Page 65 of Dragon’s Ending

“I would’ve come, once I’d finished researching how to build a trebuchet,” he assured me.

“Good to know my safety’s a priority.”

His gaze followed me as I crossed the room. Watching me closely, the way he did when he thought I wasn’t noticing.

“You okay?” he asked.

I thought of bright purple crayon. Of three smiling stick figures holding hands. God.

“Yes,” I lied.

His eyes narrowed at once. “That sounded suspiciously like a lie.”

“You’ve known me how long? You cannot possibly identify my lying voice already.”

“I’m very talented.”

I rolled my eyes and climbed back into bed, even though I was fully clothed. Before he could keep looking at me like that.

The instant I settled, he moved closer, warm beneath the blankets as he tucked himself against my side. Like this was already habit. Like we’d always done this.

It hurt so fiercely I had to close my eyes for a second. And when I opened them, I couldn’t help but reach out to brush his hair back from his face. God, he was beautiful.

“You’re being weird again,” Dominic informed me suspiciously.

“I am not.”

“You absolutely are.”

“Well,” I said, because I needed to say something before I got too emotional, “you’re very stare-at-able.”

That got a startled laugh out of him, and some of the heaviness lingering around him seemed to ease slightly. Not gone, but softer somehow.

His fingers slid lazily beneath the hem of my jumper, up under my t-shirt, coming to rest on my skin. “You know,” he murmured, “at some point we probably have to leave this bed.”

“That does sound unpleasant.”

“Tragic, honestly.”

For now, though, neither of us moved.

DOMINIC

By the time we made it out of bed, breakfast was so long over, Glenys was almost ready to serve lunch. We snagged toast and coffee anyway, and got out of the kitchen before she thought to ask us about the sodden, muddy boots by the back door from last night.

The records room still had that smell of dust and old paper. I hesitated slightly before walking in.

Ben noticed, of course, but all he said was, “I know I should be working on the early stuff, but I’m dying to find out your family’s version of peppercorn rents. I know it’s going to be nothing normal.”

I blinked at him. “What rents?”

“Peppercorn, when some kind of payment was needed to protect the landlord’s and tenant’s rights, but you didn’t want to fleece someone. Oh, that’s a thought—I bet at least one person demanded a fleece or maybe a sheep in payment. Anyway, sometimes it was nothing more than a single peppercorn or a pair of capons.”

“What the fuck’s a capon?” I asked, dropping into my chair.

“They’re castrated cockerels.”

I stared at him.