Chapter 10 – Morning Promises
Dante woke just after dawn, golden light spilling between thin curtains and stretching across the foot of the bed. Before doing anything else, he looked down to make sure Margaret was still there.
She was—curled against him, breathing softly, one hand resting over his heart as if afraid he might disappear while she slept.
Smiling, Dante eased himself free, lifting her arm with feather-light care so she wouldn't stir. His bare feet touched the cool floorboards; a quiet shiver ran through him, half from the chill, half from the memory of last night's wildness. He slipped on a T-shirt, padded into the small kitchen, and opened a cupboard in search of simple ingredients. Eggs, butter, salt, pepper, a fresh orange—nothing fancy, but enough for a warm breakfast.
A skillet hissed as butter melted. Dante whisked eggs with a fork, thinking: Dragons never need food, yet cooking still feels… human. A normal moment in a life that's anything but normal.
He poured the eggs, folded them slowly, let the steam rise, then squeezed juice from the orange until the glass was bright and frothy.
Back in the bedroom, Margaret drifted awake. Her muscles ached—but in a way that made her blush, not wince. She traced the empty mattress beside her, noticed the spot was already cooling, and laughed softly.
"I have absolutely no resistance to him," she whispered, cheeks warm at the memory of his touch. She was about to throw on his shirt and hunt him down when Dante appeared in the doorway, balancing a tray.
"I wasn't sure what you like," he said, stepping inside, "so I went with the classic—scrambled eggs, fresh juice."
"That's perfect," Margaret replied, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear as he settled the tray across her lap. The aroma of buttery eggs filled the tiny room. They ate slowly, knees brushing, silence easy between them.
After a few comfortable bites, her curiosity surfaced. "You're a dragon now," she said, tilting her head. "Do you actually need food?"
Dante laughed, the sound low and relaxed. "Truth? No. Not to survive. But I remember tasting things back when I was only human. And I still enjoy the flavor, the smell, the… ritual."
Margaret nodded, absorbing his answer, then gathered her courage for a more important question. She set down her fork, folded her hands, and met his eyes. "And us? Our relationship—what happens next?"
Instead of answering right away, Dante leaned forward, scooped her into his arms in a single fluid motion, and stood. Margaret squeaked, half laugh, half gasp, wrapping her arms around his neck.
"I'll show you exactly how serious I am," he whispered, carrying her into the bathroom. The door closed, water started, steam billowed; for the next hour, their words were replaced by heat, laughter, and the splash of shower spray against tile.
When at last they stepped out—towels around waists, skin still tingling—Dante helped Margaret pick an outfit, then dressed in seconds himself. He took her hand, and in the blink of an eye they stood outside her publishing office. Teleportation left a faint purple shimmer in the morning air.
At the glass doors, he kissed her long and slow. "Nothing changed," he said against her lips. "You're my woman, just like I told you."
Margaret's pulse fluttered. She touched his cheek, smiling from ear to ear. "Then go. I'll see you tonight," she whispered, stepping into the building.
With a soft pop of displaced air, Dante re-materialized in his bedroom at home. His clock flashed a warning: nearly time for school. He threw on jeans and a hoodie, rushed downstairs, and found his father, Charlie, sipping coffee while reading headlines. Bella poked at cereal beside him; Sera poured herself tea.
"Sit, eat," Sera said, barely glancing up.
Dante scooped toast, swallowed juice, answered Bella's half-awake mumble about study hall. All the while, he could feel Sera's sharp eyes tracking him, nostrils flaring with a wolf's keen sense. She smells Margaret on me, he realized, cheeks warming.
Looks like my son thinks I can't sense perfume, Sera mused silently, amused. He's officially entered the secret-girlfriend stage.
Breakfast ended; Dante grabbed his bag and followed Bella out to her old pickup. The engine coughed alive, gravel crunching under the tires.
During the drive, Dante stared through the passenger window at forests racing past. Margaret is safe, he told himself. But Alice… The very thought of his destined vampire partner twisted a knot in his chest. He loved Margaret; he could not betray that bond. Yet dragon instincts whispered that Alice was part of him too, whether he liked it or not.
"One step at a time," he muttered.
Bella shot him a curious glance. "You say something?"
"Nah," he answered quickly. "Just thinking."
As long as Margaret and Alice don't meet, he thought, tightening his fist on his backpack strap, I can handle this. Future Dante will figure it out.
He exhaled slowly, watching pines blur into a green-gold smear, the truck rumbling toward Forks High and whatever fresh chaos waited in its hallways.