Page 44 of The Dragon’s Good Girl

Neither of us mentions the word I let slip.

Mine.

I should correct it. There are a dozen ways I could soften what happened, turn it back into something that belongs safely inside a session.

But I don't, because I meant it.

When Margot starts to shiver, I run her a bath and carry her into it. By the time she comes back out, the robe has been warming on the rail and dinner is waiting at the table.

She notices the place settings immediately.

Her gaze moves from the plates to the cloth napkins, then to me. "This looks suspiciously like dinner."

"That's because it is dinner."

She's warm and loose-limbed after the bath, her damp hair falling around the shoulders of the robe while she eats. She tells me about her week without needing much prompting, and I find myself listening to details I have no professional reason to care about and every personal reason to remember.

"I bought a book," she tells me.

"A book?"

"A completely unnecessary, full-price hardback."

The pride in her voice makes me smile. "Reckless."

"I know. It gets worse. I ran myself a bath and read it there."

"Without being told?"

"Yep."

"Angel, you're out of control."

She laughs and reaches for her water. "I thought you'd be proud of me."

"I am."

The teasing leaves her face.

I watch the words land, the little softness that comes over her whenever she believes me, and something in my chest pulls tight.

"My clan would have hated you," I say.

Margot pauses with her glass halfway to her mouth, then looks pointedly at the plate in front of her. "Jeez, buy me dinner before you insult me."

A laugh catches me before I can stop it. "I did buy you dinner."

"You cooked me dinner. Which somehow makes the insult worse."

"I wasn't insulting you."

"That's reassuring, because I was starting to think the peonies were an elaborate setup."

I shake my head, still smiling. "They would have hated you because you're everything they believed a dragon shouldn't want."

The humor fades from her expression, replaced by curiosity. "What does that mean?"

I consider avoiding the question. Instead, I lean back in my chair.