Her Dragon Captor (Her Dragon King Duet 1)

Reverence…. that’s what he’s been calling me ever since he came through my bedroom door after Uncle Clyde left in one piece.

And reverent is the only word I can think of to describe the look in his golden eyes as he moves the sponge over my arm. The emotions riding over our mate bond…I can’t help but feel valued and so, so cared for as he washes first my left, then my right arm. Like I’m the most precious thing on earth.

But that doesn’t mean I’m going to let him keep going. “I’ll take care of the rest,” I say after he dips and re-soaps the sponge. “I don’t need you cleaning my breasts.”

He bows his head, his eyes lowering in what looks a lot like deference.

Deference from Damianos Drákon. All the exploding head emojis.

“Of course, Reverence,” he says inside my head. “I would not want to make you more uncomfortable, knowing how much you’ve already suffered my presence.”

His acquiescence sounds so sincere, I feel like I’m being churlish when I take the sponge from him and start cleaning myself underneath the bubble layer, much more efficiently than he did.

But instead of leaving, he just sits back on his heels, his eyes devouring me as I work.

“Could you stop that?”

“Stop what, Reverence?”

“Looking at me, like I’m giving you a show.”

He immediately lowers both his head and his eyes again. “Forgive me, Reverence. It is hard not to bask in the glow of your beauty. I meant no offense.”

I stare at him, not even a little sure how to respond to that.

“May I wash and tend to your hair?” he asks into my gaping silence. “That way, I will not be tempted to stare upon your magnificent flame.”

I close my mouth…swallow…then find myself saying, “Okay.”

I mean, it’s better than having him stare at me like he was before. Burning up my body with his eyes and giving me the ideas that are the opposite of never having sex with him again.

Big, gigantic mistake. I’d never had my hair washed in the bath by someone who wasn’t my stressed-out mom. And I find out the hard way that having a man do it, is much, much different.

The dragon king’s fingers on my scalp as he shampoos my hair feel better than any electronic head massager I’ve ever tried. And when he uses those large hands of his to pour water over my head and rinse the shampoo out? Let’s just say I didn’t know that hairgasms were a thing before that.

My whole body feels limp as a noodle by the time he conditions my hair. And to my surprise, he was serious about tending to my hair, too. He leaves the conditioner on and starts finger-detangling my curls slow and easy, no rush. Definitely not like Mom at all. There are no painful tugs at my scalp, no ripping of ends, or constant questions about what I was doing outside to make my hair get this bad. Just quiet work until my curls are knot-free and it’s time to rinse out the conditioner.

But wait, he’s still not done. The next thing I feel is the pointy end of a wide-tooth comb to my scalp.

I frown when I realize he’s making a part. Then I just about faint when he ties off the rest of my hair and starts braiding the parted-off section in a neat and efficient cornrow.

What. The. Fenrir. Wolf.

“Are you…? Are you braiding my hair?” I ask him.

“Yes, Reverence.”

I sit in shocked silence for the next fifteen minutes as he throws my wet curls into five braids like it’s no big deal.

And from what I can feel with the tips of my fingers after he’s done, they’re neat and straight. “Like, I don’t know how to cornrow, how do you know how to cornrow?” I demand.

“It was but a simple matter of research and practice. During the preparations for my reverent apology, I discover that tired soon-to-be mothers often have a hard time with grooming their hair. This inability to groom, I read, might then lead to a depressive state. I want nothing but comfort and happiness for you during your gestation period. For this reason, I studied how to make styles that would frame your great beauty and also keep the hair out of your face. I hope it is to your liking. If not, I have also learned to prepare a few other simple hairdos, including French braids, twists, and Bantu knots.”

A few shocked beats go by, then I have to ask him straight up: “Okay, is this a trick to score a VIP pass to the party in my pants?”

“Score a VIP pass to the party in your pants…?” He tilts his large head. “Are you referring to sex?”

“Yes,” I answer, turning my freshly braided head around to regard him frankly. “I just don’t understand why you’re being like this if you’re not trying to get it in.”