The center of the courtyard had cleared out at last, and Corin took advantage, landing with a thump that traveled up through the stones and Aster’s legs and lodged somewhere under his breastbone. Corin shook his big head, whuffed, and let out a plume of smoke from his massive muzzle. Even if Aster had seen dozens of dragons, he didn’t think any of them would’ve compared to Corin’s gleaming green scales, like polished malachite in the sun, or his mesmerizing eyes, black on black with the faintest ring of amber around the outside of the iris. Those claws had to be at least eight inches long. No wonder everyone had run away, although Aster could hear relieved-sounding murmurs of, “It’s only Sir Corin!” from the crowd that had formed around the edges of the garden.
With a great shrug of his shoulders, Corin folded his wings, laying them neatly along his sides. A flick of his great spiked tail knocked a stone bench into a lily pond with a splash.
Aster blinked, and when he opened his eyes again he’d almost missed the transformation: Corin’s body shrinking, the scales fading into skin, hair reappearing and claws melting into fingers. He looked small, almost, standing there in the middle of the courtyard: an illusion born of contrast.
A new chorus of gasps and cries rose from the audience.
One particularly brave fellow stepped forward. Aster recognized him as Lord Bertram, a notable swordsman who knew Corin well. He bowed, sweeping off his plumed hat.
“Sir Corin!” Bertram cried. “You’ve returned! Welcome to…” His voice trailed off as Corin ignored him completely, keeping his eyes fixed on the top of the stairs.
On Aster. The weight of his gaze hit him like a hammer, nearly dropping him to his knees. He was too far away to be sure, of course, but still…he knew that Corin looked only at him. He knew it, because he couldn’t look away either, and everything else in the world had faded into meaningless background.
Behind him, he heard a new commotion: familiar voices, including his father’s and Marellus’s, and then a sharp command in the voice of the king himself. Apparently Theobert had brought everyone out to see Corin’s arrival.
But he didn’t turn his head. He couldn’t, because the only important thing in the world was in front of him. Corin came closer, the air between them seeming to ring like a note struck in a crystal goblet, a golden vibration that sucked all the oxygen out of Aster’s lungs and left him poised, quivering, helpless.
Any other man would’ve looked absurd coming up the palace steps naked and unarmed.
But Corin was no mere man. And a dragon, with flashing fiery eyes and the ripple of scales beneath his skin and intent in every prowling motion, looked anything but absurd. He took Aster’s breath away.
By the gasps from the crowd, he had the same effect on everyone else.
Well, too fucking bad for them. Because Corin walked straight up to Aster, not even seeming to see the king or anyone else.
He stopped only a foot away, close enough for Aster to feel the heat of his body. Aster sucked in a deep, gulping breath and caught the heady scent of fire-scorched spices. God, no, he couldn’t possibly get hard standing here, could he? Apparently he could. He’d worn loose trousers, maybe that would be enough. Although he found that he couldn’t care all that much. Everyone might see how much of a slut he was for Sir Corin, dragon knight—well, let them. Aster would do anything for Corin without any shame at all. Drop to his knees here on the steps for example, and let everyone be jealous of how Aster was the one Corin desired.
Corin’s stony expression didn’t give much away, although a muscle ticked in his cheek. And the intense heat in his eyes as they rested on Aster’s face left him breathless.
Corin reached out a hand, still without a word, and cupped the side of Aster’s face, thumb stroking over his cheekbone.
“You’re all right,” Corin said at last, in a deep, vibrating growl that had far more dragon than human in the way he shaped the words, as if his vocal cords hadn’t shifted back completely when he changed forms. “You’re—I was afraid I wouldn’t be in time.”
“Afraid,” Aster repeated, unable to believe he’d heard that right. And having trouble processing any information at all, given the searing perfection of Corin’s hand against his skin and the way every cell in his body strained toward that point of contact, toward Corin. “You’ve never been afraid in your life. Besides, you let me go!”
That last came out much more plaintive and pathetic than he’d meant it to—especially since he hadn’t meant to say it in the first place.
Corin’s brows drew together. “Aster, I—”
“Sir Corin,” a strident voice cut in extremely loudly. “The king requires your attention!”
Corin glanced up. “Not now,” he said sharply, returning his eyes to Aster’s face. “Aster, I couldn’t—”
“The king, sir! You will attend to the king!” the voice said again, and then Aster’s father’s familiar voice added, “Aster, at once!”
Bloody blast and damn it. Aster wanted to hear what Corin had been about to say more than he wanted his next breath. Turning took more effort than a motion ever had; he had to move away from Corin’s hand on his cheek, which felt like amputating one of his own limbs.
But he turned. And he found a tableau behind him that made him freeze in horror.
The king, flanked by Sir Gustave—who’d taken a step forward and had obviously been the one speaking—and several of his other close advisors on the one side, and by Marellus, Dericort, and Aster’s father on the other. Everyone else had wisely gotten the hell out of the way, except for Sig and Jules, who’d been hemmed in by the guards and stood eyeing the exits longingly.
King Theobert radiated royal authority, from his flowing purple velvet robes to his neatly trimmed salt and pepper beard to the golden circlet in his hair to the stern expression on his strong-featured face. In company with the eldest princess, who was about his age, Aster had once run screaming down the halls of the palace, dodging behind priceless vases and polished antiques as the king chased them pretending to be a hungry tiger. Theobert had tickled them when he caught them, and then sent for strawberries and lemonade. Aster tried to focus on that long-ago memory, because otherwise he might have simply collapsed to the ground and started to beg for mercy.
And then Corin shifted slightly, moving closer. And he wasn’t afraid anymore.
Marellus glanced between the two of them, raising his eyebrows, a nasty smirk on his handsome face, Dericort sneering beside him. Aster’s father glared at him, his face nearly purple. All three of the Cezanne children resembled their mother, blond and pale, while Lord Cezanne had the look of an angry bulldog at the best of times. Right now he seemed to be straining at the leash.
Fuck, maybe Aster was still afraid after all.
