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“Don’t be scared. Everything works similarly to your dragon parts. If you take a shit, just make sure to clean yourself with leaves, grass, whatever is available. If we were in my palace, there would be a privy with a porcelain toilet, soft cloths for cleansing, and perfumed soaps. Oh, and hot water. And towels.”
“Seems like an overcomplication of simple bodily functions,” he mutters.
“Of course you would think that, dragon.” I walk away from him and duck behind a large tree to do my business.
Once I’m done, I wait while he curses, mutters, and stumbles around. I’m not sure what he’s struggling with, exactly, but I let him figure it out, cupping my hand over my mouth to stifle the laughter.
At last he calls irritably, “Well? What’s taking you so long?”
I rejoin him with a prim little smile. “I feel much refreshed.”
He looks somewhat frazzled, but he seems to have avoided soiling himself or the loincloth, so that’s promising.
Despite not traveling on foot through the forest very often in my lifetime, I’ve done a good bit of riding, and I’m decent at remembering landmarks and retracing paths. Kyreagan and I travel for most of the morning, until both our stomachs begin to growl again. We still haven’t spotted anyone, human or dragon.
When we approach the area where I killed the vengeful girl, I take care to skirt around that spot and take us upstream for a drink. The day is warm, and I’ve been sweating from exertion, so when Kyreagan staggers off into the undergrowth growling something about taking a piss, I kneel on a flat stone by the stream, remove the band of pink cloth around my breasts, and bathe my heated skin. Judging by his earlier struggles, Kyreagan won’t be back for several minutes, so I take my time.
I love the way the clear water ripples over the rocks, like rounded glass. I love the dark colors of the pebbles at the bottom of the stream, and the dappled light of the sun filtering through the leaves. Everything looks fresh and new this morning, and so beautiful I could almost forget about the ugliness of war, and the fact that I’ve seen three people die in the span of a few days.
The warrior. Listor. The vengeful girl.
“May the Maker accept their spirits,” I whisper.
Near the rock I’m kneeling on, there’s a patch of earth thick with rich green moss, dotted with tiny pale flowers. I stroke the moss with my fingertip, then pluck one of the flowers. Its stem is barely thicker than an eyelash, and the miniscule bloom at the top entrances me with its delicate perfection.
Gently I lay the flower in the water, watching it whisk away between the rocks. It’s one of many flowers in that hollow, so I shouldn’t feel guilty for picking it, but I do.
Is that how Kyreagan views me? One of many humans, frail, disposable? Easily crushed, or plucked for his pleasure?
The crack of a twig shocks me out of my reverie. I reach for the bit of pink cloth I discarded, but it’s not where I left it.
It’s in Kyreagan’s hand, and he’s standing right behind me.
15
I watch the Princess take the tiny flower gently between her fingertips and admire it. Her yellow hair pours over her shoulder, and her bare back curves as she kneels on the stone. As she lifts her arm and lets the flower go, I glimpse the side of her breast, smooth and round and tempting.
Slowly I bend and collect the garment she discarded. I’m not sure why, nor do I understand the heavy heat in my body, the sweet ache in my heart, the sudden thrill in my belly when my foot cracks a twig and she whirls around.
She is breathtaking when she’s startled. Her eyes flare wide, alert and defiant. Such boldness in one with so little means of defense. I will never forget the courageous look on her face when she tried to save me from the voratrice.
I would have died if not for the enchantress’s trickery, and I couldn’t have stumbled away from the voratrice den fast enough without Serylla’s help. I owe both of them my life, in different ways. I must remember that.
Serylla covers her breasts clumsily with one arm and snatches at the pink scrap of cloth I’m holding. “Give me that.”
Without really thinking, I lift the pink garment above my head, far out of her reach.
Her eyebrows rise. “Really?”
My heart pounds hotter, and my mouth curves in a half-smile I can’t suppress.
“You take human form, and now you act like this?” She gives me a reproachful glare. “Do I have to kick you in the balls?”
I consider risking her wrath. But then she says, “Kyreagan,” desperately, and something inside me comes alive.
My name, from her mouth, in that breathless tone of both pleading and command, is everything I need.
I lower my hand, and she snatches the cloth. She turns her back to me and begins fumbling with the scrap, struggling to tie it in place—but apparently her fingers won’t cooperate. When I step in beside her, I notice that she’s trembling.
