A weight lands on my chest. I jolt awake and reach for my dagger, but something wet drags up my face. My eyes ping open to see a horned dragon skull—the wet something dangling from his panting mouth and dripping saliva.
“Baby Hunt?” I squeak, blinking through the haze of sleep. Pre-dawn light sneaks through the gaps in the curtains.
He wiggles on my chest, squashing my lungs. Oof. Another lick and then his tongue lolls. His tail thumps on my stomach.
“Your breath smells like sour meat.” I avert my face. Gross.
The wildling takes that as a sign to lick my other cheek like it’s the tastiest meal. I pick him up. At least, I think he’s a he. I check beneath his belly. Oh, yes. No mistaking that dangling appendage.
Moving him to the floor, I toss the covers and rub my eyes. The tiny terror starts running laps of my small room, tearing up the rug with his vicious claws. I grin at his excited black eyes. It’s so strange how the skull sockets don’t move, but I can still sense the change in his mood beyond the body language changes.
“You’re happy I’m awake?” I chuckle. But then I notice the destruction he made while I slept. “Oh no! You naughty little dragon. What have you done?”
He stops running and cants his head as if it’s unconscionable I’m upset with him. But all my dried meat rations have been hunted from my bag and eaten. The portrait sketches are ripped and half-eaten. A trail of soggy paper leads to a wet patch that smells like puke. Coal and debris from the fireplace are all over the carpet. It’s so Well-damn cold!
Shivering, I pluck my uniform shirt from the ground and notice it’s covered in sooty paw prints. I think he tried to lick the white goop stain. Crimson save me, he got into everything. A quick check reveals the portal stone is still here. Another rifle through my clothes gives me the worst news of all.
“You ate my panties!”
I pick them up and hold them to the window. A giant hole exists where the crotch used to be.
“No.” I waggle my finger at Baby Hunt. “Do you hear me? Do not touch my things again.”
He lowers in submission and crawls toward me. His black eyes become glossy. A high-pitched whimper shoots from his throat.
“Stop being so dramatic.” I scowl, tugging the dirty shirt over my head. “You ate my salted meat. It’s my favorite snack. My yum-yums! And I’m not happy.”
He hiccups, and a black cloud puffs from his fanged mouth.
“Great. You burp shadows.” I shake my head and tap my nose. “I can smell the meat on your breath, Baby Hunt, so I know you did it. If I catch you in my things again, there will be consequences.”
My disapproving tone keeps him crawling toward me until he bumps his horns beneath my hand. My heart softens. He’s covered in soot.
“Look at you.” I clean smudges from his skull with my shirt, then can’t resist those pleading puppy eyes. I deposit him on my lap. His body is so warm and vital. It feels good to touch, to cuddle.
“I can’t stay angry at you.”
He snuffles into me and licks my hand. When I stop scratching the soft part where his skull meets his neck, he impatiently nudges me until I start again. A vibrating purr in his throat reminds me of swarming bees. The Sluagh’s wings made this sound on the battlefield.
I freeze, my fingers on Baby Hunt’s body.
What am I doing?
Before I can put him down, his head pricks up as though he hears something. He rockets from my lap and scampers up the chimney, releasing a tumble of soot. Sighing, I clean what I can, then decide heading to the bathroom at this early hour would be best. I don’t fancy bumping into anyone. But when I open the door, another bedroom greets me.
What the fuck?
I close the door and check there’s no other door. Nope. Just this one. I reopen it.
The bedroom is large, decadent in black, and very messy. A ruffled bed covered with pillows and dark satin sheets is pushed against a wall with a dream web tapestry. I’ve never seen one like this. Black, pearlescent strands lace with intricate delicacy. Sporadic gemstones are darker than usual but glimmer like a starry night, casting reflections around the room. My fingers twitch with the urge to pluck one and add it to my collection, but I force myself to continue assessing the room for danger first. An ornate settee by the arched window is strewn with clothes. Maybe I’m dreaming. That would make better sense. I pinch myself and yelp.
This is real.
The room smells masculine, sweet, mossy, and woodsy . . . like Fox.
As soon as I recognize the scent, I notice more signs this is his room. The clothes he wore yesterday are part of the collection on the settee. His shoes are on the floor.
I step inside and crane my neck to look for an exit door, but I only find an archway leading to a bathing suite. I take another step for a better view, but rustling in the sheets halts me. My gaze whips to the bed.
Fox.
Fox asleep, half-naked, and artfully tangled in sheets.
Beauty is too fragile a word to describe him. His hand rests behind his head, his face in profile as he breathes evenly, oblivious to my presence. The pose draws attention to the swell of his biceps and defined abdomen. He is the picture of masculinity, yet the blush of sleep gives him the innocence of youth. His lips are pursed enough to appear unhappy with his dream . . . and reveal dimples.
Something hot clenches low in me, spreading warmth through my body. Shit. I am not supposed to be perving on my enemy. And I’m certainly not supposed to be imagining running my tongue down the dips between stacked muscles. He is completely hairless except for the ruffled short black locks on top . . . and the dusting of darkness trailing down to his—
Dagger. Get the dagger and stab him in the heart.
As quiet as a mouse, I tiptoe back into my room and close the door. Then I sit on the edge of my bed and stare, my heart racing, my cheeks flaming. My fingers press against the angles and ridges of my jaw. I trace the ropy, knotty scars on the left and test the sore little wounds.
Kill him.
That’s what I need to do. That’s what I’m here for. But something about seeing him vulnerable has thrown me. He looked so innocent and not at all like an ancient being born of chaos . . . which is exactly why he’s been crafted that way. He is the furthest thing from vulnerable, and he still ruined my life. He doesn’t deserve my empathy.
When I pick up the dagger, the sharp blade scrapes the wood. It reminds me of my claws—how I scratched them on surfaces with satisfying purpose. I’ll never do that again because of Fox and his five Sluagh brothers.
Rising to my feet, I steel my spine. I have no idea how our rooms moved during the night, but I won’t look a gift faerie in the mouth. Attacking him while he’s out will give me the best chance of succeeding. When the others discover his corpse, I’ll lie.
When I push the door, it swings inward faster than I intended. I collide with Fox—my soot-stained shirt against his torso—hot, hard, naked male torso.
