Page 100 of Vega

“A what?”

Her entire face lit up. “Oh my God. You don’t know the history?”

I shrugged. “I know dragons. Family beef. Bad decisions.”

“That is such a disrespectful summary.” She adjusted her glasses like she was about to teach a lecture. “This is based on the Dance of the Dragons, which is basically a Targaryen succession crisis. Rhaenyra was named heir by Viserys, but after he died, Aegon was crowned instead, and then everything went completely to hell because the realm chose misogyny, ambition, and dragonfire.”

I stared at her and she kept going like she wasn’t making my dick rock hard at the moment. “And if you read Fire & Blood, you realize the show is working from an unreliable historical account, so certain details are based on what maesters, septons, and court fools claimed happened. Which means some scenes are interpretation, not fact.”

“You studied this?”

She shrugged a shoulder. “Obviously.”

“Obviously,” I repeated.

She pointed at the screen, fully animated now. “And don’t even get me started on Daemon because people romanticize him, but he is chaos in human form. Entertaining chaos, but still chaos.”

I watched her more than the TV.

A few minutes ago, she had been terrified. Now she was sitting in my bed explaining fictional family politics like the fate of Westeros personally depended on her.

Roman was coming. And somehow, with all of that waiting outside these walls, the only thing I wanted to focus on was the nerdy, beautiful girl sitting beside me, rambling about dragons, bloodlines, betrayals, and family trees.

I had fallen for her. There wasn’t any sense in pretending I hadn’t. It wasn’t just lust or the kind of temporary obsession a man could sweat out with another woman and a bottle of liquor. This was deeper than that. Sonnet had gotten under my skin. I was infatuated with her brain, fight, and soft parts of her she tried so hard to protect. She made me want things I hadn’t planned on wanting. She gave me another reason to come back alive.

I watched her talk, watched her smile, watched her forget to be afraid for a few minutes and it made me murderous that Roman wanted her dead. That meant I had to kill him because I wanted the rest of my life with her, and Roman Granger had become the only thing standing between me and that future.

I was going to kill for Sonnet Ellison.

Then I was going to spend the rest of my life convincing her to let me love her.

SONNET ELLISON

I woke up in Vega’s arms. His arm was draped over my waist like holding me was natural. For a few seconds, I didn’t move. I just listened to his breathing and remembered how perfect last night had been.

We had watched TV for hours. I had explained House of the Dragon, the Targaryen family tree, the Dance of the Dragons, and why the show made more sense if he understood the history behind it. He had listened, asked questions, and looked at me like my rambling entertained him instead of annoyed him.

It felt almost too normal. And I was calm and happy. I couldn’t remember the last time I had smiled that much. Maybe I never had. But last night, while he listened to me ramble about dragons, dead kings, family betrayals, and fictional bloodlines, I had smiled until my cheeks hurt.

Before I realized what was happening, I had felt safe. Somewhere deep inside me, the little abandoned, parentless girl who had spent her whole life waiting for the next loss, the next locked door, the next adult to fail her, had finally lowered her guard. For a few hours, she had rested.

Then I remembered his lips on mine and the way he kissed me. A more naïve part of my brain had hoped he would touch me again last night, but ever since he admitted he was attracted to me, he had kept distance intimately.

In his sleep, he looked nothing like the masked man who had stolen me from my condo. He looked peaceful and beautiful. His lashes rested against his freckled cheeks, his beard framed his jaw perfectly, and the tattoos along his throat looked detailed in the sun. Morning light touched his face softly, turning all that danger into something unfairly gorgeous.

Looking at him, I told myself I should respect the distance he’d been so careful to keep between us, but he’d spent days holding back, refusing to touch me like we both wanted him to, like I knew he could, and something in me snapped under the pressure of it. I needed to know if what he’d told me was real, if the feelings he’d admitted were still there, still burning between us every time he looked at me.

I leaned closer and kissed him, softly and carefully. My lips touched his like I was testing a boundary I already knew I shouldn’t cross. He was warm, still half asleep, his breath slow against my mouth. For one stolen second, he didn’t move, and I enjoyed the touch of his solid chest under my hand and the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

Then his lips responded just enough to make my stomach drop and my fingers curl against his chest. The kiss deepened, and my mouth pressed harder to his, chasing the taste of him, the feel of his beard tickling my skin, the dangerous comfort of being held by hands I should’ve been afraid of. I felt him wake beneath me, felt his body go still, then tense like restraint had snapped into place all at once.

For half a second, I thought he would pull me closer.

Instead, his hand caught my chin, and he pulled away.

His eyes opened. “Stop.”

I instantly felt so embarrassed.