Deven and the Dragon - Eliot Grayson Page 0,59

right ba—” Another cough interrupted him, and he rolled out of bed, disappearing into the bath and shutting the door behind him.

Deven stared after him, frowning. Coughing at least didn’t seem like a symptom of Deven having been too rough the night before, so that was something…but Fiora was a dragon. Did dragons even suffer from normal human ailments? Fiora’d been so indignant at the suggestion that he might have a cold a few weeks before, as if it cast aspersions on his character. Were human diseases considered shameful among dragons?

Deven strained his ears, but he didn’t hear anything from the bath. No more coughing — or Fiora was being very quiet. They were hardly at a point where Deven could open the door and barge in. He’d hesitate to do that even if they were lovers of long standing.

At last the door opened. Fiora stepped out wearing a dressing gown, which made Deven smile, after their activities of the night before. Fiora looked a little pale; was he actually pale, or was it just an effect of the grayish early-morning light? It was overcast outside, looked like. The summer rains were coming.

“Sorry,” Fiora said with a little half-smile and a shrug. “My throat was so dry.”

He didn’t sound quite right, and that cough hadn’t been the slight hack that came with waking up dry-mouthed. But Deven let it go. If dragons were overly sensitive about admitting weakness, then he’d let Fiora have his pride, and just make sure they didn’t get caught out in the rain later on.

“Then come back to bed,” Deven said, and threw back the coverlet to his feet.

“Awfully presumptuous of you, isn’t it? Inviting me into my own bed?” But Fiora was smiling, and toying with the tie of his dressing gown, and a flush had appeared on his cheeks to chase away that worrisome pallor.

“Very. And I’m going to presume a hell of a lot more, if you get over here already.”

Fiora climbed back onto the bed, still in the dressing gown, and there was a lot of laughter and not a few moans as Deven took his time stripping it off again.

“My lord,” Andrei said, and Fiora started out of his dreamy contemplation of the rose, which he’d moved to his desk in the study. By Andrei’s tone and his frown, it wasn’t the first time he’d tried to get Fiora’s attention.

“Forgive me, Andrei.” That bothersome tickle started again in Fiora’s throat as he spoke. It hadn’t gone away no matter how much tea Fiora sipped, or how many times he cleared his throat. He was sure it was simply a mild cold, or perhaps a reaction to all the pollen he must have inhaled while rambling the countryside with Deven. It had to be, the anxious clenching in his stomach notwithstanding. Deven had been loving that morning, hadn’t he? “I was preoccupied.”

Andrei sighed deeply and moved further into the study, looking at Fiora with an expression akin to a brewing thunderstorm. “I can see that, my lord,” he said mildly. Too mildly. Fiora braced himself. “Are you, perhaps, preoccupied with whatever it was you did while spending the night and all morning locked in your bedchamber with Mr. Clifton? Or preoccupied with the fact that he has left the castle to go to town immediately afterwards?”

Fiora froze in his chair. Oh, God, this was going to be brutal. He’d hoped they’d avoided Andrei’s scrutiny. And now Andrei knew…oh, God.

“Or perhaps,” Andrei said, stalking to the desk and staring down at Fiora, his face going red and his eyes flashing fire to rival any dragon’s, “you are preoccupied with the fact that you have thrown your own life away for a…a night of being that slut’s latest conquest!”

“He isn’t a slut!” Fiora cried. “And even if he is, what does it matter? There’s no shame in taking pleasure where it’s freely offer—”

“There’s shame in taking pleasure where it means the end of your life, my lord!” Andrei shouted. “There’s shame in caring so little for others that he’d rather fuck than let you live!”

“He doesn’t know, Andrei. He doesn’t know, and it’s not his fault —”

“Then you should have told him. Fiora, damn it all,” Andrei groaned, turning away. His shoulders hunched. No, no, Andrei didn’t weep, he never did, and Fiora’s chest went tight with grief. He had never wanted to hurt Andrei, who’d loved him like another parent for twenty years. “How could you?”

“I love him,” Fiora whispered, feeling small and