Page 26 of The Dragon's Omega

In Vidar’s arms, I slept like the dead and woke up energized.

And sticky.

Overstimulatingly sticky. Like, carefully pry our skin apart so the dried slick didn’t tear anything sticky.

Fortunately, dragons were luxury magpies, and Vidar had spared nothing when he decked out this underground maze with everything he’d need to survive—and thrive—in the event of an apocalypse. Zombies? Nuclear war? My mate had it covered.

Of course, he insisted he hadn’t been thinking of a cataclysmic event when he designed his Pacific Northwest hoard. No, according to him, the steaming Roman bath and huge, fully stocked pantry and pricey collection of every cream, soap, and oil known to man were just the essentials.

“It’s the bare minimum,” he’d insisted incredulously, adorably unaware how spoiled he sounded while I gawked at the enormous bath chamber for the first time. Somehow, this was just a bathroom in his mind.

I mean, yes, technically there was running water for the sink, the toilet, and a shower—but then there was also an Olympic-sized pool dressed to the nines in glittery Mediterranean blue tiles, marble columns, and an arched ceiling with medieval-style engravings in the stone.

I had never been moved by opulence, but as an artist, my soul appreciated beautiful work. More than that, it craved passion. Cedar Cove alpha luxury was ostentatious, flashy, and braggy. It was a cash splash—not a celebration of form, history, or culture. Local alphas moved through the world with their bling and designer brands like everyone else was beneath them, like they were owed deference just by being.

But Vidar had built this hoard from the ground up. With magic and his bare hands—and claws, apparently—he had chipped, chiseled, and molded this secret retreat to his exact liking. He had taste. He had style. He put in the work, personally, evidenced by the constant stop and go anytime we moved to a new room.

No longer trapped in a heat haze, I listened, admired, and gushed as he pointed out finer details in certain design choices, or relayed the historical significance behind the more consistent themes I’d spotted throughout.

This alpha, he was passionate about his home, his space, his sanctuary, and that spoke to me as an omega. Usually we were the ones obsessed with hearth and home. It was biological, programmed into our DNA. Alphas traditionally defended territory, and we were ridiculous little psychos about everything inside our four walls.

Vidar seemed intense about both.

And about me.

Because the first thing he did after we roused from that glorious nap was insist on a bath and food—stat. In this giant pool, we both de-stickified with soaps and scrubs and slow, thorough massages that went both ways.

Next came a feast from a pantry that was about the size of my apartment, a dimly lit maze of shelves, temperature-controlled to accommodate everything’s needs despite there being no walls. Magic, apparently, played a big part in keeping his hoards alive in his absence. The invisible temperature clouds ranging from freezing to lukewarm blanketing Vidar’s supplies? Magic. I couldn’t get enough of it. How much easier would life be if we could all snap our fingers and will something into existence?

Much to my relief, he didn’t try to ply me with wine or liquor. No, Vidar insisted on electrolyte-heavy juices and lots of water, paired with a bevy of sweets to keep the energy I woke up with burning. Pastries with a delectable icing glaze. Chocolates dripping caramel with every bite. It was heaven.

I, like many omegas, had a sweet tooth, but Vidar also insisted I hit my macros: protein, fat, and carbs. He whipped a feta, tomato, and spinach quiche out of nowhere, followed by jerky he made himself for poolside snacking. He was so focused on supporting my post-heat recovery that I just…

I fell for him. A little.

A lot.

And I showed it with a steady stream of surprise kisses—ones we kept from going too far, even if it hurt to stop. Fortunately, the temporary sting wasn’t enough to ignore the dull, lingering ache down south. Despite the heat of the water, the sumptuous lotions, and Vidar’s safe, soft massages, my hips and inner thighs were sore. I mean, I tried to do all the things to counteract my sedentary work life: yoga, occasional Pilates, stupid little walks around the block for the sake of my stupid mental health…

But nothing prepared you to ride a real alpha and take his knot.

A knot my omega side, my heart side, was eager to lock onto again, but my body needed more recovery. My actual heat was due in about a month, so there would be plenty of opportunities to escalate these stolen kisses and heated glances.

For now, I practically purred under his attention, his care, and his curiosity. Unlike the Synn idiots who I’d had plenty of dates with over the last few months, Vidar asked questions about me.

Then there were actual follow-up questions to my answers, like he was listening, digesting, and then probing for more details because he genuinely wanted them. Flattered, safe in his orbit, I answered freely.

As we munched from trays at the edge of the pool, seated on tiled benches or dangling off the side in the deep end, I gave him all the details of my family’s recent tragedies. He got a big picture overview of how our happy home fractured into the broken pieces it was now, not because anyone was a bad person, but because circumstances hadn’t been kind. I shared how close I was with Louis growing up, how much I missed him now, that it wasn’t the same visiting him in his ward but I did it, every other day, because I was determined not to lose him like I was losing Dad.

When that got too heavy, we moved on to other topics. My education. My interests. My nest back home. My graphic design business. My cover art. My desire to move into tattooing—which I had told no one but him, and, fuck, did it feel great to finally say out loud.

But not as great as his support of my dreams, his excitement to see me through them, his promises to encourage me—if I chose to keep him.

Like that was a choice. He was my scent match. My fated mate. This dragon was stuck with me.

And I had questions of my own. Lots.

“Okay,” I’d said at the time, rubbing my hands together as we sat on a bench in the shallow end, his ale bubbling and my hot chocolate cooling just off to the side, “you ready?”

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