Page 88 of Nine-Tenths

"I'm sorry," I say, jerking back and pushing the palm of my hand hard against his forehead to force him to look at me. "Fuckingwhat?"

"Do you understand?" Dav whispers, distraught. "You're now myproperty."

"Kinky," I croak, trying to make a joke even as it feels like the world has dropped out from under me.

Owned,my brain screams. I resist the urge to use the hand already on his forehead to bounce his skull off the shelving behind him and scurry to my feet. The instinct to flee, run,getawaycoils like a serpent in my guts, but instead I take a deep breath and try to breathe through the urge, because I already knew this. This isn't news. Everyone knows what a hoard is. Everyone knows that dragons own all the land and rule all the people and resources on that land.

This isn't... this isn’tfreshinformation.

It’s just, ah, moredetailedthan it was before.

That doesn't make one iota of difference to the small, terrified, snarling bit of me that lives in terror of confinement, who finds uncomfortable situations claustrophobic, and has recurring nightmares about being locked in a glass fishbowl and suffocating under soulless plastic piles of medical tubing. To the part of me that wanted to shove Dav away and make a run for it, no matter how irrational that was, and how little difference it would make to our situation.

But to hear it put sobluntly...

Hoarded.

The only difference is that I, one specific human, have now—in accordance with draconic law—made myself the chattels of one specific dragon.

Enslaved.

I let Dav go, and try to calm the twanging fear racing across every nerve in my body. My hands are trembling so hard it takes two tries to jam them into my pockets. My chest feels like Dav's wrapped his tail around it and is pulling tight.

I will not have a panic attack about this, I tell myself firmly, huffing on the little distressed sounds that are fighting their way up my throat.Breathe.

"Kinky?" Dav echoes, confused before he catches the look on my face, the cadence of my heartbeat.

"Yeah, it’s—" I start but choke on the joke I’m trying to make.

"Oh, Colin, you needn't attempt to be flippant about it," Dav rushes to assure me, sitting up from where he'd been draped on the shelf. "It's wretched. I didn't even get toaskyou."

"Ask me?" I say, grasping for some sort of even footing. Telegraphing his every gesture, and moving slow enough that I could wave him off or push him away if I wanted to, Dav wraps his hands around my elbows, holding tight to help me stay upright. "Ask me if I would like to make myself some sort of indentured servant? Jesusfuck."

"Ask you if you would care to spend the rest of our lives together," Dav corrects, eyes darkening.

Chapter Twenty-Five

It sounds so fucking romantic the way he says it.

Especially with the last of the golden sunlight pooling on the floor around us, the long honey-amber shadows cast by the tumbles and towers of books. It was almost like being on the ramparts of a castle, the stone spires and high walls sheltering a pair of lovers from the hateful gaze of the enemy far below, held back by their passion, and the moat.

Itisromantic.

Itwouldbe romantic, under literally any other context.

Because he still looks desperately unhappy. That's what I keep circling back to.

It's like he's playacting. He's putting on a show of what is expected of him, not what he wants.

I'd had the thought while clocking his plain boring proscribed landscaping, his plain boring proscribed house. And now here he was, too terrified or ashamed to look me in the eyes, plain and boring, and proscribed in his terrible, bland suit. Wearing the uniform of a good, professional, genteel man of society instead of just getting tobeone. He's playing a part thrust on him, when the real Dav is wild, and unfettered, hedonistic and passionate. He loves hugely, so much so that it spills out into every interaction with everyone around him, translates into his joyful desire and cell-deep need to ensure that everything he does pleases and brings joy to whomever happens to enter his orbit. He enjoys things with an immensity of satisfaction that I've never seen before, savoring each bite of food, each sip of coffee, each heady kiss. He takes pleasure in the simplicity of a clear blue sky, or the comforting tap of rain against the glass, the softness of a gorgeous fabric, or the warmth of my pinkie finger curled around his own.

Andthisis what Lt. Gov. Fucknuts is trying to squash. To regiment. Torule.

To keep me away from.

Well, screw that guy.

I free my hands from my pockets and reach up to cup Dav's face. My whole body is quivering, but not from anxiety this time.

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