The (Not) Satisfied Dragon - Colette Rhodes Page 0,79

his chest.

“My name is Quillan Edan, and this is my mate, Tal. To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit, Flight Galon?” Quillan asked, looking between us. It appeared, our reputation preceded us.

“I didn’t realize news of our flight name had spread so quickly,” Ezra replied, eyes narrowed on Quillan. “It’s only been announced at the Council of Dragons.”

“Information is as good a currency as coin,” Quillan countered with an unapologetic shrug. “Sometimes better.”

None of my mates looked thrilled by that answer, but we wanted his help so we couldn’t very well press him for more.

“We need to find some rare ingredients,” I volunteered when my mates said nothing. “Blood saffron and dusk oak bark.”

Quillan hummed, looking thoughtful. “Those are rare ingredients. Expensive taste you’ve got there, Shira,” he added with a wink. I cringed, thinking of the obsidian blade Oren had pried out of my fist and thrown in the river.

“We can pay,” Ezra rumbled, his arm tightening around my waist.

“I don’t doubt that, but your timeline is tight, is it not? I assume this is for the sick Scribe,” Quillan mused. He really was well informed.

“It’s very alarming that you know all of this,” Seff muttered.

“I’d have to call in some of my best guys, have them work through the night,” Quillan continued, talking more to himself than us. Tal hummed absently, crouching down to pull some weeds at the flower bed by her feet.

“I don't mean to rush you, but this male is very much dying so are you going to help or not? The clock is ticking here,” Ezra drawled. His fingers flexed slightly around my waist, the only outward sign that he was irritated.

“I’ll see what I can do. I’m not in a business where promises can be made.” Quillan gave an apologetic shrug, while Tal gave me an almost imperceptible nod that I hoped meant it would be taken care of.

“We’ll be back this time tomorrow,” Ezra stated flatly, already edging backwards with me still in his arms. Quillan’s obvious lack of deference must be irritating him.

That sadistic part of me that enjoyed needling Ezra rejoiced.

“Oh, by the way, it’s not coin we want as payment. This is a big job. We’ll be needing that emerald. The one that was said to belong to the last royal flight,” Quillan added, looking pleasantly at Ezra, though the steely glint in his eye suggested he wasn’t as ambivalent about it as he appeared.

“I hate the fucking fae,” Hiram muttered, wind gusting around us as he lost control of his magic. That emerald had been a gift from his family, I could see why he didn’t want to part with it.

But we couldn’t just leave the Scribe to die.

“Deal,” I replied, reaching out to shake his hand. Ezra pulled me back, clasping Quillan’s hand instead and making the deal in my place.

“This time tomorrow then,” Quillan said cheerfully, bowing his head.

Chapter 17

This was the longest godsdamned day of my life, and despite his good intentions, I wanted to punch Hiram in the face for suggesting we throw a party. What I wanted tonight was to curl up in bed with a soft, sleepy Shira in my arms. What I would get was a bunch of drunken dragons, all trying to get a look at our mysterious little mate.

I hated it already.

Oren and I met the rest of the flight in the air after assigning two of his brothers to watch the Scribe tonight and my mother to cook some healthy meals for the poor guy. No one had objected to our requests, but they had looked at us strangely for asking. It bothered me, knowing I would find it odd too if I were in their position.

Not one member of our flight would have considered trying to heal the Scribe if Shira hadn’t suggested it. We certainly wouldn’t have gone and checked on him. And gods, did he need someone to check on him. Even if he hadn’t been sick, his entire living situation was grim.

I brushed Shira’s wing with mine, before dropping back down with a warning look from Oren’s dragon. Poor guy. He didn’t mean to be so territorial, but they hadn’t consummated their mating bond yet, and he was struggling.

By the time we arrived back at our den, Ezra’s mother and two of his fathers were already waiting impatiently outside the front door, eager to set up our last-minute party. Party wasn’t the right word. It was a tactical maneuver, rather than