Page 41 of Waking Her Dragon

Garrett’s breath hitched, his hand gripping the wooden windowsill until the timber creaked. He didn't just remember his life before the prison. He remembered the prison itself. More specifically, he remembered how he had survived it.

He remembered waiting.

During those endless, agonizing years when Leviathan tore at his flesh, when the silver poisoning turned his blood to liquid fire, and Aodhan was forced to retreat into a dark vault, Garrett hadn't just been a passive victim. He had made a deliberate, conscious choice every single second to endure the torment. He had held onto his sanity with bleeding fingernails because somewhere deep within the core of his soul, past the torture and the darkness, he had known she was coming for him.

He didn't know how he could have possibly known. Before The Abyss, they had barely begun to understand what the Universe had done by joining their souls. She was untamed Magic, and he was a disciplined soldier. They had been running out of time before they even had a chance to start.

Yet, in the deepest, most horrific throat of the Underworld, his soul had remained entirely certain of her. He had known she would cross Realms. He had known she would defy Demon Lords. He had known she would put her body between him and the Darkness.

That realization almost destroyed him.

It didn't come with a dramatic shout or a burst of destructive Dragonfire. It was a quiet, devastating collapse inside his chest. A single, hot tear slid down his cheek, reflecting the bright Texas sun.

He bent forward, bracing both hands against the windowsill as his composure quietly unraveled. No battlefield. No enemy. No chains. Just the unbearable realization that someone had loved him enough to walk into Hell.

The rich, dark aroma of roasted beans served as his North Star, guiding his unsteady legs down the winding stone staircase of the huge house.

Sydney stood at the kitchen island, her back to him as she poured hot water into a French press. She was finally out of her dust-caked jeans, wearing an oversized gray sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Her blond curls were tied back in a loose ponytail, a few stray tendrils catching the warm morning light.

Garrett’s bare feet made no sound on the tile, but she must have felt the sudden shift in the air, because she turned.

Her blue eyes widened, her entire body freezing as her gaze swept over his upright frame. Neither of them spoke immediately. The silence stretched between them, thick with everything they had survived, until Sydney finally managed to break the spell.

She crossed her arms. Her brow furrowed in a mock-stern line. “You’re supposed to be in bed, Dragon Man.”

Garrett leaned his shoulder heavily against the doorframe to steady his balance, his lips twitching. “I smelled coffee.”

Sydney looked at him for a beat, a soft, genuine smile melting the tension from her shoulders. “Good. Your priorities are still entirely intact.”

She gestured toward one of the heavy oak chairs at the dining table, and Garrett didn't argue. He navigated the short distance and sank into the seat, his muscles letting out a quiet sigh of relief.

Sydney moved efficiently, pouring a dark, steaming stream into a ceramic mug and sliding it across the table into his palms. Garrett wrapped his calloused hands around the warm clay, lifting it to his face to breathe in the steam. He took one slow, deliberate sip, closed his eyes, and sighed, “...Yeah.”

The liquid heat spread comfort straight down into his chest. After a long pause, he looked back up at her. “I definitely remember coffee.”

It was so normal. No jagged portals were tearing the sky, no roaring primordial waters, and no Demon Lords demanding blood. It was just two people, a quiet kitchen, and a fresh pot of coffee in the Texas sun.

Garrett stared down into the dark, swirling depths of his ceramic mug. The sudden silence in the kitchen turned heavy, thick with the unsaid truths he had been carrying since the moment he woke.

Sydney didn't push him, even though he could feel that she wanted to. No, she leaned against the counter opposite him, her hands wrapped around her own cup, waiting patiently for him to find the words.

Listening to her thoughts as they flowed through the Mating Bond, he suddenly understood that she had learned the cadence of his mind. She knew he was a soldier who processed things methodically, and that he would build an internal defense before stepping into the open.

Finally, Garrett set his mug down with a soft, hollow click against the oak table. He didn't look up immediately.

"I don't remember everything, Sydney," he admitted, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly rasp that betrayed the sudden tension in his broad shoulders. He forced his eyes to lift, locking his lavender gaze onto hers. "The snapshots are coming back. I remember training with Carrick. I remember Grey's laugh. I remember the smell of the orchard." He swallowed hard, his jaw tightening. "But there are massive, gaping black holes in my head where my life used to be. Entire years are just... gone. Wiped clean by whatever Leviathan did to my mind while Aodhan was locked away."

She listened quietly as he spoke, her expression softening. She didn't flinch, and she didn't offer a hollow, easy platitude. She just nodded slowly, letting him speak his fear into the sun-drenched room.

Garrett leaned forward, his large hands gripping the edges of the table until his knuckles turned white. The next question scraped out of his throat, carrying the raw, terrifying vulnerability of a man who had always been the protector, now completely exposed. "What if all I can ever offer you is what's left? What if the pieces Leviathan broke are permanently gone? What if the man you knew before the Abyss– the one who belonged to Dragon Guard, the one who was supposed to be your perfect counterweight– is dead in that cavern?"

The silence that followed was all-encompassing. The gentle Texas breeze continued to rustle the kitchen curtains, but inside the room, time seemed to stand entirely still.

Sydney didn't answer from across the kitchen. Instead, she set her mug down on the counter and walked over to his side of the table. Every movement was deliberate, smooth, and entirely unhurried. She stepped into his immediate space, ignoring the way his large frame subtly tensed with protective instinct, and reached down.

She took both of his large, calloused, bandage-wrapped hands into her own.

Her touch was warm, solid, and entirely real. She squeezed his fingers, forcing him to release his white-knuckle grip on the wood, and anchored him to her. Then, she leaned down slightly, tilting her head until her striking blue eyes looked directly, unflinchingly into his clouded lavender ones.