Page 83 of Mate of a Monster

The old Creed was the calm one—or as calm as a Devereaux brother can be. He’s calculating, sure. The kind of guy who stands, uncaring, while the realm burns around him because he already knows how the story ends and is just waiting for the inevitable.

Now—he’s anxious, which is deeply fucking disturbing, even for me.

I lean back against the stone ledge. “You’re getting on my nerves and it’s making me uncomfortable.”

He pauses mid-step, glancing over his shoulder, confusion plain on his face. “Why?”

I snort. “You’re the reasonable one. If you start acting strange, I have to start questioning everything. And I’m already questioning everything. So enough, bratty king.”

His mouth twitches. “Still the same.”

“Unfortunately for the realm. And world.”

He turns then, really looking at me, and something shifts in his expression. The tension bleeds out of his shoulders and a strange sort of softness takes over.

“Just out with it, big guy. You asked me to come down to your little hidden fortress.” I open my arms. “I’m here and—at this very moment—I don’t want to kill you for what you did. But that could change quickly, if my track record proves anything. Get on with it already and tell me what’s going on.”

Creed exhales slowly. “I tried to tell you before.” His voice drops, almost careful. “But I owe you more than an apology, Haide.”

That gets my attention.

I tilt my head, watching him the way I would a snake. “Well, this sounds promising.”

He picks up one of the books off the table. “I should’ve trusted myself more,” he continues. “Instead of panicking, but when it comes to my brothers it’s hard not to go straight for defensive.”

That I understand.

I shrug one shoulder, leaning my hip against the table. “I get it. I live in defensive mode. Prefer it, honestly.”

Creed smiles then, a gentle curve of his lips and that’s somehow worse than if he smirked. “But you shouldn’t have to,” he says quietly.

The words dig somewhere uncomfortable in my chest. I wave a hand between us. “Okay. Nope. Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Whatever this is.” I gesture vaguely at him. “The sincerity. The guilt. The emotional growth, or whatever. It’s very off-brand for you, and I am emotionally stunted; so that shit is like getting hit in the head with a tree branch—worse than those little zappy magic blasts from that stupid combat class you made me take. ”

A low chuckle escapes him as he sets the book on the table and slides it toward me.

I stare down at the old, dusty thing. The leather is dark and cracked, the edges of the pages uneven like they were cut by hand centuries ago.

My nose wrinkles. “That thing smells like it killed someone.”

Creed folds his arms. “Not long ago I would have told you that was impossible.”

“And now?”

“Now, I know I was too closed-minded.”

I run my fingers along the cover, brushing dust aside to reveal the title more clearly.

Lore of the Dragon, Protectors of Rathe.

“You’ve been digging through those archives a while, I heard,” I mutter. “If this is you being a dick and proving dragons secretly love Argents, I’m going to set it on fire. As you’ve seen, I can do that now.”

“So I have, and while I am dying to see more”—his brow lifts—“that would be unfortunate in this case.”

“Oh?”