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I bare my teeth at him, though the bastard doesn’t even flinch. “Get on.”
I can’t believe I’m asking him to mount me. Heat rushes into my face at the picture in my head. I have a filthy imagination, which is necessary when you’re a virgin and alone far too much of the time.
While I’m a dragon, I’m bigger than him, of course. He stands no taller than my shoulder blades. I lie down to give him a fair chance. He braces himself with his hand on my neck, then jumps and hooks his leg over my back.
“Hold on,” I say.
When I stand, his thighs tense. “To what?”
“The spikes along my spine.”
He leans over my neck before his hands curl around my spikes. With a powerful stroke of my wings, I lunge into the air. He clings to my back as if he’s always ridden dragons. His touch feels possessive in a way that thrills me.
Mine.
Would it be wrong to hope for more?
CHAPTERELEVEN
We return to the ravine where the knights attacked us.
I land and bare my teeth at the stink of death. The rain hasn’t washed away all the blood yet. Rook slides from my back. He’s soaked with rain, his silver hair clinging to him. If he’s cold, the demon isn’t complaining.
His longsword lies in the mud. I nudge it with my claws. “Rook.”
“Thanks.” He returns the sword to its scabbard on his back. “See my dagger?”
He’s missing one of the twin blades, but I shake my head. “Not yet.”
The aellurium collar glints at my feet. I refuse to touch it, even though I’m sure it’s valuable. Some things aren’t worth looting.
From the forest, a horse whinnies.
“Bolt,” Rook mutters.
He lets out a piercing whistle. His black mare trots through the trees. He rests his forehead against hers and lets her breathe in his scent. Clearly, she’s been waiting for him. He must have earned her loyalty.
“I’m impressed,” I say, and I mean it.
Rook shrugs.
He trudges into the ravine, his boots sliding on the steep mud. I follow him down. Deeper in the ravine, his dagger glints among the fallen leaves.
“Pyrah.” He frowns at me. “How many knights did you kill?”
“The rest of them.”
“How many?” he repeats, more insistently.
“Three. One burned to ashes. Two flung into the ravine like trash.”
He crouches by a corpse. The dead knight lies with his arm and neck bent at a strange angle. “Where’s the other one?”
“Wolves ate him?”
“Doubtful.”
We hunt for the missing knight but turn up nothing. Worse, Rook finds bloody footprints that vanish at the edge of a stream.
