Page 166 of Nine-Tenths

"Yes," Dav says. "Like Rome. They weren't connected to the people they stole. It's uncomfortable to be on someone else's territory. Itches."

"Is that what happened in Aotearoa?" I ask, letting him sidetrack me for the moment. "The Dutch got itchy?"

Dav chuckles. "It's so far away from Europe. I can't imagine what it must have felt like. Certainly the land wouldn't call to Dutch dragons there the way it does to a Maori one. It wouldn't feel like it was worth fighting for. And without William Koning there to command his armies…"

"They withered. They lost, and died."

Dav kisses me again, desperate and clinging. I let him take anything he wants. Everything. I want him to live. I want him tothrive.

Onatah, I think, all of a sudden.The broken treaties. Her people lost so much—and Simcoe, man, if his father hadn't died when he did, Frank wouldn't have territory either. They would have nothing to cling into, nowhere to dig in their roots, no way to flourish in new soil.

"Next question, then," I say, when Dav is soothed. "Why would Lt. Gov Asshat makethatyour punishment? A century of house arrest, no Favorite, no contact with humans except those in your nest, no way to serve your people. Was it a death sentence on purpose?"

"No." He frowns. "No, surely not."

"One last question," I say softly, heart sinking, because I already know the answer to this one, and I don't like it one bit. "What does Simcoe stand to gain if you die?"

"That’s easy. I have no heirs at present. The marquessate would revert to him." Dav sits back and, gently, puts one hand over his mouth. "Oh."

Man, do I love a great Romance Novel Revelatory 'Oh'™.

Chapter Forty-Three

And here we are at the top of Act Three. These events are generally the most important parts of the story, since the entire plot depends on them to set up that oh-so-important final confrontation. Gotta seed all that stuff, gotta start bringing together the team, gotta start laying out the plan of action for the big confrontation, or revelation, or in the case of romances, love confession. Lots to do. Not a lot of time to do it in. Just like real life—it always seems like every essay is due on the same day, or a rush of customers all come in at the same time.

It can't just be in dribs and drabs, nooooo….

And after all that set up?

After that comes the crisis point, leading up to a climactic confrontation in which our protagonist faces a point of noreturn: they must either prevail or perish. Win the love interest, or be forever doomed to live as a thornback aunt, alone and bitterly unloved.

Or thornback uncle.

Whatever.

But let's not get ahead of ourselves, okay?

The problem with devastating revelations is that, unless you have proof, there's no way to confirm your assumptions are true. The more Dav and I talk about it, the more it's clear Lt. Gov. Envybritches hasnotbeen a fan of my man since Frankie-boy arrived from Spain all shot up, and too late to win the glory. School friends though they may have been, this has created a rift of resentment Dav only now understands Simcoe is actively nurturing.

But who could we go to with this?

Nobody. Simcoe is the top of the pops in Upper Canada, and beyond that the matter would have to go all the way to England to the courts. And we have noproof.

So what do we do?

Weplan. Dav is a tactician by training, and a cautious man by nature. He rarely acts without considering all angles. We haven't said much to each other since this morning. Dav's processing. His brilliant soldier's mind is going back over conversations, piecing things together, and I let him have his space for it. I try to give him his physical space too, but he's not letting me more than an arm's length away for the whole day, and I get it. I'm okay with it.

His draconic instincts need to know that I'm near, and safe, and be assured that he doesn't have to worry about me. That way he can tune his heightened senses to me, use me as his baseline. Calm himself with the sound of my heartbeat.

He is my air and my joy. I am his ground and his stability.

But.

Living with an old Loyalist soldier means that when he's morose, he breaks out the old Loyalist comfort foods. Which apparently means drinking something that's stirred with ared-hot poker.

Seriously.

Tall heavy-glass mug, egg, ale, rum, spices, stir with fire—it's like eggnog on speed. Dav calls it a Hot Ale Flip and says everyone used to drink them when he was my age.

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