Arms around her, Celyn held her tight, assured that he was at least keeping her warm.
“Elina, what is it?”
“Nothing, nothing.” She gripped him tighter. “Just bad dream.”
Although Celyn wanted to ask what her dream was about, what could be so horrifying as to terrify a woman who spent all day wishing everyone a good meeting with death, he knew the last thing she needed was his questions.
Showing weakness was not something Elina did. Ever. No matter what her tribe might think of her. But she was showing it now, to him, and he would respect her by not being . . . well . . . himself.
It took some time, but eventually her body stopped shaking, and she finally pulled away from him. She stood and walked over to a large boulder. Celyn watched as, naked, she climbed up on it, and sat down. She raised her knees and wrapped her arms around them.
Celyn began to follow her, to slide in behind her, and hold her. But, again, something told him that wasn’t what she wanted. So he tried something else.
Elina sat on the large boulder and stared up at the sky. She worked hard to control her racing heart, her desire to flee.
By the horse gods, how desperately she wanted to flee. Not from Celyn. He was perhaps the only reason she’d gotten this far. His constant questions and chatter had kept her so distracted that she hadn’t had time to think about returning to her tribe. To Glebovicha. To that woman’s mocking tone, her obvious hatred, her utter disgust at Elina’s very presence.
Celyn continually marveled at how strong a hunter Elina was, but hunting and horses had always been Elina’s escape. She could track a lone buck through the mountains and take him down with one shot since she’d passed her twelfth summer, ensuring that she could always provide food or live on her own if it was ever necessary. And after she met with Glebovicha about Annwyl’s request, something told Elina that would be necessary.
Elina stared up at the sky, allowing the wonderful silence of the Steppes to ease her panicked soul . . . until she heard the breathing.
She turned her head and saw scales.
“Climb on,” Celyn said in his deep voice, ten times deeper when in his dragon form.
She liked that.
Without hesitation, Elina climbed onto Celyn’s back, her naked body kept warm by his natural heat and all that black hair.
She kept close to his neck, her legs wrapped around it, her hands pressed against the back of it. Elina felt no fear being this close to a being that she knew could eat her whole . . . like a little treat before a larger meal. She felt safe with Celyn the Dolt. Had felt safe with him from the very beginning. From the day he’d found her standing on Devenallt Mountain, trying to decide whether to run—and bring shame upon herself—throw herself at the mercy of the Dragon Queen and most likely get eaten, or simply throw herself off Devenallt Mountain so she wouldn’t have to worry about any of her problems, Elina had felt safe with Celyn. She’d instinctually felt he’d never hurt her, even though she had no idea why she felt that way.
So sitting on his dragon back, his scales rubbing against her naked thighs and legs as he breathed or moved the slightest bit, did not scare her. If anything . . . she loved the feel of it.
“Watch this,” he quietly ordered. “The queen taught me this. I’m not as good as her, but I’m not bad either.”
The dragon took in a breath and then unleashed his flame. It wasn’t the big explosion of fire and death that she’d seen when he’d confronted those who’d killed the old dragon. It was just as deadly, but there was an elegance to the flame as it moved across the Steppes, zigging this way and that, cutting down layers of grass. It was fascinating to watch, but Elina assumed he was just showing off his flame to her. Like a man showing her what he could do with a sword or trying to impress her with the accuracy of his bow.
Then Celyn rose into the air. Not too high, just high enough for her to see the ground below in the bright moonlight overhead.
The lines of what he’d burned into the ground were simple and clean. Like a beautiful drawing.
“What is that?” she asked, assuming it was some sort of dragon rune.
“Your name in dragon script.”
Elina gasped, surprisingly shocked by his answer. Perhaps because it was so simple and yet so . . . charming.
Damn him! He was Celyn the Charming!
“Want to fly for a bit?” he asked.
“I do.”
“Then burrow close to my neck and wrap my hair around you. That will keep you warm. And hold on.”
She did as Celyn bade as he rose high in the air and began a leisurely loop around the Steppes, giving her another view of the lands she loved so much.
It almost made her forget what had made her wake up screaming in the middle of the night. Not completely . . . but almost.
Honestly, that was more than she could have ever asked for.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Frederik had his shield up while he kneeled beneath it. The battle-axe rammed into the steel over and over again.
Finally, after a few minutes, it stopped, and he let out a breath.
“You going to keep hiding under there?”
“I’m not hiding,” Frederik lied. “I’m . . . biding my time. Before launching a brutal counterattack.”
The shield was snatched from his hands with more ease than he cared to think about, and Bercelak the Great stared down at him.
“Brutal counterattack? Really?” The dragon held his hand out, and Frederik grasped it, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet.