Page 43 of Dragon’s Ending

By the time I made it downstairs, the breakfast table was empty save for abandoned coffee cups, a rack of cold toast, and a conker sitting next to Teddy’s usual place.

I ate quickly, anticipation under my skin that had nothing to do with twelfth-century disputes over birds. I was listening for footsteps in the corridor beyond the dining room, but silence reigned, and Dominic didn’t appear. Which was a ridiculous thing to notice.

Once installed in the records room, with the fire glowing gently, I reread my notes from the previous day, most of which were about the court case that had been buried in the middle of the genealogical papers. It had referred to multiple previous disputes between the Gruffydds and Bedwyrs. I hoped there’d be records of those legal fallings-out too, but if not, I at least had hints of issues with the ownership of swans—obviously no longer a problem once the monarch claimed ownership of all swans. Then there were quarrels over wolfhounds and a field that had ended up with half of it ploughed one way by the Gruffydds, and the other half ploughed at a perpendicular angle by the Bedwyrs. God, I was falling in love with these stupendously petty fourteenth-century dragons.

It bore out why dragons should never have territories that bordered one another too closely. The combination of territorial and hoarding instincts meant we didn’t make for good neighbours.

For perhaps an hour, I made progress with my work. Then the door opened behind me.

“I’m beginning to think this room is actually holding you hostage.”

My pulse jumped so hard it was embarrassing. I looked up to find him leaning casually against the doorframe, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. His gaze caught mine immediately and held for just a fraction too long.

“I think you’ll find most historians do this to themselves voluntarily,” I said, trying for composure and missing spectacularly.

“Explains a lot.” He wandered into the room without waiting for an invitation. “What deep, dark parts of family history are we investigating today?” he asked, dragging his chair next to mine before dropping into it.

“Fifth-century genealogy,” I said firmly. No more distractions.

“God, that’s sexy.”

I laughed before I could stop myself, and his mouth curved slightly, as if he liked making me laugh. Actually, no, not as if. He definitely liked making me laugh.

I focused back on the records. Or tried to. It was harder than usual to concentrate with Dominic beside me, sprawling carelessly in his chair while sorting his pile of correspondence with one-handed laziness that somehow still resulted in useful organisation.

Every so often he’d lean across to look at what I was reading, close enough that I could feel the heat of him beside me. Each time, my brain stopped functioning.

“You know,” he said eventually, “I think you’re weirdly invested in organising dead people.”

I wasn’t sure what to do with that statement.

“Which, now I say it out loud, is a deeply worrying sentence,” Dominic added.

I shook my head in mock despair. “There was a time when I could work without you distracting me.”

“That sounds suspiciously like flirting, historian.”

“It’s a statement of fact,” I managed. My cheeks were flaming, because it had been an ill-advised attempt at flirting, and I was absolutely crap at it.

“Hmmn.” The sound was low and amused.

I became aware that he was looking at my mouth again.

The room felt very quiet. Rain pattered softly against the windows. Somewhere downstairs a door slammed faintly, reminding me there were other people in the house, other lives continuing perfectly normally while I sat here acutely aware of every breath that Dominic took.

He reached past me for one of the folders stacked near my elbow. Or at least, I thought that was what he’d intended to do, but his hand grazed mine. The brush of his skin felt like dragon-fire.

He was very close. Close enough now that I could see the tiny shifts in his expression.

And then, slowly, as if giving me time to stop him, he cupped one hand against my jaw.

I should probably have said something. Instead I leaned into his touch before I could stop myself. His expression changed, almost as if I’d surprised him. Then he kissed me.

Gentle at first. Careful in a way I would never have expected from Dominic Bedwyr. His lips were warm and impossibly soft, moving slowly against mine as if he was offering, waiting for me to decide what happened next.

I parted my lips beneath his, and he made a tiny sound against my mouth. His hand shifted on my jaw, fingers curling slightly, and then his tongue slid between my lips. He tasted of coffee and Dominic, and I needed more.

When he finally drew back, I realised my hands had somehow ended up gripping the front of his shirt. And for some reason, I wasn’t letting go.