Page 48 of The Dragon’s Good Girl

I reach for the door, but Gael speaks again before I can open it.

"And Soren?"

I glance back.

"If you hurt her, I'll end you."

Despite everything, my mouth twitches. "Professionally?"

Gael gives me a long, level look.

"No."

I believe her.

By the time I reach my rooms, the house has gone quiet.

Margot's hair tie is still beside the lamp. The robe I took from the laundry last week remains folded nearby, and tonight, for the first time, neither of them feels like the strangest thing in the room.

The nest does.

I stand at the edge of it, looking at the space I made for her weeks ago without admitting what I was doing. The blankets are still arranged the way I thought she'd like them.

For centuries, this room has been the one place that belonged entirely to me.

Now I keep imagining her in it.

Not for a session.

Not because she booked an hour or because I'm responsible for giving her something she needs.

Just Margot, curled beneath my blankets with one of her ridiculous full-price hardbacks, complaining that I keep the room too warm while making absolutely no effort to leave.

The image settles into place far too easily.

I lie down, but my dragon remains restless beneath my skin, still turned toward the gates as though she might come back through them if we wait long enough.

For the first time in six hundred years, I look around my hoard and understand exactly what's missing.

Her.

Chapter Nine

Margot

My next session with Soren is supposed to be Saturday.

By Tuesday afternoon, I've decided Saturday is too far away.

I spend an embarrassing amount of time with the booking page open behind my email, checking his availability between actual work as though the times might have changed since the last time I looked. There's an opening on Thursday evening.

There is absolutely no reason I need another session before Saturday. I'm sleeping properly, eating actual meals, and getting better at saying no without spending the next six hours convinced I've committed some terrible social crime. The Saturday appointment is already booked. I could simply wait another few days like a normal person.

The problem is that I miss him.

Not what he does to me, although I'm certainly not going to pretend that part isn't a factor. I miss Soren. I miss the way he listens when I talk, the rare laugh I can sometimes drag out of him, and the ridiculous little look he gets when his dragon does something he clearly wishes it hadn't. I miss sitting against his chest and feeling him purr beneath my cheek. I miss hearing him call me Angel.

And, because I'm determined to make this as complicated as possible, I haven't stopped thinking about him saying mine.