by Kayla Wolf
It was because of last night. Stupid. Deeply stupid of him to have made the move he’d made on Angela. What had he been thinking? Of course, she’d taken him up on it—with more enthusiasm than he’d expected if he was honest, and that knowledge made his chest burn with something he’d never encountered before, never had any experience with. And Owen was very old, and very experienced, and very surprised to find that there were feelings he hadn’t yet encountered. But—it didn’t make sense. He’d had the best training in the country—probably the best in the world, if he was honest—in controlling his emotions, overcoming them, conquering them, banishing them to whatever stupid place they’d come from. So what had happened? Why had the silver eyes of some she-wolf seemed to put cracks in the central pillar of his being?
There had been half a dozen dragons there, all in their human shapes—and all at varying levels of comfort with those shapes, he’d managed to notice. They’d all talked at length about trivial stuff, and he’d sat, twiddling his thumbs, heart pounding sickly in his chest. He couldn’t help thinking about Angela. No matter how hard he tried, his mind kept going back to her. Was she awake yet? Had she realized he was gone? Did she miss him? Was she worried about what it meant? What was he going to say when he ran into her? Was he strong enough to turn her away, to freeze her out the way he froze out every other person he met?
”Owen?”
Alexander had been staring at him—he’d sat up with a guilty start, feeling foolish. The dragons were all waiting for him to introduce himself. He almost forgot his cover story—then stammered his way through a fairly shoddy rendition of it. Dead family, wandered in a grief-stricken daze through the continent for a few months, blah blah. He’d always been a good liar. Nobody in the room suspected him of bullshitting them… they might’ve thought he was a bit weird, but the dead family thing ought to explain that. He got a few nods of sympathy, especially from a blue-eyed woman sitting towards the front of the table. So it wasn’t a complete disaster, all told. But it was also some of the worst work he’d ever done, and when the meeting concluded, he made a beeline for the door. He couldn’t handle more of this—couldn’t cope with a one-on-one conversation with any more strangers. He was already putting the College’s reputation at risk just by feeling the way he was feeling.
And of course, he’d run into her on his way down the hallway. He’d done his best to make it clear that they were going to be seeing less of each other—but those eyes of hers were so hard to look into without feeling like he was going to crack. He’d wanted to be unkind. If it had been anyone else, he would have dropped a few insults, really crushed them, made them angry with him instead of just confused. But with Angela, he just couldn’t bring himself to do anything other than apologize. She’d looked at him so keenly, those silver eyes so sharp, so watchful… in the end, he’d run like a craven coward. Whatever. At least he’d gotten the message across. Coupled with a good dose of avoiding the hell out of her, she’d get the message that he didn’t want her around.
God, that hurt. Nothing could have been further from the truth. But what good would it do to tell her anything else? It would be unbelievably selfish of him to lead her on. It had already been downright unforgivable to lie with her, to make love to her last night. But something about it… something had felt so right, so completely perfect, that he hadn’t been able to stop himself. For a few hours last night, he’d been a different man. He hadn’t thought once of the College, of his duties, of his mission. He’d just been with her. And … no, he couldn’t think about it. Couldn’t give any thought to how he’d felt when he was alone with her. That way, madness lay.
He kept walking, blindly. He needed to do something… anything at all that would get his mind away from her. Before he knew it, Owen found himself outside. The late afternoon sunlight was baking the rocks, and he shut his eyes for a moment, soaking it in. It felt good to be outside, to feel the fresh air on his body. He wanted to fight someone, kill someone. Fighting always made him feel more like himself. Tarik had trained that into him. The old wolf was relentless… every morning, every night, hours of drills until his body was screaming out for rest. But the training had made him strong. Made him the dragon that he was.
He moved down the river and found a flat piece of land to train on. It had been a little while since he’d done any drills. Training the students of the College was more than enough to keep his skills sharp, and when he was on a mission, he tended to skip the training to avoid the likelihood of anyone observing his methods. Secrecy was important to the College. But there was nobody around right now… and at any rate, he could hardly bring himself to care. He ran drill after drill until he was breathing hard, his whole body soaked in sweat… but none of it helped to dull the burning feeling in his chest that had started that morning, when he’d crept out of bed like a thief in the night, leaving Angela behind.
What could he do? The night was falling, and he could make out a few stars already in the dusky sky. There was no light pollution out here, and you could see every inch of the sky. It was beautiful and strange—but the silvery light of the stars only served to remind him of Angela’s eyes. He walked straight into the river, fully clothed, not caring about his shoes or his clothing, felt the sweat and the heat chased away from his body by the icy water. But even the shock of the cold couldn’t ease the roaring in his ears, or the feeling in his chest. He’d never felt this out of control in his life. Not for years… centuries… not since he’d come to the College the first time, a heartbroken young dragon with nothing left to live for. The College had given him purpose, meaning, a future to look forward to. But now, that future felt like a fate worse than death. How could he live the rest of his life, knowing how much pain he’d brought to Angela? And that was a door that it terrified him to open… because if he thought about hurting her, he’d have to think of the thousands of people he’d hurt before her…
No. The mission. That was all he could afford to think about now. With the desperation of self-preservation, Owen turned upstream, let the river soak him until he was chilled to the bone, his whole body shuddering. And finally, that icy cold gave him a kind of desperate clarity. He had to strike now. Quickly. Before it was too late—before the feelings crept back in around the edges.
The mission was straightforward enough. He’d been paying attention—he thought he knew where the artefact was hidden. The dragons of the valley were enormous. That meant the artefact was kept centrally, in the palace. And where else would it be kept but in the depths of the library, where the family’s patriarch spent most of his time? Angela may have thought the old dragon was just being paranoid, but Owen knew why he’d been discretely shooed out of the library—it wasn’t because of the books. It was because of what was hidden there. He could feel it, like a pulse… if you knew how to tune into magic, it became remarkably easy to locate. During the time he’d spent wandering the palace with Angela—ostensibly getting to know her and learning his way around—Owen had triangulated the position of the artefact almost to the meter.
He stood in the icy water longer, waiting until the survival instinct had driven almost every thought from his head but to get out of the cold. The sky was dark by then and blanketed with stars. He stared up into it for a long moment, checking his mind for any points of weakness. All he had to do was get the two targets, deliver them to the client, then go back home. Once that was behind him, all of the terrible maelstroms of emotion he’d been experiencing would be behind him as well. It was a shame about Angela. She was clever. But the mission was the mission. Time to go.
Stephen would be asleep by now, he knew that. The old dragon tended to go to bed early—he’d noticed that habit early on. That meant nobody would be in the library. Perfect. He strode up to the palace, then down the halls, not caring that he was still dripping wet with water from the river. If anyone asked, he’d come up with something. But he didn’t run into anyone—the halls were empty as he made his way to the library. There it was—huge, forebod
ing, full of cluttered shelves. He strode past them all, tuning into the pulse of magic he could sense, deep in his bones, the way all shifters could if they were paying enough attention. The pulse led him to a shelf that looked just like the others—until he noticed a book that didn’t quite match. Owen grabbed it off the shelf and flipped it open. Sure enough, it had been hollowed out inside. There was the artefact. A simple but rather beautifully carved stone statue, about the size of his fist—a dragon, with gleaming yellow eyes. He squinted more closely at those. Topaz, or something like it… the little dragon’s eyes were yellow-gold like the royal family’s, and seemed to glow a little brighter than the dim light in the library ought to allow for.
Good. He closed his fist around it, replaced the book carefully, and headed for his room. The statue was too big to pocket, too small to carry in his talons. Besides, he knew his talons were going to be otherwise occupied. He needed his satchel. And he needed it quickly because if Stephen was the kind of dragon Owen suspected he was, he’d catch on pretty quickly that the family’s ancient talisman had been lifted.
It took all of ten seconds to put the satchel over his shoulder and to jam the little stone dragon into the deep recesses of the bag. He knew from long practice that the satchel would shift with him, the same way most of his clothes did—and that way he’d be able to safely carry it all the way back to the dragons up north. The Alpha would be thrilled to see it, he was sure.
He was still calm. Still clear-headed. Still not thinking damaging thoughts about Angela. But now was the hardest part. Now he had to find her—and get her to come with him. Just long enough to shift form, grab her in his talons. The idea of getting her to shift to her wolf shape occurred to him, and he banished it. She’d be much heavier—and stronger, for that matter—as a wolf. Too difficult to carry her all the way up north. Human shape was better. He’d just have to be careful not to scratch her with his talons… not because he was worried about hurting her, he told himself sternly, but because part of the deal had been bringing ‘the princess’ in unharmed. The College prided itself on its attention to detail, and so would he.
She was in her room, he could tell. He could almost sense her through the wall, the way he’d sensed the pulse of the artefact. No sense interrogating that, he thought, dismissing it. He needed to get her to come with him. Outside, so he could shift form. He hid the satchel under his jacket, frowning a little—would she notice that his clothes were still damp? Owen ran his hands through his hair a few times. It was thick, and already mostly dry from his dunk in the river. Hopefully, she wouldn’t notice. He’d come up with something if she did.
He took a deep breath before he knocked on her door. This was it. This was the test. If he could get through this, there might be hope for him to resume his old life.
”Come in?”
Even her voice hit him in the center of his chest. He shut his black eyes hard for a moment, then opened them, trying to find some trace of that icy calm again. Just one step at a time. Convince her outside. Shift form. Grab her. Fly north.
”Angela.”
She was sitting on her bed, her head buried in a book again. Wearing her day clothes still, he noticed—at least she’d be warm on their flight up. Damnit. That didn’t matter. Warmth didn’t matter, her comfort didn’t matter… she sure as hell wasn’t going to stay comfortable for long if the rumors he’d heard about the white dragons up north were true. Focus, Owen. She was staring at him, and he tried to look around her silver eyes, somehow. An old trick—fixing his point of focus on her forehead instead of her eyes. It helped, a little.
”Oh. It’s you.”
”I wanted to talk to you,” he said, trying not to sound too robotic, but frightened of investing too much emotion into his voice in case it spread from his voice to his chest and tore him apart again. Just get her outside, Owen.
”So talk.” She was angry with him, he could tell. Good. She should be angry with him. It would make what was about to happen a lot easier if she was already angry with him. Make the betrayal feel a little less awful.
”Can we go somewhere?”
”I don’t really want to.”
Shit. She was even angrier than he’d thought. He took a deep breath, trying to think of what to do. There was nothing for it. He’d have to be sincere.
“Please?”
Her eyes flickered. “Are you going to apologize?”
”Yes. I just—want to be outside. Please?” he repeated. Some element of his desperation must have come across in his eyes because he could see her wavering. He almost prayed for her to give in. If he had to ask her again, he wasn’t sure what was going to happen. It felt like his ribs were going to cave in. And his breath rushed out of him in a sigh of relief as Angela slammed her book shut and got to her feet. Her sharp eyes were focused hard on his face. If he hadn’t known any better, he’d have thought she knew he was up to something. There was something suspicious in her bearing, that was for sure… there had been almost since the beginning. She was smart. Too smart. Perceptive. She knew something wasn’t altogether right with him… but she still trusted him. She must really like him.
It felt like a red-hot poker embedded deep in his stomach, just knowing that.
They walked down the hallway in silence, Angela moving with an odd rigidity to her movements. He hoped they wouldn’t run into anyone on the way, fervently. He was hanging onto his self-control with the edges of his fingernails at this point… if anyone stepped out to confront them, he was going to explode, or collapse, or just evaporate. But they made it through the door at the end of the hallway, the one that stepped out into the valley where he’d first met Angela. Where he’d caught her hand to stop her falling into the river. Where her grateful silver eyes had begun their assault on his senses.
“Good evening.”
Owen nearly jumped out of his skin. For such a tall guy, Art moved like a phantom. He’d hardly seen him before he was almost on top of them, looming out of the evening like a ghost. The bear looked at him steadily, that peculiar sense of control and calm beaming out of him like a spotlight. Art made him nervous. There was something about him that felt impossible to fool.
”How are you, Art?” Angela said, her voice a little strained. Art considered the question. Holding court, it felt like. Something about the bear just made you wait on what he had to say… and besides, Owen could hardly hurry Angela away in the middle of a polite conversation without raising suspicion, could he?
”I’m well,” Art said finally. “And you, Owen? How are you faring?” Something very unsettling about those eyes. They seemed to go right through him.
”Well enough,” he said, remembering belatedly that he was still meant to be playing a character who’d lost his whole family in a tragic attack. That was probably why Art was staring at him like this, he assured himself, trying to pull some confidence from somewhere. He was reliving his own tragedy. A pang of something at that, deep down—and Owen recoiled from himself in disgust. Guilt? Seriously, guilt? About a lie, the absolute least of his sins? It barely even ranked compared to half the stuff he’d done for the College… careful, careful.
”Take it easy,” Art said, and it could have been his own panicking internal monologue. Owen nodded gruffly, hardly daring to make eye contact with the bear—he could sense Angela staring up at him, too, clearly confused, clearly still angry, clearly expecting some answers. Well, she was about to get them. Careful what you wish for, he tried to think—tried to affect callousness—and shook as a wave of regret hit him like a wave. This was getting serious now. He was going to break down completely if he didn’t get this work done. He had the artefact. He had the princess. Now he had to leave.
”Well, goodnight,” Angela said to Art, a forced kind of politeness in her voice, and he could have wept with relief. Angela didn’t sense what was going on—couldn’t tell that Art was scoping him out, couldn’t tell that he was about to collapse. Or maybe she could, but she thought they needed to be alone befo
re he’d explain. At any rate, her rigid little courtesy did the trick. Art nodded then moved inside, those long strides eating up the distance. Owen didn’t watch him go to see if he looked over his shoulder—he didn’t trust himself to spend one more second talking to anyone at all.
He and Angela moved down into the valley a few hundred yards. He could feel his heart pounding, and he couldn’t stop grinding his teeth. It was like being in the midst of a chemical overdose. Just a few more hours, he told himself. The worst would be over in a few more hours. If he got through years of grueling, torturous training at the College, he could get through betraying and kidnapping this sweet young woman who’d given him nothing but kindness.
”Owen?”
He opened his mouth to reply, but no words came to mind. What could he do? What could he say? And as he closed his mouth, almost without his say-so, he felt his body begin to shift. The dragon form would help, he thought dizzily as his body warped and shifted under the old magic. The dragon form didn’t overthink. The dragon form wouldn’t have to look Angela in the eye. She was yelling up at him, clearly questioning him, confused by why he was changing form. There was fear in her voice, too. His draconic shape tended to invoke that response in most who saw it, especially for the first time. He’d never met a dragon bigger than him—even the magic-aided group in the valley were no match for his wingspan, his sheer power. If they were yachts, he was a battleship. Sleek, gunmetal gray, savage teeth, unforgiving claws.
Owen shifted back on his haunches, freeing his forelegs. Then, with an apology that nobody outside of the inside of his head would ever hear, he seized Angela’s fragile human body, and with a few heavy downstrokes of his colossal wings, he was up, powering into the sky, and away.