Her Dragon King (Her Dragon King Duet 2)

After all this shouting, she insists she must teach Basileios “the most much-needed skill,” and proceeds to instruct him in the execution of a high-five.

Then just when I think the unnecessary jubliation might be over, she starts doing a dance she refers to as “The Space Elevator” while singing what sounds like a trap metal hook. “We are them stars! We made them stars! We fuck them stars! What? What? What? WHAT!”

And no, Basileios doesn’t have the throat control to sing along, but he does dance along with his mother, easily shelling and unshelling at the bottom and top of the silly movements.

Or perhaps he is shifting.

I watch them with a strange flare of feelings corrupting my flame. Blue disquiet. And yellow pride.

“C’mon, Triple D!” Ola insists, tugging on my arm. “Maybe you should dance with us, too. We did this! Together, just like I said.”

Yes, just like she said.

So instead of destroying my father’s murderers, I somehow end up dancing with their daughter on the beach.

And the next day Ola joins us in the library for our hatchling’s first reading lesson, instead of leaving the task to me alone. Though she seems more interested in exploring the room where I store my books and a few treasured items than sitting at the table with Basileios and me.

“What’s up with this tooth you’ve got on display?” she asks after moving on from oohing and aahing over my Gutenberg Press bible and first edition of Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales.

She sniffs at the only display case that doesn’t house a book. “Does it belong to a bear? I can’t smell it through the glass.”

“Yes, it belonged to a polar bear,” I answer, careful to keep my tone as blank as my side of our mating bond.

“Okay, that sounds like a story. Maybe you should tell me why you have a polar bear tooth on display in your Beauty and the Beast reboot of a library.”

“If my reading lesson with Basileios bores you, perhaps you would enjoy some time in the garden with Thalia.”

“Nope, not missing anymore milestones,” she answers, racing back to the table. “Let’s do this!”

And so we do.

I come to know that odd blue and yellow flare of disquiet and pride well over the next few days.

It erupts once again on Wednesday while resisting the urge to laugh at Ola’s antics during what should have been a simple drill to teach Basileios to aim his flame. She insists on anthropomorphizing every object he hits, using ridiculous voices to express their upset at having their lives ended so soon by “that bomb emoji dragon prince.”

I quickly suppress the laughter and the strange feelings, but over the next few days my chest flame continues to flare much too often while overseeing lessons that start out serious but end in cheers and laughter. It also flares that Thursday when while watching Agda direct all the workers I allowed her to hire to the ballroom, I make an impromptu decision. Before I know it, I am calling the mayor of Lukos to ask for certain documents and also extend an uncharacteristic invite.

But it flares brightest of all that night while flying around the castle with Ola upon my back and Basileios at my side in his drakkon form. That is when I realize this togetherness of the past week, this feeling of absolute content. It is the opposite of the itch I used to feel.

Perhaps that is why I decide to escort Ola to her room after our night flight, as opposed to parting ways at the stairs and taking Basileios directly to his nursery as I usually do.

I immediately realize my mistake when instead of saying good night, she tells me, “You know, Other You used to walk me to my door too. Said it was the reverent thing to do. Though later we switched to walking each other into his room…together.”

Together…

I try and fail not to look down and immediately regret it. For the flame above her female works is burning bright with her arousal.

I can also feel how much more she wants from me over our mate bond.

But I did not lie to her on my drone. I am not him. I cannot be if I’ve any hope of paying my father his reverent due.

“Good night, Ola,” I say again before leaving her there at the door.

“Wolf Mother’s chest flame is sad,” Basileios observes as we head toward the stairs at the end of the hallway. “I should fly back to her. Mayhap she needs a hug.”

I pick him out of the air, and pull him into my arms, carrying him in the same manner I do when he is dressed for dinner and without access to his wings. “No, Golden Son, stay with me.”

Basileios does as I say, settling into my hold. But when I place him in his crib later on, I see that his chest flame is burning as blue as his mother’s.