Page 8 of Knotted by the Mountain Man Dragon

“Just until your car’s fixed.”

I have absolutely no intention of her car being fixed quickly, and my dragon agrees.

I pull my truck around. It’s a twenty-year-old Ford I’ve kept running myself, mud on the wheel wells, tool box bolted in the bed. I grab her suitcase and laptop bag from the trunk of her car. When she climbs in, her scent fills the space and tangles with mine and I have to grip the steering wheel hard enough to creak the leather.

She’s quiet for the first few minutes. Looking out the window at the rain and the trees and the mountain road climbing away from town. The wipers beat a steady rhythm. Fog curls between the firs.

I keep my eyes on the road and try not to think about how she tastes.

I fail.

“You’re a dragon,” she says. Not a question.

“Yes.”

“Fire dragon?”

“How’d you know?”

“Your skin is…” She gestures vaguely. “Really hot. And your eyes do the thing.”

“The thing?”

“The gold thing. When you… when we—” She clears her throat. “The gold thing.”

I almost smile. Almost. “Fire dragon,” I confirm. “Been in these mountains a long time.”

“How long?”

“Long enough to know every trail, every creek, and every rock slide.” I glance at her. “Long enough to know that what happened in that garage is not something I’ve ever experienced before. Not in over ninety years.”

She stares at me. “You’re ninety?”

“Ninety-three. Dragon lifespan.”

“You don’t look—”

“I know.”

Silence. Then: “Ninety-three years and you’ve never...”

“Responded to someone like that? No.” I look at her again. Those brown eyes. That flush still lingering on her cheeks. “Never. Not once.”

Her scent shifts. Deepens. Goes warm and liquid, and I know that scent now, I learned it twenty minutes ago practically on my knees in my own garage.

My hands tighten on the wheel.

“You smell different when you want me,” I tell her, because she should know. Because keeping it from her would be dishonest, and I refuse to start this with anything less than the truth.

“I—what?”

“Your scent changes. Gets warmer. Sweeter.” I keep my eyes on the road. “I can tell.”

“That is extremely unfair.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t seem sorry about it.”