” I point to the stoic faces of Karis, Farrow, Sondar, and Jori, who are all sitting around the table, and then gesture toward Gatlin and Blay, who are guarding the entrance to the room. “And don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’re keeping the Wing members who like me away,” I accuse.

Ogdan sits back in his chair and surveys me. “I’m not keeping them away; they’re on assignment. And Tove doesn’t like you, so that argument has no legs.”

I scoff. “We’re not besties yet, but it’s only a matter of time.”

This garners a rumble of amusement from everyone at the table.

“And how do you know that?” Ogdan chuckles, and his familiar levity corrects the tilt of my crooked axis, and I suddenly feel as though I’m no longer spinning out of control.

I sit back in my chair and mirror Ogdan’s relaxed pose. I can sense Aeson curiously watching us, but he doesn’t interject.

“I know because, in a lot of ways, I am Tove.”

Ogdan’s brow hikes up and confusion flashes in his gray eyes. I don’t know what he thought I was going to say, but he didn’t expect that.

I start ticking things off on my fingers. “Jaded, untrusting, works twice as hard for half the recognition, ferociously loyal, never makes the same mistake twice, swims against the tide of The Hordes expectations.”

“It does sound unexpectedly familiar,” Farrow agrees, his dark gaze contemplative as he rubs a speck of dirt from a deep-red scale on his arm.

“It’s an interesting take,” Ogdan agrees. “But, like I said, I’m not keeping anyone away from you, and we’re not punishing you; we’re treating you with the caution you’ve earned.”

“The caution I’ve earned?” I parrot.

“Yes, we brought you into the fold and did our best to give you the benefit of the doubt. That resulted in a knot of lies we’re still trying to untangle, unauthorized transmissions behind our back, the death of the Relacour Matron, a blast that could have seriously wounded or even killed our Heart, actions that left the Fae Gate vulnerable, a chase across The Scorch and the southern territories that easily could have resulted in serious harm to the Wing or our Heart. Should I keep going, or do you catch the drift?”

I stare at Ogdan, study his braids, his iron-gray eyes, his black scale armor, and then I look at the others.

“I pulled you out of the rubble. I made sure you were breathing, that you weren’t hurt, and then I left. I’m not going to apologize for the lying and the sneaking behind your back; you would have done the same in my position. I was in enemy territory as far as I knew. I was protecting myself and the other survivors as best I could. And I promise you, if I’d wanted any of you dead in The Scorch or anywhere else, you would be. Give me some fucking credit.”

“That’s not exactly reassuring, lass,” Ogdan censures. “And we are giving you credit, otherwise, you wouldn’t be here, inches away from our Heart, Bonded Mate or not.”

My shoulders sag at the conviction gleaming in his eyes, and I nod. “Fine, I get it. It’s just . . .” I pause, my gaze now fixed on my empty plate. I push a few crumbs around with my fork and try to figure out how to phrase what I need to say. “Be mad. Be hurt. I accept that. But, if it’s possible, can you not be quiet? For a very long time after the massacre, the Syphon survivors . . . we . . . we were all so quiet. And then in the cell with the Tainted . . .” I force myself to look up, to take in each of them in turn. “Yell at me, be short, annoyed, snarky—I can take it. I can take anything but quiet . . . please,” I plead, and Ogdan bows his head.