Chapter 7

Alistair could have done anything, taken anything from Lenora, and she would have been powerless to stop him.

Yet he waited. He constantly asked, and despite his demanding nature, he listened. She would deter him from his vendetta against her stepmother, but at the moment, such thoughts were far, far away.

His touch was perfection.

She had thought the hot bath was good. His hands were otherworldly. They were warm, a shade shy of too hot, and just the contact was soothing.

But the movement?

It sent static all over her, putting every part of her on edge.

She leaned back against his chest as he moved his hands over her body. She could feel him peering down at her, feel his hungry eyes on her. Lenora had never given much thought to her appearance; boys in the village had flirted but none had been besotted, and she seldom saw a reflective surface long enough to form an opinion.

But his gaze made her feel powerful.

For he was obsessed with her.

He's a dragon,she tried to chide herself. He thinks you belong to him, and he likes to collect things no matter whom it harms.

But it was impossible to remember that logic when he touched her like that.

His hands moved around the swells of her breasts, kneading the flesh. He'd startled her when he'd grabbed her before, but now? His touch was gentle yet demanding. Demanding she yield.

She was caged between his chest and hands, yet she'd never felt safer.

His grip shifted. He took one peak between two fingers and rolled it.

She moaned. If she could have moved her arms, she'd have covered her mouth for shame, but it wasn't possible.

At the sound, she felt a sudden jerk behind her. Her flush grew when she realized what it was. Alistair's length pressed against her, and though it should terrify her, she found herself intrigued.

But I'll never know.That would be too far for her.

He continued to massage her breasts, spicing the sensation when he twisted and tugged on her nipples. Her breath came faster until she was gasping at every touch. Alistair was unhurried in his movements, yet he was also unrelenting, not giving her a moment to compose herself.

She wriggled in his grasp, unsure what she was reaching for, but the sensation sent his length directly between her. In combination with his insistent touches, the pleasure grew and grew. Lenora had never felt such a thing before, felt as though she were drawing closer to some edge she couldn't yet see over.

He adjusted her in his arms, one fluid movement moving her so she directly faced the beast while perched upon his knee that settled between her thighs. Only he wasn't a beast in her eyes, not at this moment. He wore the shape of a man, and he wore it expertly. As expertly as he used his hands to continue to touch, to stroke the pleasure that built inside her core.

And then he leaned in as if to kiss her.

For a moment—the briefest second—she leaned in, under his spell.

Then she jerked back.

"No."

Alistair paused, fingers frozen in place. "No?"

She shook her head. No. She couldn't do this. Couldn't kiss the dragon and then stab him in his slumber.

She braced for anger—even the boys in the village got nasty when they felt they'd been denied after some flirting, and surely a dragon had a worse temper than that—but he simply nodded and eased away from her.

"I'll fetch you something to change into."

She wanted to open her mouth to apologize, to comfort him for some inexplicable reason. To explain, even if such an explanation damned her.

But he was gone too quickly. In the span of a few seconds, he swam across the pool and exited. To punish herself, she didn't let her gaze follow his magnificent form and instead finished washing before returning to the edge of the pool. Frustration replaced the pleasure he'd built, souring in her stomach as she crossed her arms over her tender chest.

Alistair reappeared with a pile of clothes, gold thread glinting off the dim light. He'd also put on a pair of trousers, a fine cut that clung low on his hips, the drawstring untied.

"Come, pretty one. It's time to slumber."

Deeper and deeper they went into the caves. Morthil met them part way through, and in her exhausted state, she found the abominable creature to be a comfort.

Nora thought she had seen the sum of his hoard above, where golden furniture lined the walls and piles of books, clothing, and all manner of wealth littered the room. It was more than she had ever thought a person could own.

But then as they continued deeper, they reached Alistair's true hoard.

It was more than she had ever imagined a dragon could own.

Piles and piles of gold filled the large cavern. Chunks and coins and bars made mountains that glittered in firelight, which accented the gemstones contained within the piles, like garlands around the yuletide thistles.

She froze at the entryway, awestruck. For it was not just blatant wealth, but also artistry. Paintings of every type—some masterful in depictions, some crude—sculptures, instruments, more and more books, furniture.

Alistair did not interrupt her lollygagging. When she finally turned her attention back to him, he grinned, a self-satisfied smirk on his lips.

He liked to see her impressed, she had come to realize. Perhaps it was a lonely thing, to own so much and have no one to share it with.

Of course, he wasn't truly sharing it. He considered her as much of a possession as the emerald in a nearby pile.

It was hard to know if she should be flattered or offended anymore. If she was safe and desired, or at his peril.

Both, in all likelihood.

"I will sleep here," she declared, moving towards a magnificent four-poster bed. The wood was expertly carved; a far cry from the little spot by her stepmother's hearth she had claimed for herself, where the dirt had been softened and she used the dishrags as a pillow.

Alistair voiced no disapproval, so she moved forward. She was tired, but she had work to do this evening, after her captor slumbered.

Unable to stop herself, she glanced back at him, guilt pricking her stomach.

And this was how she learned that it was a silent thing for him to turn back into a humongous dragon.

Before she could protest, he lifted her in one massive claw, flapped over the ground, and settled onto the largest pile of gold at the very center of the room. It had been so large that Nora had not been able to even see the top.

He curved his body around the golden mountain, settling his wings.

And as if she were another emerald, he placed her at the top.

"Alistair, you can't mean for me to sleep here."

He did not look at her, simply closed his eyes. But surely he heard her.

"It may be comfortable for you, a great scaly beast, to sleep atop this mountain, but I'm more likely to slide off it and break my back," she complained. Plus, it would make it harder to look for discarded scales.

A single gray eye opened, considering. Then, he extended a claw and let her down. This time he didn't clutch her so much as let her hang on as he gently lowered her.

Now to find her bed again. She bit down on a laugh. How easy to think of this impossible wealth as hers. How foolish.

Yet Alistair did not settle back to sleep. He rose off the pile and flew to different corners of the cavern, lifting items and flying back to the apex of the golden mountain while Nora searched for the bed.

No sooner had she found it than those massive claws came back to grab her.

And this time she was not set atop the tallest mountain of gold ever conceived.

No, she was placed with a soft thump on a pile of fur-lined coats and tapestries and silk shirts and embroidered dresses and down blankets which was atop the tallest mountain of gold she'd ever seen.

It was soft, softer than even her stepmother's bed had been the few times she'd risked a nap somewhere other than her spot by the hearth. She rolled back before she could stop herself, spreading out in glee.

It was so comfortable! Like a cloud or dandelion fluff.

Even with the giant, self-satisfied gray eye glaring down at her, she felt as though she might fall asleep for a hundred years.

His draconic body curved around her, even closer than before, the heat from his scales erasing the chill that seeped into her bones.

"Does you have to sleep like that?" she muttered, mostly because she wanted to find something to hate about a beast who bathed her in fine perfumes, dressed her in finer clothes, and made a bed for her worth more than she could earn in a hundred lifetimes.

"I could wrap myself around you in my human shape if you prefer."

Her jaw flew open. "You can talk as a dragon?"

"I am always a dragon. But yes, I can speak when I take this shape."

"But… but I've never heard of that."

He huffed, a billow of smoke flaring up from his nostrils. "Humans are seldom worthy conversation companions."

Now it was her turn to huff. "I suppose I should be flattered then."

"You should be," he agreed easily. "You're special, Lenora Tashe."

It was an effort not to scoff. She was nothing special. She was worth so little her stepmother had jumped at the chance to sacrifice her.

Her morose thoughts were interrupted by soft flapping as Morthil crested over the mountain and settled into the pile next to her.

She wanted to protest, to complain. But when it curled into a ball, a mere arm"s breadth away, looking at her with pleading eyes before tucking himself away, she found herself reaching to stroke him. Not just for his comfort, but for hers.

By the time the snoring started from the dragon, she very nearly ceded herself to sleep.

Blight, it had been an exhausting day. Filled with horrors, and somehow also unexpected delights, which were their own manner of terror. All at once, it took its toll and Nora wanted nothing more than to rest.

But no. She had to do this. Had to fulfill the prophecy Crazy Bess had told her and slay the dragon, earning her place as a respected, valued member of Mossley—or die trying.

Likely die trying.

But one thing was to be certain, it had to be tonight. If she didn't do so soon, if she let him continue to treat her like a cherished pet, she might find it impossible. She couldn't allow her resolve to weaken with time.

She had to find a scale.

All evening she had scoured the cave, searching for any sign. But perhaps dragons did not shed scales as easily as she shed her hair.

It was hard to see in the dim light. The obsidian scales curved around her, nearly absorbing the light as they shone slightly.

And yet… there was one that was not as even with the others. One that poked out. She moved slowly, so as to not disturb Morthil, and took a closer look.

A smaller scale grew, edging out the other, larger one.

She steadied her breath, barely able to hear over the roaring of her heart.

Alistair still slept; his snores were loud and impossible to miss.

Slowly, barely moving, she extended her arms and gripped either side of the scale. The edge was sharp like a blade. She moved it back and forth.

And then, at last, it was loose.

She froze in place, listening.

Still, the dragon slumbered.

The scale itself was the size of her two hands together across and slightly longer at the top. She clutched it to her chest.

She could hardly use it as it was. She would need to fashion a spear; she had seen holy carved lances in the hoard.

Getting down was not so simple. Doing it silently, even less so. But somehow she managed and crept through the cavern. She found the wooden base for her spear and fashioned the scale to it, cutting fabric from the strip of her gown in order to do so.

Guilt crawled over her skin. It felt wrong to do this after the bath they'd shared.

But she had no choice. She had to kill the dragon that had tormented Wyrdova for decades. For her village.

For her to finally belong.

It would have been better if her fingers shook around the makeshift spear. If her body betrayed the indecision that tumbled back and forth in her head. But her body was strong from years of laboring for her stepmother, and her grip did not err.

She crept back to the golden mountain. The dragon was so large its chest rested only a bit off the ground even as its back reached the very top.

She maneuvered until she was above where she expected the dragon's heart to be. All the while, he slumbered, unaware that she was about to end his eternal life.

Before she could give herself more time to hesitate, she thrust the spear directly into his chest.