Page 80 of Nine-Tenths

That'ssofucking cool.

I wonder if Dav has horns, and if he’s able to manifest them like he does his claws. I've had my hands in his hair enough to know that he doesn't wear them daily, but if they make him look as badass as Onatah…

…right, no.

My Dav is charming, fussy, curated, and kind. He's handsome. When he's upset, he’s intimidating and, I'm not gonna lie,sexy.But he is not, and will never be,badass.

While I was checking her out, she was returning the favor.

"Will I do?" I ask.

"You’re good but, yeah, that boy's got a type," Onatah chuckles as I clamber on the bike.

'A type' implies that Dav's dated before. There were people—humans? dragons?—before me.He's over two hundred years old.I shove down the bitterness that comes with remembering that Dav wasn't the one who told me so.Of course he's dated before.

Before I can indulge my curiosity about Dav’s ‘taste’, we’re speeding off into the sticky afternoon.

The ride is smooth, which I appreciate like whoa. Onatah doesn't seem like she needs to prove how macho she is with crazy stunts. Or maybe it's that she knows Dav will kill her if something happens.

A knot of emotion makes it hard to swallow—old grief, and giddy relief, anticipatory joy, and a simmering resentment I hadn't realized was still on low-heat in my veins. Dav had kissed melike thatin the Murder Basement, and then gone upstairs andleft methere, literally in the dark, knowing full well that he intended to walk out of the door with Lt. Gov. Jerkface. Onatah made it sound like he hadn't had a choice in staying away, but the point is: he went in the first place.

Calm and docile. Like a lamb to slaughter.Or a soldier obeying orders.

Marquess, I had learned in my panicked scan of Wikipedia, was a title given to those who presided over border territories on behalf of a monarch. Military leaders granted land and titles, responsible for the safety of their March and tasked with being the first line of defense. Dav had told me he was insignificant. But Marches are important. And Marquessate of Niagara encompasses the wholepeninsula.

Including where I live.

Including, that means,me.

And he'd never said.

He'd neverusedit.

He could have. He had every right to. I realize that now.

And hehadn't.

That's the important part.

He sat in that corner, nervous and patient, and hadn't been pushy or selfish. Granted, I don't think either of us could have predicted a kitchen fire is what would have brought us together. But I think we were already two proto-planets, just starting the slow dance of gravity that would lead to our inevitable fusion. The fact that I had been excited, thinking that I'd run into Dav at the bar the night before the fire was proof that I hadalreadybeen thinking about him that way.

The sudden, gut-dropping reminder that I'm inwayover my head makes me tighten my grip on Onatah's waist. Man, I don't even know whoOnatahis. Do I have my arms currently wrapped around the waist of a princess? Do her people ascribe to the colonizer hierarchy of royalty? Is she a chieftain or a… fuck, should I bow or something when we get off the bike? Fuck.

Lost in my introspection, torn between excitement and lingering resentment, I miss when Onatah exits the highway. Suddenly we’re bordered by fenced-in pastures, and hedges planted along the roadside to protect the delicate grape vines in the fields beyond them from the wind and exhaust. Thatsmokey-warm scent that follows dragons like expensive cologne fills the helmet, but I can imagine the scent of the countryside in the glowing, humid late afternoon—barnyard, foliage, and the pungent scent of fallen fruit.

That's when we start skimming by the walls.

They're about three meters high, I'd guess, made of local golden sandstone, and heavily wreathed in trailing vines with bright trumpet-shaped orange flowers or little purple blossoms. There's no barbed wire, or spikes. There's no need. The sheer solid gravity of the wall is a pretty solid 'go away' sign.

We stop in front of an ornate, art-nouveau style wrought-iron gate. It wouldn't look out of place on the cover of a gothic romance novel. I imagine leaning back against the iron to gasp for breath as I flee into a star-lit night, clad only in a windblown white nightgown. I giggle as Onatah drops the kickstand.

"Nerves," I lie when she cuts me a funny look.

Close-up, the swirls of the gate resolve themselves into grape vines and bunches of fruit, and a slit-eyed, content dragon winding his way bodily through the plants. There are flowers around his ears, and his wings arch up to form peaked arches, the fingers of each wing descending to create the bars of the gate.

I wonder if it's an accurate portrait.

"How true are the stories?" I ask as I take off the helmet. I move to hand it back to Onatah, and she points at the seat, so I set it down there.

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