They tied me to a slab again.
Different village, different ritual, same lack of creativity.
This one was a chunk of ancient granite halfway swallowed by weeds and hubris, high up in the crumbling ruins of what once might have been a fortress. A hilltop altar with history and bad feng shui. Moss-covered columns leaned like drunk priests, and a faded fresco behind me depicted some nobleman getting a handjob from a muse. Classy.
I was flat on my back, arms and legs stretched wide, wrists bound with hempen rope that smelled of mold and sheep. They'd done their best with the staging—someone had even scattered petals—but let's not pretend it was romantic. I was naked again. Except for the usual accessories: one gold body chain, two ankle bruises, and a head full of questions like "Why do rural cultists always have the same taste in knotwork?"
Offerings surrounded the stone: baskets of barley, a few strings of dried fish, three oddly-shaped gourds, and, hallelujah, a modest pile of silver and gold coins that actually looked clean.
So at least the village wasn't completely broke.
"Must be a good harvest year," I muttered to the sky.
The sky, as usual, did not answer.
I wriggled slightly, testing the ropes. Firm, not unbreakable. I'd given them some struggle during the binding ceremony—just enough to sell the performance, not enough to actually get free. This was, after all, a production.
I was deep into my third dramatic sigh when the shadows shifted.
No wind. No warning. Just a hush across the ruins, like the world sucked in a breath and held it.
And then—wings.
Not the familiar leathery flap of my dragon. No. This was snappier. Meaner. Less arthritis, more entitlement.
A shape descended from the clouds with the grace of a pissed-off storm god. Bright scales. Blue-black, with an oily sheen like someone had lacquered a knife. The wings cut through the air like accusations.
He landed with a thump that cracked one of the ancient paving stones and set the altar vibrating under my ass.
Not my dragon.
This one was smaller, sleeker, and immediately radiating the energy of a bastard who inherited power and never learned manners. His horns were too polished. His claws too clean. His eyes—gods, his eyes—smug, sharp, hungry in a way that wasn't about food.
"Well," he said, voice dripping with superiority. "What have we here?"
I batted my lashes, instinctively. "A mistake," I offered. "Sorry. Wrong altar. Carry on."
He sniffed the air, stepped closer. "Virgin sacrifice, aren't you?"
"Oh, sweetie." I chuckled. "That ship sailed, hit a reef, caught fire, and was looted by pirates."
His nostrils flared. "You reek of lies."
"Thank you," I said primly. "It's my signature scent."
He circled the altar once, inspecting me like a dragon at a livestock fair. I sucked in my stomach. Arched slightly. Just because I was in danger didn't mean I couldn't look good.
"You don't smell like a maiden," he muttered.
"Because I'm not," I said, smiling tightly. "Let's skip the awkward reveal, shall we? This is a scam. I'm the bait. You're not supposed to be here. Kindly sod off."
He blinked at me.
Then let out a slow, ugly laugh.
"Oh, this is rich. Some peasant tart thinks she's running cons in my sky."
"I was here first," I snapped.
He bared his teeth. "And I'm here now. Which means the tribute is mine. The gold. The grain. The girl."
I blinked. "You're seriously claiming salvage rights on a tied-up whore and a basket of radishes?"
He leaned down, close enough that I could smell ozone and ambition.
"I'm claiming what's mine," he said, low. "You were offered. I'm accepting."
"Okay but consent is still a thing—"
He snorted. "You don't have to like it. Just lie still and look grateful."
"Oh, honey," I said. "You have no idea who you're messing with."
I felt it then. The familiar flicker of fear beneath the bravado. Because this wasn't just a cocky dragon with something to prove—this was a cocky dragon with something to take.
My dragon would kill him.
If he got here in time.
If he wasn't napping on his hoard again. Or moisturizing.
I forced a laugh. "Listen. Really. There's been a mix-up. I have a partner. He's the usual monster-in-residence for these things. Bigger. Older. Much gayer. He'll be pissed."
The young dragon tilted his head. "A rival?"
"A business associate. With very sharp claws and a temper problem."
"I'm not afraid of geriatrics."
"You should be. He might not fuck maidens, but he does collect the heads of arrogant fledglings."
That gave him pause. But only for a second.
"Then I suppose I'll take what's owed quickly," he growled. "Before the old fool waddles in."
I yanked at the ropes, frantic now. "Seriously. I'm not a virgin. Not even close. I've had sex in bathhouses, stables, wine cellars, public forums, twice on a moving cart—"
He grinned. "So much the better."
Oh gods.
I was going to die.
Or worse—be fondled by a legacy brat with wing envy.
Where was my dragon?
My heart was hammering.
I mean, I'd been in tight spots before. Tied-up-on-an-altar was practically Tuesday for me. But this? This was new.
This was teeth. This was tongue.
His forked tongue slithered out, slow and deliberate, flicking the air just above my thighs. He hummed, a low vibration that made the altar buzz beneath my spine.
"Not a virgin," he said again. "But still… tender."
"Oh gods—please don't make it weird."
Too late.
His tongue dragged across my belly—wet, hot, and unreasonably dexterous. It slithered up, curling between my breasts, leaving a sticky trail of dread and reptilian enthusiasm.
I squirmed, half in terror, half in—okay, mostly in terror, let's not romanticize it. But there was something about being licked by a mythic monster that made my nerve endings fire in six directions at once.
I bit my lip.
He grinned.
"You're quivering," he said, smug.
"I'm cold," I lied.
"You're scared."
"No. I'm—"
The sky rumbled.
No. Not thunder. Wings. Heavy. Familiar. Fussy.
"Oh thank the fucking gods," I breathed.
And then—WHAM.
A shadow fell over the ruins. Dust swirled. Ancient banners snapped on dead wind.
And he landed.
My dragon.
My arthritic, judgmental, insufferable, gloriously mine dragon.
He landed like a bitchy avalanche. Wings folding with theatrical disdain, smoke curling from his nostrils in elegant loops. One scale on his left haunch glinted dull from last week's scratch, but his eyes—gods—his eyes were molten murder.
"Step. Away. From the whore," he said.
The younger dragon looked up from where his tongue had just reached the underside of my boob and blinked.
"Well, well," he purred. "Look what the wind dragged in. I didn't know retirement homes did field trips."
My dragon hissed. "Is that you, Axiarthanax? Still alive? I thought you'd choked to death on your own reflection."
The young one bared his teeth. "Still dragging around your toys, I see. Shouldn't she be in a museum? Or a laundry bin?"
I cleared my throat. "Hello? Still tied up here. Also, rude."
"Don't talk to her," my dragon snapped.
"Why not? She smells like moonlight and whorehouse linens. I like her."
"She's with me."
"Didn't know you were into damaged goods."
"I didn't know you were still compensating for your wingspan."
"Say that again, old man."
"I'd rather write it in fire across your scaly ass."
I rolled my eyes. "Gods, just fuck already."
But it was too late.
They launched.
Wings thundered. Claws flashed. Teeth gnashed.
They crashed into each other mid-air like rival ballerinas at a blood-soaked audition.
It wasn't elegant. It wasn't majestic.
It was a sissy fight with fire and feathers.
They scratched, they snarled, they insulted each other's grooming habits. The younger one screeched something about scale polish. The older one roared about "consent" and "decorum" and "cheap cologne."
They bit tails. They swatted wings.
They screamed things like:
—"You always cheated at hoard-counting!"
—"Your poetry sucks!"
—"You think 'smoldering' is a personality trait!"
They rose higher into the sky, two glorious disasters in glittering, flaming fury.
I lay on the altar, blinking up at the chaos, ropes forgotten, heart pounding, and thought:
Gods. I am so glad I didn't fake an orgasm for that one.
A blast of fire singed the clouds. A wing clipped a ruined tower. Somewhere, a goat screamed.
And then—with one glorious, sweeping tail whip—my dragon slammed the other into a pillar.
It cracked.
He fell.
Wings flailing. Dignity shattered.
He caught himself midair, barely, and glared up at us with all the fury of a jilted prom queen.
"This isn't over!" he shrieked.
My dragon raised an eyebrow. "It never is, sweetheart."
"You'll regret this!" Axiarthanax snarled. "You and your little hussy!"
"Partner," I called out, sitting up. "And I'm not little."
He roared in frustration, flapped his glitzy wings, and bolted into the clouds like a tantrum in scale form.
Silence settled over the ruins. The breeze returned. The altar stopped trembling.
My dragon landed again with a huff and cracked a stiff joint.
I looked at him. He looked at me.
"Well," I said. "That was dramatic."
He glanced at the altar. At me. At the rope burns on my wrists.
Then he sniffed. "Did he lick you?"
"Only the front half."
He groaned. "I hate that guy."
"So do I."
"Did he—?"
"No," I said. "But thanks for showing up. Just in time to ruin the mood."
He huffed smoke. "You're welcome."
"Help me up?"
He bent down, extended a claw. I took it. I winced.
He dropped me a few paces from the altar with all the grace of a disappointed waiter delivering cold soup.
I dusted myself off. Adjusted the gold body chain. Flipped my hair like a shield. It was going to take hours to get the dragon spit off my boobs.
That's when he snapped.
"I saw your face."
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
"When he licked you."
My jaw dropped. "What about my face?"
"You liked it."
I laughed. "Are you serious? I was tied to a rock being tongued by a reptilian rapist in training. What part of that screams fun?"
"You shivered."
"I quivered! From fear! And disgust! And possibly low blood sugar!"
He narrowed his molten eyes. "You didn't scream."
"I didn't want to give him the satisfaction!"
He huffed, wings twitching. "You didn't not moan."
"Oh, for the love of—don't you dare get jealous. You're the one who left me tied up like a holiday roast in someone else's airspace!"
"I was delayed!"
"You were late!"
"You think I planned for him to show up and start slobbering on my—on you?!"
"I'm making this about you?"
"You could've scowled! Or screamed! Or made yourself less… savoury!"
I recoiled. "Less savoury?! What am I, a tavern snack?"
His tail thrashed. "You were glistening. And sprawled. And your legs—your legs were doing things."
"They were tied down, you lunatic!"
"You were arched."
"I was restrained!"
"Don't act innocent. You looked like a fertility carving done by a very lonely sculptor!"
"Oh my gods. You're jealous because I looked good getting assaulted?"
He growled, smoke curling from his nostrils. "I'm not jealous. I'm protective. There's a difference."
"No, there isn't! It's the same coin—just with 'possessive prick' written on both sides!"
He reared slightly, flaring his wings. "You think I enjoyed watching that neon hatchling grind his snout on your thighs like a dog sniffing supper?!"
"Apparently you enjoyed it enough to circle for three extra minutes before swooping in!"
"I was getting altitude!"
"You were hovering! Like a dramatic chandelier with a temper problem!"
"I needed a clean line of attack!"
"You needed therapy!"
He groaned. "Don't twist this. I was concerned. You were vulnerable."
"I was always vulnerable, darling. You just didn't notice until someone else touched me."
That hit. He froze.
The silence between us crackled louder than the earlier fight.
He turned his head. Looked anywhere but me.
The wind had picked up. The sun was sinking. The ancient ruins cast long, accusatory shadows.
Finally, he muttered, "I just hate the thought of anyone else—of him—touching what's mine."
I stared.
"What's yours?" I said slowly.
He blinked. "I mean—our arrangement. The con. The—"
I took a step forward. Chin high.
"Say it," I said.
He shrank slightly. "Saya…"
"Say it."
"You're… my partner."
"Better."
"My business associate?"
"Worse."
"My—fine! My whore with exclusive partnership rights! There. Happy?"
I rolled my eyes. "Delighted."
He sniffed. "Still. You didn't have to look so… tasty."
I slapped his foreleg.
"You arrogant, hoarding, emotionally constipated lizard! Do you think I chose to be attractive? I exist! That's all it takes!"
"I noticed."
"You weren't supposed to notice!"
"Then stop looking like that!"
I gasped. "You want me to wear a potato sack next time?"
He shrugged. "It might help."
"I will! I'll wear a sack! With onion stains! And maybe I'll smear myself in fish guts too!"
"You're being dramatic!"
"I'm being defensive!"
We glared. We breathed hard. We stood there in the ruins of a fake altar and a very real tantrum, the two of us vibrating with more heat than the fight overhead had produced.
Finally, he sighed. "I just… I worry."
I paused. "About what?"
"You're young," he muttered. "And reckless. And you look like a snack in moonlight. And one day someone's going to show up with real claws and bad intentions and I won't be fast enough. Or strong enough. Or…"
"Or young enough," I said gently.
He didn't answer.
I stepped forward, barefoot, scraped, bruised, and kissed the side of his snout.
"I liked your rescue better," I said.
He closed his eyes.
Then: "Even if it came with jealous screeching and a sky brawl?"
"Especially because of that. Very theatrical."
He huffed. "You like the drama."
I smiled. "I am the drama."
He looked at me.
"I'm sorry," he said at last.
"For what?"
"For snapping."
"And for assuming I wanted to be licked by an airborne narcissist?"
He groaned. "Yes. That too."
"And for calling me savoury?"
"I meant it in a concerned way."
I nodded solemnly. "Next time, just say I looked empowered."
He bowed his head. "Empowered. Glistening. Slightly endangered."
I grinned. "Good boy."
He grumbled something obscene and lowered a wing.
I climbed up, settled into the crook behind his neck.
"Where to next?" he asked.
"East," I said. "There's a coastal town full of priests, pirates, and people with more faith than sense."
He took off.
We flew into the dusk.
Still bickering. Still broke. Still brilliant.
A scam artist and her dragon.
Partners.
Sort of.