and closed his eyes as the world spun. He summoned the change but his body betrayed him and he remained in human form.
He couldn’t shift.
Rhys was the one to panic then. Nothing interfered with his ability to change forms, and his hidden dragon gave him the confidence to face any foe.
But he couldn’t shift. It was terrifying.
There was a red string knotted around his wrist, one that burned. It hadn’t been there before the lightning struck. Even though it was thin, he couldn’t snap it. Rhys struggled to break it, then suddenly found himself in a court of glittering Fae, Hadrian sprawled beside him with a similar string on his wrist. He was soaking wet and his clothes smelled of salt water, but there was no spark of the firestorm.
Where was the ocean cove?
Where was Kristofer?
He hoped his mate had escaped.
Then the music started, infectious merry music, and his feet began to twitch of their own accord. Rhys found himself dancing a jig without having made any decision to do so. Hadrian awakened and lunged to his feet, seizing Rhys’ hands as he joined the dance. The two of them circled, their feet pounding against the ground, compelled to dance against their will. The court around them blurred into streaks of silver and red, the music melded with raucous laughter, and his feet began to hurt. Rhys was breathless, his heart thundering, but he couldn’t stop dancing. The red cord burned and the music went on and on and on.
All the while, he wondered about the selkie and her kiss. She had warned him, but he hadn’t taken her advice. He could only hope that didn’t mean he’d never see her again.
As his feet began to bleed, Rhys could only hope she was never snared like this.
One
November 9, 2019
Rhys wasn’t in a good mood.
It wasn’t just that his plans had been disrupted. He didn’t like surprises, but he’d do anything for his fellow Pyr, even drive to Vermont for Kristofer’s scale repair with very little warning. He was only slightly irked that he’d had to leave his beloved restaurant in the hands of his capable staff.
Okay, he was more than a little concerned about that.
The issue wasn’t that there was snow in the forecast and he hated winter with a passion.
It was his firestorm.
If that’s what it had been.
Rhys hadn’t told his fellow dragon shifters one key detail about his sojourn in Fae. He hadn’t mentioned the selkie and her kiss, much less the glorious burn of his firestorm. He would have, but learning that Kristofer’s firestorm in Fae had been fake ended the confession before it started. What if his firestorm had been a spell, as well? It had sparked after he’d entered the portal to Fae, which fed his suspicions.
Kristofer’s so-called destined mate had tried to kill him, too, which left Rhys wondering about the selkie’s goals. Why had she gone so deep into the ocean? Had she been luring him to his death?
She had warned him about Maeve, but the firestorm still could have been a spell. She could have warned him then summoned the Dark Queen to harvest him, just to make herself look trustworthy. Rhys didn’t like it. No matter how he looked at it, he’d followed Kristofer into Fae, been distracted by the spark of an apparent firestorm, indicating the proximity of his apparent mate, and had ended up dancing until his feet bled at the command of the Fae Queen.
That glorious selkie maiden might have been involved in the deception. She could be in league with Maeve, or she could have been snared into doing Maeve’s will, like Bree had been. Even though the Pyr had managed to save Rhys, his survival certainly hadn’t been part of anyone’s plans in Fae, and he liked being alive.
It was preferable to the alternative.
Trick me once, shame on you; trick me twice, shame on me.
Rhys had been taught that by his father, and it was a mantra that guided his life. He wasn’t going to tell the Pyr about the selkie, because they’d encourage him to pursue her, given that they were all protective romantics. Rhys had been spared that inclination. He was practical and he wasn’t going to take the chance that she was part of Maeve’s scheme.
Even if he had dreamed about her every single night since his escape from Fae.
But that was proof that there was something magickal afoot: Rhys never dreamed. Ever.
He could still feel the prickle of the firestorm, sparking in