Oranges and vanilla. That’s what he smelled. Like a sweet treat to enjoy on a hot day, she called to him over the din of scrambled instinct and exhaustion.
Immediately, Artem’s focus snapped back to him. Lifting a shuddering wing, he gritted his fangs and wheeled around to glide up the wall of the gorge. Something niggled at the back of his mind, but he couldn’t place it. Some missing piece that made his instincts bristle as he shot up over the deck of the dwelling.
…and straight through a thick cloud of that mouthwatering scent. Fresh and delicious, it clung to the roof of his mouth as he flew over the deck to circle the painfully small dwelling.
Without thinking, a crooning whistle escaped his throat. It was a courting call — one he’d never felt compelled to use before. Startled, Artem thrust out a wing and hauled himself back over the property, surprised and unsettled to be allowed so close.
Where was the dragon? What kind of protector would allow a rogue so near their roost? Their Chosen? One that smelled so deliciously edible as she did should have been squirreled away at the first sight of a wing on the horizon. Everything about her spelled out softness, delicacy, the need for protection.
Artem banked hard to land, legs spread, on the roof of the dwelling. Even with his clouded mind and his confusion, he knew enough to spread his considerable weight out, keeping any damage to the roof minimal.
He wanted a fight, sure, but he didn’t want to lay waste to a woman’s home. Not when she smelled so very soft and delicious and—
Mateless.
Artem shifted on the roof to peer down at the deck, his ruby eyes fixed on the slight form clinging to a metal railing below. It took him several long seconds to figure out what he was seeing.
A woman, swaddled in a down coat, stood on the other side of a roaring fire pit. The flames were dragon blue, but up close, any dragon worth his claws would see that it was regular fire chemically tinted. The heat radiating off of it was a dead giveaway. Dragonfire didn’t burn hot. It was ice cold.
Artem blinked slowly, his clear, secondary lid closing over his eyes twice before he could register exactly what his instincts were telling him. No dragon.
His lungs heaved. Every muscle cramped and trembled as he clung onto the roof of the woman’s home. Artem barely noticed.
No dragon. No mate.
He scrambled forward to lean his huge body over the roof, bringing his horned head closer to the little woman staring up at him with wide eyes. The blue flame of her fire cast strange shadows across her dusky skin and large, dark eyes. Long dark hair fluffed out from beneath her knit beanie to fall around her shoulders in a tangled mass. Her eyebrows were arched high with surprise, her full lips parted to reveal a hint of pink tongue and pearly white teeth.
Her arms were stretched back, fingers curled tight around the railing, but she didn’t quail before the predator perched on her roof. He watched her throat work as she swallowed thickly.
Another crooning whistle escaped his parched throat. This time, he didn’t try to stifle it. Lowering his head a bit more, he ignored the flames licking at the underside of his chin as he prowled forward, leaving only his hind legs and tail coiled around her roof.
She had such a soft face; all smooth tanned skin and curving lines. Heart-shaped and lovely, she looked like a woman made for a lush roost full of silk and sunlight and rich food.
Instincts prickling in a building wave, Artem braced his forelegs on either side of the fire and swung his head left and right. Surely he was wrong. There had to be another dragon. Fake fire or no, there was no way a delicious little creature like her — perched on the edge of a perfect roosting cliff, no less! — could be without a mate.
The idea made every muscle in his aching body tense. Aggression coiled like a spring in his belly. A rumble rolled up his throat as flame, icy and more destructive than any other on the Earth, licked at the inside of his mouth.
What kind of dragon would leave her unprotected? There was no telltale ash marking around the property. No mingled scents. Adding insult to injury, the dwelling was woefully inadequate for a Chosen such as her.
Worse than all of that, of course, was the fact that she had been left to fend for herself against a rogue.
Gods only knew what might have happened to her if he were anyone else. Artem had enough of his mind left to understand that he wasn’t exactly safe for her either, but the longer he stared at her, the clearer his mind became. For the first time in weeks, his instincts began to untangle themselves; settling into a low, insistent thrum in the back of his mind.
Assured that there was, inexplicably, no dragon coming to her rescue, Artem turned his gaze back to her. She’d eased backward far enough to put her spine against the railing, her dark eyes leveled on his snout. He was so fixated on admiring her face that it took him a moment to realize she was speaking to him.
“…s’okay,” she whispered hoarsely. “Everything’s okay. Just… just stay calm and everything will be fine. Isn’t that right, dragon? We can be friends. Just keep things nice and calm.”
He wasn’t sure if she was speaking to him or to herself, but he liked the sound of her voice regardless. It was as soft as she looked.
Letting out another courting whistle, the only response he could manage in this form, Artem stretched his neck to carefully nudge her shoulder. Away from the railing, he mentally urged. In his state, he couldn’t dive fast enough to catch her if she tumbled over the edge.
He felt her flinch when he carefully pinched the shoulder of her jacket between his teeth, tugging her away from the metal rail. Making a startled eep, she stumbled forward and directly against his snout.
“Sorry, sorry!” she gasped.
Artem whistled for her again and carefully pulled his head back. He kept the bulk of his body over the roaring fire, just in case she stumbled again. Biting back a hiss of pain, he slowly folded his abused wings against his back. Exhaustion was a dark ring around the edges of his vision, creeping closer every second. He would collapse soon, and that meant he would probably wake up to the barrel of a bolt gun pressed against his forehead, but he didn’t care. Suddenly all that mattered to his bruised mind was the soft, delicious scent and voice of this strange little woman.
Crooning a low note, he forced his legs and tail down from the roof to land on the wide, wrap-around deck — perhaps the only feature of the dwelling he approved of. It was much larger than the house itself, but only just big enough to fit his bulk. Not quite what he would classify as a dragon’s perch, but close enough.