I kicked a stone.
Stupid, pointless thing — sharp, too. It bounced once, then sliced under my toe. I hissed and hopped, clutching my foot like the gods themselves had cursed me with irony.
Barefoot. Again.
Always fucking barefoot.
The ropes were gone. So was the loot. So was the medallion. And his fucking dagger. And my sandals. My last pair.
"Odran," I spat, like the name itself tasted of rot. "Zurrik's flaccid cock, may he ride a syphilitic camel into a lava pit."
The Dragon stood there, still and smug, like a judge carved out of contempt and old smoke.
"I told you," he said, with the infinite satisfaction of the morally superior and the emotionally disappointed. "Never trust heroes. Especially ones who oil their chests before battle."
I didn't answer. Just glared at the horizon like I could will that fucker back into existence so I could gut him with a fish bone.
He had played me. Slipped away in the night while we slept. Took the sack of gold. The medallion from the priest-king of Altair. His stupid enchanted dagger — the one with the phoenix bone hilt. And my sandals. Bastard even paused long enough to pry those off my feet.
I ground my teeth. "May his cock rot and fall off mid-thrust. May he develop boils on his—"
"Colorful," the Dragon murmured, examining a chipped claw. "Though I fail to see how creative genital hexes will help us get our gold back."
I turned on him. "You let him sleep near us!"
"Oh, forgive me for not strangling your lover in his sleep."
"He wasn't my—!"
He raised an eye ridge.
I shut up.
I hated myself. Hated him. For the smirk. For being right. For being old and smug and smelling like scorched myrrh and smugness.
Mostly, I hated me. For thinking, even for a flickering, stupid moment, that Odran might be... decent. That underneath all the posturing and preening and that devastating jawline, there was a man with honor.
Turns out, there was just a man with grabby hands and no fucking soul.
"He left a note," I muttered.
The Dragon looked mildly interested. "Does it rhyme?"
I pulled it from my cleavage — the only place he hadn't rummaged. The Dragon read it out loud:
"My dear wildflower,
Thanks for the ride.
Tell your scaly friend I'll be back
for the rest of him soon.
xoxo — O."
There was a moment of silence.
Then the Dragon burst out laughing.
Not a chuckle.
A full-body, wheezing, fire-snorting laugh.
"Oh, that asshole!" he bellowed. "He even signs like a barmaid!"
I stood there, vibrating with rage and shame. My foot throbbed. My pride bled.
"Don't," I growled. "Don't you dare say 'I told you so.'"
He sobered slightly. "I wasn't going to. I was going to say 'Next time, maybe let your brain do the thinking instead of your thighs.'"
I threw the rock at him.
Missed.
He didn't even flinch.
"I mean, what is this world coming to?" I barked, storming in increasingly erratic barefoot circles on the dusty path. "Used to be honor among thieves. That meant something!"
The Dragon huffed smoke through his nostrils. "No, it didn't."
"Well, it should've! If you can't trust scoundrels, who the fuck can you trust? Priests? Politicians? Goat herders? At least thieves had codes."
"You're romanticizing a profession known for stabbing people in the back."
"We had a deal!" I shrieked. "A deal, damn it! I let him rescue me, we split the loot, everyone claps, curtains close, roll credits."
I was working myself up into a righteous lather now. Probably looked like a madwoman — barefoot, hair wild, gesticulating at nothing but wind and bad choices.
"The whole act went perfectly!" I growled. "Textbook!"
The Dragon rolled his eyes. "Oh please, enlighten me."
"First, we had the quivering maiden—me—bound and moaning on the altar. And you—"
"Please don't describe me as 'moaning,'" he said coldly.
"You came roaring in, all smoke and brimstone. A terrifying, grotesque beast—"
"Charming."
"—no offence."
He sniffed.
"And then our valiant knight," I sneered, "Sir Oil-My-Abs, charges in like a dumb wet dream. He shouts something heroic, throws glitter, and pokes at you with his shiny stick. You roar, I scream, he scoops me up—"
"Fumbles," the Dragon corrected. "Dropped you once."
"And then we make off with a king's ransom. Two full sacks. Jewels, coins, one gold-plated reliquary, a scroll with a bishop's seal I was gonna forge into a land grant."
"Odran's horse nearly collapsed under the weight," he mused. "That part I did enjoy."
I pointed at him, nearly toppling over on a rock. "Exactly! It was perfect!"
He lifted a brow ridge. "Up until the betrayal."
"First damn night!" I shouted, throwing my hands to the sky. "Campfire still warm. I even gave him my half of the wine! We curled up on that stupid stolen blanket and then—poof. Gone. Horse, gold, medallion, my sandals!"
"And your dignity," the Dragon added helpfully.
"Fuck you."
He stretched his neck, bones popping audibly. "You should be grateful he didn't take your liver."
"Oh no," I muttered bitterly, "that he probably left out of spite. 'Not even worth the brine,' he probably said."
Silence fell again. The bad kind. The kind where nothing stirs but regret and the faint smell of betrayal sweat.
"I think he used me," I said finally.
The Dragon blinked. "No."
I shot him a glare. "Okay, yes. But he used me in a hurtful way."
There was a snort, deep and rumbling. "You're a conwoman, Saya. You got conned."
I slumped onto a rock. "I hate being out-bastarded."
"Then stop sleeping with bastards."
"No."
We sat there, the wind rustling dry grass and my mood sinking faster than my chances of ever seeing that loot again.
Then the Dragon asked, "What now?"
I glared at the horizon. "We hunt him down."
"And do what? Kill him?"
"No. That would be too kind. We get our loot back. Then… then we ruin his name. Spread a ballad about how he cries after sex and smells like pickled onions."
"Hmm."
"And we steal his next scam. Set it on fire. Piss on the ashes. With style."
The Dragon looked genuinely impressed.
"See?" I said, standing. "I'm motivated."
"You're barefoot."
"Then carry me, scaly bitch."
He sighed. "Only because I want to see what else you'll do when you're angry."
Gods above and below. I even let that bastard watch me bathe.
There I was — in the stream, sun-dappled, hair wet, tits perked, putting on the kind of show that should come with a ticket price. All coy smiles and finger trails. He sat on that rock with that stupid smirk, pretending to look away, then not looking away, then pretending not to look away again.
I even arched, for fuck's sake.
And then he robbed me. Robbed me.
Of my gold, my dagger, my sandals — and my dignity.
I groaned, deep and primal, like something dying inside me. "Uuuugh."
Behind me, I heard leathery wings shift.
"Oh please," the Dragon said with a sniff. "You rode him like a wild horse in mating season."
I whipped around. "Excuse me!?"
"Don't play coy. I heard it all."
"You were asleep!"
"I wished I was asleep." He shuddered. "My hearing is exceptional. My smell is even better. That entire meadow still reeks of desperation and hair oil."
I shrieked, "Don't you dare—!"
He snapped, cutting me off with a hiss and a glare. "Don't I dare? This is your human fault. You creatures. So sloppy. So hormonal. You trust a man with abs and a horse and forget he's probably just another ape in boots."
I pointed a finger at him, shaking with rage. "Don't start."
He snarled, nostrils flaring. "I will start. I should've started before you decided to bang the bait."
"Oh, so now you're the morality patrol? Since when do dragons get to lecture anyone?"
"We have principles!"
"You eat virgins!"
"Allegedly! And only the annoying ones."
I paced, barefoot and fuming, jabbing my finger like I could jab his pride. "Principles, he says! Oh yes, let's talk about dragon principles. Like greed. Hoarding. Arson. Isn't that your sacred code? Hoard everything, burn the rest?"
He lifted his head with wounded dignity. "It's called legacy."
"Oh, is that what you call it now? I call it compulsive theft with extra steps."
He growled. "Better than chasing dick in the bushes."
I gasped, scandalized. "That is beneath you."
"Nothing is beneath me," he snapped. "I fly. Above everything. Including your bad decisions."
My hands were fists now. My face was hot. My heart was somewhere between 'stab him' and 'cry pathetically into my own cleavage.'
"Just say it," I spat. "Say you're disappointed in me. Say I ruined the plan. Say I'm a slut with a soft spot for muscle and an empty head."
He looked at me for a long, long moment.
Then he said, flatly, "You're a slut with a soft spot for muscle and an empty pouch."
I choked on a laugh. Or maybe a sob. Couldn't tell anymore.
"Fine," I said. "Next time, I fuck the horse."
"Don't you dare."
The Dragon let out one of those long, world-weary sighs — the kind that made him sound older than empires and twice as bitter.
"Fine, Saya," he rumbled. "We're no worse off than before."
He paused.
"Except for the sandals."
I gave him a dead stare and wiggled my toes in the dirt. Little flecks of gravel clung to them like insults. "Thank you for the reminder."
He shrugged, unapologetic.
I squinted into the distance, where the trail twisted toward the treeline. "Think we can catch him?"
The Dragon grunted noncommittally.
"You can fly faster than any horse can run," I added, nudging him with my hip.
He didn't answer right away. Just narrowed his eyes, scanning the horizon like it had personally offended him. Finally: "He's probably gone into the forest. Dense canopy. Hard to spot from the air. Maybe even doubled back into the city."
I blinked. "Then we go after him. Into the city."
He swung his head toward me so fast I thought his neck might snap. "Have you lost your mind?"
"No more than usual."
"Cities have defenses, Saya. Towers. Turrets. Crossbows. Ballistae the size of carriages. Some of them have mages. Do you remember the last time I got shot in the ass with an enchanted quarrel?"
I bit back a grin. "You limped for a week."
"It whistled, Saya."
"I said I was sorry."
"You said it was funny."
I sighed. "So what, we just give up?"
He snorted. "We find a cave. Somewhere quiet. Lick our wounds. Let you cry about your sandal loss in private."
I stared at the sky for a long moment, letting the last embers of rage die in my chest. What replaced them was heavier, duller. That low burn of defeat that tasted like wet ashes and old wine.
I sighed, soft this time. "Fine."
"Climb up," he said, lowering his wing with a grunt.
I clambered up, grumbling, skirt bunched, thighs sore, ego worse.
The wind picked up as he prepared for flight. The last light of day slanted through the trees. Somewhere out there, Sir Odran rode fat with stolen gold and smug righteousness.
But this wasn't over.
Not by a long shot.
I wrapped my arms around the curve of his neck, pressed my cheek to his scales, and muttered, "We're going to ruin him."
The Dragon didn't answer.
But I felt his hum of agreement deep in my bones as we lifted off.