The Dragon's Match

VIII

VIII

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

"Bring me Leowyn!" Aëghan snapped, latching onto the arm of a passing servant who pivoted sharply, an expression of shock and fear displayed openly on their visage. The tufted tips of her ears quivered with her trepidation, her large dewy eyes wide and stricken as she took in the clearly agitated frame of a very large male.

Inwardly, he chastised himself. He was never one to frighten or demoralise serving staff, especially those of fae descent, so he endeavoured to visibly relax, loosening his hold on the female- who was almost in the process of toppling over a stack of crisp linen sheets she cradled in front of her- and inhaling a deep breath.

"Leowyn," he repeated, his gruff tone gentling somewhat. "Summon him to me at once in my personal quarters."

A look of perplexity now combined with the small thing's terror, her mottled brow pulling together tightly over her dark eyes. "Sir?"

This time, he did swear aloud, which did not aid matters in the slightest. Frustrated, he released the fae and huffed an impatient breath. "Lord bloody Ravensfield," he said through clenched teeth. "Say it is urgent!"

Thankfully, the serving girl didn't seem prone to stand in the middle of a dimly lit hallway and make protestations with a worked up Dravolese male and hurried back the way from which she came.

He watched her retreating back for a moment before stalking off himself, his steps long and purposeful as he made his way to his quarters.

Lillian Adams was paving a path directly to the pits of his insanity and there was nothing he could do about it.

His fingers clenched into hard, balled fists at his sides, the muscles in his shoulders and back tensing until they ached. Every part of him, every sordid inch of his skin, felt alive- crawling and writhing- with the need to seek her out, to encage her in his talons and take her away from this place.

From whatever was continuing to cause her unrelenting waves of distress that carved veins directly to his very soul.

Their brief encounter midmorning was to blame, he realised. If he hadn't touched her, hadn't held her supple form close to his body, he would never have become so vehemently aware of the fluctuations of her emotions, of how intrinsically part of her the volatile and disturbing inner turmoil was.

It was an effort in futility attempting to convince himself that he was so afflicted by her because of the mark when every breath he inhaled held traces of her delicate floral scent, and whenever he closed his eyes, a twin set of preternaturally blue ones swam before him tauntingly. If he was left to his own thoughts and silence pervaded his surroundings, the calm superiority of her voice drifted through his memory with appealing titillation.

And what a voice Lillian Adams embodied! Sultry, with a feminine husk, imbued with a tone that was almost always closely monitored and even. Even when she was lambasting him for the liberties he had taken with her that afternoon, her voice never rose higher than a few octaves above a murmur. No, he thought, Lillian Adams used careful phrases and her naturally authoritative presence to administer her set downs and that was tidily more effective than outright shouting.

So consumed with the memory of her, of how she felt once she relaxed within his hold amidst a cold, snow-peppered winter day, Aëghan scarcely knew he had stumbled into another fleshy form until he instinctually reached out and steadied the fellow who he had barraged into.

Blinking rapidly to clear his recollections, he took stock of his surroundings and noted that he was in the process of crossing the polished tiles of the large foyer that dominated the entrance of Ravensfield.