Deven and the Dragon - Eliot Grayson Page 0,22

of sympathy and flattery, he might find out.

All of that aside, though — was Lord Fiora having trouble with his digestion, perhaps? He’d been absent at lunch and dinner, with Andrei making his excuses. That might account for his nonsensical proclamations about darkness and destiny and all that. A sour stomach could make a man, and probably also a dragon, cranky as hell. And pale and peaky, too — which might account for the cloak?

“You know,” he said, walking a little more quickly to keep up with Lord Fiora, who moved incredibly fast for someone so damn short, “if you still want to discuss…whatever it was, we could move indoors. Have some soothing tea. No doubt everything would look a bit rosier then, hmm?”

“I’m in a bloody rose garden,” Lord Fiora snarled, picking up his pace even more until he was all but jogging, and the gravel was flying from under his boots. “How much rosier do you want things to be?”

Oh, God, they’d reached the sarcasm portion of the evening of doom. Deven knew how this went. If Lord Fiora was anything like the high-strung dressmaker, shouting would follow quickly, and Deven wasn’t in the mood.

In two long strides, Deven overtook him, jumped past him, and stopped right in his path.

“Lord Fiora. No — wait — come on,” he cried in exasperation, throwing himself back in front of Lord Fiora as the man dodged and weaved, attempting to get around him. “Look, no more mentions of tea. Or boils.” A low growl came from the depths of Lord Fiora’s hood, and Deven quickly added, “Sorry, sorry, really, won’t say that word again. Ever.”

He flung his arms out to the sides to form a barrier as Lord Fiora made one more attempt to slip by. Deven rather expected to be shoved, but instead Lord Fiora stopped dead, folding his arms over his chest in a posture…well, a lot sulkier than Deven might have expected from a dragon and an aristocrat.

“Fine,” Lord Fiora muttered. “But I’m not taking off the cloak. I’m not fit to be seen by you. I should have made that clear from the start.”

“Cloak stays on then,” Deven said with a shrug, trying not to feel the sting of that remark. Of course Deven was miles below Lord Fiora in every possible way, but really? Not good enough to see his face? His feelings of guilt at his reason for being in the castle would fade quickly, if Lord Fiora kept that attitude up. “But you wanted to talk to me. So let’s talk.”

“I’m not really in the mood for talking anymore. I need to — to be alone in the darkness for a while.”

Really? Good God. “Are you going to go somewhere it’s actually dark, then?”

“Oh — for — what — yes,” Lord Fiora snarled, and spun on his heel. He practically ran back the way they’d come, his cloak flapping behind him.

Deven remained rooted to the spot, too stunned to even try to follow. Because when Lord Fiora had turned, he’d faced the moon for a split second, and Deven had caught a glimpse of the side of his face.

Which was not at all covered in boils. In fact, what little Deven had seen — the slant of a jaw, the corner of what appeared to be a generously soft pair of lips, and a sharp nose — was perfectly smooth, with no blemishes or beard or anything at all.

In fact, it was one of the prettiest parts of a face Deven had ever seen. He vowed then and there that he was going to see Lord Fiora without that bloody hood, if it was the last thing he ever did. Which, given Lord Fiora was a dragon, was a possibility.

Deven would deal with that problem when it arose. Seeing Lord Fiora’s face was part and parcel of getting to know the man better, which was Deven’s reason for being here at all. He’d need a plan, and planning wasn’t his forte.

He turned and sauntered through the rose garden, deep in thought.

The instant Fiora slammed the turret’s stairwell door behind him, he scrabbled furiously at the cloak, ripping it off in a tangled flurry of curses and torn fabric. He flung it to the floor and stomped on it for good measure.

Bloody fucking bother, the evening had been a disaster, and the cloak was a disaster, and Fiora was a disaster. Everything was awful. Everything.

Except Deven, who was absolutely the opposite of awful, with his