Page 48 of The Heart of the Dragon

"My recipe?" she gasped. "How on earth? Are you allergic?"

"No, not exactly."

"I may have doctored your recipe a little with a few extras."

Martha shook her head and wiped her hands on her apron. "Aye, of course. How many times have I told you that you can't go around casting spells while looking down your nose?"

"Casting? You're a witch?" Isaac asked the question before I could.

"My mum is a kitchen witch. All the cool things I know to do with plants, I've mostly learned from her."

"Obviously not everything," I grumbled. "And I've got the near-death experience to prove it."

Martha and Roger both stilled, looking at each other. "Did ya hear that, Roger? She poisoned a dragon. All on her own." The beam of pride was impossible to miss.

"What the hell kind of family is this?" I asked, shaking my head.

"A smart one. Obviously." Roger patted his daughter on the back as everyone but me took a seat.

"It really was an accident. How was I supposed to know that valerian could be fatal to a dragon? And even more importantly, why am I the only one surprised by the fact that heisa dragon? Someone needs to tell me what's going on."

"I'm ready for this story, too," Kitra grabbed a chair and scooped a large serving of the stew into her bowl.

I was still the only one not sitting, but my dragon was protesting as much as I was. And the last thing we needed was for me to lose control. I'd left enough destruction in my wake today.

"Go ahead, dear. Sit. There is no valerian in this house or my food. We do most of our creation down at the shop these days. That's where we keep the greenhouse."

I grumbled. "Why does that not make me feel better?" Despite my reservations, once again my stomach won out. Dragon metabolism was no joke and life got painful if I didn't keep it fueled.

Rose slipped me a tight smile. "Now about the dragons..."

Chapter

Nineteen

Rose

Throughout our meal,my parents largely dismissed my questions, insisting we would discuss it later. What truly baffled me was how they had shifted from being on edge and prepared for a confrontation at the door to their normal selves. I understood their belief in everything fae, but that didn't explain how they'd immediately recognized Magnus and his brother the instant they opened the door.

I stared down at my bowl, the remnants of my stew swirling like a storm on the horizon. Everyone seemed calm, but the air in the room was charged with an unshakeable tension. It was as if we were on the brink of something monumental, yet no one was willing to start the conversation. Their refusal to look in my direction now gnawed at me, and I swallowed hard, wrapping my arms around my midsection as if I could stop whatever was happening.

The familiar sight of our dining room—the rustic table, the faded photographs of my childhood hanging on the walls—should havebrought me comfort. Instead, the walls felt like they were closing in.

I remembered back to a summer day long ago, a day bright with sunlight and laughter. My father hoisted me onto his shoulders at the village festival, the world spinning around me with colors and sounds that felt magical. As we walked among stalls adorned with handmade crafts and delicious foods, my mother wove tales about the generations who’d come before us, how they had harnessed the power of nature and the elements. Those stories had always made me feel safe, hidden within the warmth of my family’s love.

But now, as I forced myself to focus on the present, those memories began to feel tainted. The laughter echoed with an unsettling hollowness, especially now that I was faced with the truth lingering at the edge of their never-ending small talk. I flopped back in my chair, frustration building.

Finally, unable to wait another second, I pushed my bowl away and placed both my hands on the table as I leaned forward again. I was officially over their stalling tactics.

"Okay enough. Tell me what's going on, and don't leave anything out. How did you know Magnus is a dragon?"

My father quirked an eyebrow as he casually scooped more stew into his bowl. “It's impossible not to notice. These two smell like hellfire and smoke. Not to mention their eyes are a dead giveaway,” he said, motioning at Magnus and Isaac, who loomed around the table like shadowy sentinels.

I turned to Magnus—his stunning green eyes met mine, full of an intensity that sent shivers racing down my spine. His gaze was captivating, almost hypnotic, and for a fleeting moment, I forgotthe chaos surrounding us. They'd been a little more golden the night before.

“I don’t get it. His eyes look normal to me.”

"Do they?" my mother asked. "Maybe look a little closer."

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