Artem woke up with a start.The fog of sleep made tracing the source of his unease difficult. The feeling of something undone, of itchy exposure, made him open his tired eyes to peer suspiciously around Paloma’s living room.
He clutched his Chosen to his chest. His right wing stretched out to its full length, nearly brushing the opposite wall, before he curled it back in around her. The membrane between his bones was too thin to be of any real protection from danger, but the hypersensitive nerves in his wings were a perfect early warning system. If there was a threat, he would feel it before it came close to touching her.
The spot under a dragon’s wing was a place reserved for Chosen mates and offspring only. It was where a dragon could keep them safe, but was also a show of trust. The membrane of a wing was thin. If the person being shielded wished, they could tear through it with a knife or claws easily, effectively crippling the dragon.
He didn’t need to know Paloma long to trust she would never, ever do something so cruel. His Chosen had a soft heart. Maybe too soft, if her inviting a rogue dragon onto her roost was any indication. It would be the work of a lifetime to keep the gentle creature under his wing protected from the world.
Artem filled his lungs with the scent of her and tried to calm his racing heart. It was early, and he could smell snow on the air. By his count, he’d slept nearly twenty-four hours. It wasn’t enough, but it was a start.
So why did he feel so anxious?
Because my roost is unfinished, he realized, rumbling a low, displeased note. Instinct grated against the immovable wall of his exhaustion.
If he’d been fit, Artem would have stayed up all night securing the safety of their roost. He would have laid down his ash to mark his borders. He would have flown over the surrounding area to assess any danger. He would have spent hours and hours rubbing his skin against hers, mingling their scents.
But he hadn’t done any of that. Instead, he slept.
Artem was an easy-going sort of man. Slow to anger and quick to read social cues, he didn’t feel the hard bite of his instincts too often. Before.
Things had changed. He knew it happened when a dragon Chose, but he was still surprised by the intensity of the shift. The compulsion to roost had left him — only to be replaced by the driving desire to makesafe and nest.
He swept his gaze around the haphazard pile of pillows and blankets Paloma supplied him with. It was fine for a night, but he couldn’t stomach it for much more than that. His mate deserved all the softest things. All the silks and luxurious cottons. All the down pillows and memory foam mats. While he enjoyed the way her scent saturated everything, his lip curled at the scratchiness of the flannel blanket covering them both, as well as the flatness of the pillows that came with obvious age.
His father would balk at the sight. No self-respecting dragon would let his Chosen lay their head on couch cushions and scratchy throw blankets unless there was absolutely no other alternative.
The nest was the heart of the home. The nest was a dragon’s pride and where he kept his most precious treasure. A poor nest meant he didn’t care for his Chosen or his offspring, that he had no respect for either. That was absolutely unacceptable.
Artem nuzzled his nose into the crown of Paloma’s head, his mind whirring with plans and tasks and visions of the future. The nest was an easy fix. He could have a new mattress and dragon-grade nesting blankets delivered in a day. He’d do that first, then try to summon the energy to set a perimeter. Once he had those things done, and his strength fully returned, he would begin planning for the full renovation of their dwelling.
Until then, he would have to content himself with simply holding her.
At some point in the night, Paloma had turned over to press her back against his chest. Her long black hair tickled his skin. One of his hands snuck up under the front of her sweatshirt to cover the soft expanse of her stomach. He closed his eyes.
So this is bliss, he thought. My mate in my arms, all soft and trusting.
Of course, Artem had known satisfaction in his life. He’d lived and fought and fucked and soared the highest his wings would take him. He’d made his clan proud and brought more money into the ’Riik with trade negotiations than anyone besides Taevas himself. He loved his family and he loved his life. There was nothing lacking in it.
At least, he hadn’t felt the lack.
Now that he held his Chosen in his arms and under his wing, Artem understood the feeling of deep inner expansion the elder dragons spoke of. It was not that Paloma filled a hole in his heart, but rather that her arrival made the organ bigger. He felt anchored to her. All instinct pointed to her, to this roost. It would be the greatest privilege of his life to learn all there was to know about Dr. Paloma Contreras. It would be his greatest pride to protect her, and to be known by her in return.
Reacting to the thrill he felt at the thought, Artem’s tail squeezed around the softness of Paloma’s thigh. He felt her stir. One moment she was all soft and pliable in his arms, the next she was stiff as a board.
Trying to soothe her, Artem let out a long, soft whistle and rubbed the pad of his thumb under the arch of her ribs. “Shh, treat. You’re safe.”
Her breathing sped up. He watched, curious, as one small human hand curled into a bunched up blanket peeking out from under his wing. “I… good morning?” Her voice was husky.
Artem’s cock twitched. His body was nowhere near fully recovered, but he wasn’t dead. Pressed up against all her lush curves and sweet smelling skin, he didn’t stand a chance.
“Good morning,” he breathed into her hair. Testing her boundaries, he gently stroked his knuckles over the soft rise of her stomach. Would she push him away? He was a stranger, after all, and she was no dragon. Her instincts were different. There was every chance she would see his overture as a step over a line, or even an outright threat.
He would work with whatever she gave him, but first he needed to know where those lines were.
He felt her breath stutter. Paloma’s thighs pressed together, keeping his lucky tail in place. “Artem…”
Gods save me. Artem closed his eyes and swallowed a groan. She had the softest voice. When she spoke to him, she usually sounded so adorably flustered, like she didn’t quite know what to make of him, and it made him want to show her exactly what he intended to be for her: Mate. Protector. Giver.
Going by the state of her home — tidy, but showing signs of wear, with only an old, stale scent hinting at another occupant — and her apparent isolation, Artem wondered if Paloma knew what it was like to be spoiled. Did she know the pleasure of being coddled by another? Or did she live her life in this odd little dwelling, alone and without luxury?