Page 33 of A Matter of Dragons

“Eadberh, Rayne,” Vil said cheerfully. “This is Doshir. Cairncliff’s resident dragon.”

Doshir stared at me, his dark eyes wide. The room filled with silence as every muscle in my body tensed with shock and my mind howled in horror. The dull thud of waves smashing against the distant breakwater that protected Cairncliff’s harbor drifted through the open windows. A vendor’s cry of clams, clams, clams split the still air.

“And this,” Vil pressed on, this time waving his hand at us as though we were wares spread out across a marketplace blanket, “is Eadberh and Rayne. From Valgros. They’ve never met a dragon before.”

Eadberh cleared his throat noisily. “Vil here said he could arrange a meeting with a dragon. You’ll forgive me if I’m a bit skeptical.”

Doshir’s eyes finally left mine, and I found I could breathe again.

“Yes, yes,” Doshir stammered. He jerked his hand through his curls. “Skeptical. Of course. Well, I, uh—”

His dark eyes flickered back to me, then darted nervously around the room.

“I am a dragon,” he said in a voice that sounded almost like a sigh.

Blood surged through my skull like molten iron. No. No, damn it, that wasn’t possible. Dragons were monsters! And I’d shared wine with this man last night. I’d kissed him. I’d let him—

No. I bit my lip to cut off that line of thought. By the King, this was impossible. This was all damned impossible.

Oblivious to the sudden maelstrom inside my skull, Doshir pulled out a chair and sank into it. He gestured at the table as though inviting us to join him. Eadberh crossed his hands over his chest, rocked backward, and narrowed his eyes.

“You’re a dragon?” Eadberh said. Skepticism dripped off his words like honey, rich and thick.

“Right. Of course.” Doshir gave us a sad little half-smile, then he stood and walked to the far wall, where a few embers flickered dimly on the grate. “You know dragons are fireproof?”

Eadberh nodded. Doshir unbuttoned the cuffs on his black jacket and carefully rolled back the fabric. I watched his long, delicate fingers, the flash of his wrist, and I tried desperately not to remember how carefully he’d cupped his glass of frost wine last night. Or how he’d run those long, delicate fingers over the inside of my thigh.

No. He couldn’t be a dragon. Not after the way he’d touched me last night. Not after we’d—

Without warning, Doshir thrust his hand into the fire. I gasped as his fingers vanished into the glowing embers. The vendor’s call came again - clams, clams! - as the remains of the fire hissed around Doshir’s right hand. Something hot and sour rose in the back of my throat.

“There,” Doshir said, almost to himself.

He pulled his hand out of the fire. His skin was streaked with ashes; tiny sparks clung to his palm and fingertips. He shook his hand, dislodging the sparks, and then stood. My heartbeat thundered in my ears. Magic; it had to be magic. He had some sort of elf-made talisman or something. But Doshir’s own words swirled around my head like smoke.

Dragons are fireproof.

By the King’s sacred crown, how was this possible? Doshir was fireproof. The man who’d served me frost wine last night, who’d laughed and told me ridiculous stories, the man I’d kissed beneath the stars as we’d stood together looking down on Cairncliff. He was fireproof. He was a dragon. A monster. The very monster we’d been sent here to kill.

I kissed a monster last night. And I’d liked it.

Silently, Doshir walked around the table to stand before us, his ash-streaked hand held before him like an offering. I tried to breathe, but I felt like my chest was encased in ice. Doshir glanced up at me as he walked past. His delicate features wore a strangely apologetic expression, almost as though he were ashamed of being a monster.

Or perhaps he was ashamed of being married. He’d pretended to be single last night, hadn’t he? Was it that much of a stretch to think a man would lie about both being married and being human? My stomach rolled and my mouth tasted bitter; I suddenly felt like I never wanted to eat again.

Yet still, as Doshir walked past me, close enough for his thick, honeyed scent to swirl around me, my eyes traced the way his unruly curls brushed the back of his neck. I remembered how it had felt to run my fingers through his hair as he’d thrust inside me. A hungry, aching emptiness yawned to life inside my chest; I ground my teeth together to drive the feeling away.

What in the nine hells was wrong with me? This man was married, he was a thrice-damned dragon, he’d done nothing more intimate than walk past me, and still, my body burned. Doshir stopped in front of Eadberh, cleared his throat, and raised his palm. Eadberh leaned forward to stare at Doshir’s hand as if it were a holy relic.

“On the king’s crown,” Eadberh whispered. “Can I touch it?”

“By all means,” Doshir replied.

Eadberh poked Doshir’s hand, then flexed one of his fingers. A strange, unwelcome thread of jealousy tightened in my chest as Eadberh ran his thick, calloused fingers down Doshir’s dusky wrist.

“Wow.” Eadberh turned to me with a wide, stupid grin. “That’s amazing! Rayne, did you see that?”

I nodded weakly. Eadberh smiled at Doshir like a man who’s just seen a magician reveal his tricks. It made me want to kick him. Yeah, we’d agreed to play the role of slack-jawed tourists ogling a dragon, but he didn’t have to be that convincing. We were here to kill a damned dragon, not to fawn all over one. Or to kiss one.