Page 40 of Waking Her Dragon

Garrett let out a soft, huffed breath, his lavender eyes tracking down past the edge of the mattress to the faded canvas peak peeking out from the side of the chair.

He looked back up at her, his smile widening. “The shoes.”

Sydney let out a sudden, breathless laugh that cracked right down the middle, the hot tears finally spilling over her cheeks as she buried her face in his shoulder.

A soft rap eventually broke the quiet intimacy of the morning on the door frame. Ginnie stepped back into the room, a tray of natural tonics and teas balancing in her arms, her sharp eyes scanning Garrett’s vitals.

She ran a quick, sweeping diagnostic spell over his chest, the iridescent lavender light pulsing softly. "The Healing Sleep did its primary job," Ginnie reported, offering them both a pragmatic, careful nod. "Your cellular structure is actively repairing, Garrett. But you're a long way from a clean bill of health. Your Magic is still severely depleted, and you cannot fight yet. Not for a while."

Garrett swallowed hard, nodding in acceptance. His physical body was safe, but his mind remained a fractured mosaic, missing massive chunks of his own history.

Worse still was the looming cloud hanging over the entire household. Leviathan had vanished into the collapsing mists of the Underworld. He had escaped, and his parting threat about the waking Void echoed in the quiet corners of their minds. Everyone knew the war was far from over. The Demon Lord was out there, planning and rebuilding.

But as the heavy weight of the future threatened to settle into the room, Garrett shifted on the pillows.

Slowly, deliberately, he reached his right hand across the white sheets toward Sydney. This time, he didn't stop to ask permission. He didn't hesitate. He reached out to lock his fingers with hers, because his soul finally recognized its perfect Mate.

Sydney looked down at their joined hands, a profound, unyielding peace washing over her chest.

"We'll figure the rest out," Garrett murmured, his lavender eyes fixed on hers with complete certainty.

Sydney leaned in, squeezing his palm tight as a fierce, brilliant smile broke through her fatigue. "Together."

10

He didn't wake with a violent jolt or the frantic slamming of pulses this time. It was a slow, gentle drift upward through soft layers of consciousness, like rising through warm water to greet a calm shore.

The Healing Sleep was entirely over.

Garrett opened his eyes to a room bathed in the crisp, golden clarity of mid-morning. The suffocating, metallic stench of The Abyss was gone, replaced by the sharp, clean scent of fresh linen and sun-warmed oak. He lay perfectly still, his senses drinking in ordinary details that felt nothing short of miraculous after so long in the dark.

A gentle, hot breeze drifted through an open window, rustling the heavy curtains. Somewhere downstairs, the muffled, musical sound of someone laughing echoed up through the floorboards. It was a normal, beautiful, mundane day on Earth, and to a man who had forgotten the concept of daylight, it felt like holy ground.

“We are whole, my boy,” Aodhan murmured deep in his mind, his voice a steady, comforting rumble.

Garrett swallowed, his throat clear of blood for the first time he could remember. Slowly, he threw back the heavy blankets. His muscles protested, stiff and hollow from weeks of trauma, but the necrotic burn of the silver was gone. He swung his legs over the edge of the mattress, his bare feet touching the cool, solid hardwood floor.

Gripping the bedside table, his knuckles turned white as his knees shook violently under his own weight. He planted his heels and pushed.

With a ragged, quiet breath, Garrett stood.

He was weak. His balance swayed like a reed in the wind, but he was upright on his own two feet. He belonged.

Standing by the window, the warmth of the sun baking into his bare chest, Garrett closed his eyes. The physical ease of his body was nothing compared to the sudden, silent rushing tide inside his mind.

His memories were returning… slowly.

They didn’t crash down like a broken dam, and they didn’t arrive with chronological precision. Instead, his psyche began to stitch itself back together through a series of sudden, vibrant emotional snapshots. He saw a flash of silver steel, then Carrick’s massive, scarred hand locking against his own wooden training sword centuries ago, a deep voice shouting correction over a rain-soaked courtyard. He smelled the crisp, tart bite of stolen apples, accompanied by the distinct sound of a young Ruairí laughing from a distant farmhouse porch.

Then he was in the sky. The cold wind ripped past his face, his heavy wings catching a thermal draft while Colton’s younger, erratic flight pattern stabilized right on his left flank.

Grey. A memory of his brother slammed into his chest, warm and deafening. Grey was throwing his head back, laughing so hard his entire frame shook, a tankard of ale sloshing over the side in a crowded, noisy tavern in the village where they were raised.

And then… Sydney.

Her snapshots were different– not tied to places he could easily name or dates he could pinpoint. They were pure, concentrated emotion. The fierce, terrifying heat of her golden fire. The soft, specific scent of her hair when she leaned close. The unyielding strength in her blue eyes when she refused to let go of his hand.

But as the fragments settled into the quiet corners of his brain, one massive, towering realization detached itself from the fog.