A dragon shifter novel Chapter 51

Mine To Protect. Mine To Love

Evander

0:

I stand in the corner like a rock, arms folded, and every line in my body strung tight and ready. Cage calls it tutoring, but it’s a performance, one part

correction, three parts sneer. He says something, then repeats it louder to watch her flinch. Every time his voice goes low and sharp, my dragon presses

against my ribs like a fist. I want to step forward and end him with a look, want to shift and show him what happens when you push what’s mine. I don’t. I can’t. Not here. Not yet. So I stay still and watch. Allison keeps answering, quietly and flat. It’s like she’s holding herself together out of habit. It’s a small,

stubborn thing; she refuses to let him see her break, but the hour wears on, and the way her shoulders sag, the way her quill trembles, the pale ring under

her eyes growing a little deeper each minute, I feel it in my gut like a warning bell. When she pauses mid–sentence, fingers slack, I feel the shift inside me. She’s running on fumes, and it is my job to correct that. “That’s enough for tonight,” I say, before I can talk myself into silence. My voice cuts through the room, and Cage looks up, irritation flickering across his face like a storm cloud. I keep my tone even. “She needs to rest.” Cage slams his book shut, an ugly sound that echoes. “She’s going to need a whole lot more time if she’s expected not to be a complete-” He doesn’t finish. He knows when the line has been crossed. “She’s done,” I grind out. My hands tighten into fists at my sides. Standing there, letting him mouth off, feels like poison. I’m always careful, continuously measured, but I’ve watched him push at her for too long. He can snarl and posture all he likes; if he touches her, if he tries to humiliate her, there will be consequences. I don’t need to say that aloud for him to understand. He throws me a look, part defiance, part calculation. Then, because he isn’t stupid, because he knows the cost of pushing a dragon, he lets the words die. He shoves his bag over his shoulder with a theatrical flourish and leaves the room, the door banging behind him. As the common room empties, the weight of the moment drops off like a cloak, and I finally move. I cross the space and kneel beside her, close enough that she can feel the heat in me but not so close she’ll feel trapped. Her face has gone slack with exhaustion; the sharp edges of earlier anger are smoothed away by fatigue. “You okay?” I ask, my voice low. I want to take her hand, but I hold myself back, letting my words be the first touch. She blinks up at me, a small, almost apologetic smile flickering. “I’m fine. Just tired.” The lie is gentle and useless. I’ve been tracking the truth all

evening. “Good,” I say. “Come on, you need to eat and rest.” I rise, keeping my tone casual and light.

The attic door clicks softly behind us, sealing out the noise of the halls and the world beyond. Inside, the air is warm and heavy with the faint scent of cedar and lavender. She drops her bag onto the floor and lets out a long, shaky sigh, shoulders sinking as if the weight of the entire world has been pressing there. Above us, the enchanted skylight shimmers with the night sky, casting the whole room in rippling silver–blue light. Stars pulse like they’re alive, the moon glowing full and proud. She looks like a painting, exhausted and messy and still, but somehow, radiant. My dragon hums beneath my skin, smug and possessive. “Sit,” I say quietly, my voice lower than I mean it to be. “I’ll make something to eat.” She doesn’t argue, which tells me more than anything else how tired she is. She sighs again, pads barefoot across the soft rug, and drops onto one of the plush green sofas. A flick of her fingers brings the TV to life, light spilling over her face as she tucks her knees to her chest.

I turn toward the kitchen, rolling my shoulders and scanning the space. It isn’t what I expected from a student dorm. It’s better. Everything gleams softly in the moonlight: dark wood, copper handles, small enchanted lights that glow when I brush my fingers under the dark green cupboards. The fridge opens with a soft hum, and I take stock: eggs, butter, meats, bread, a few containers of leftover breakfast food, and fruit. Enough to make something warm. I haven’t cooked in a while, not since before the Academy. Dragons have an appetite that borders on gluttonous, and the last time I worked a pan, it was in my family’s estate kitchen. Here, though, there’s something oddly grounding about it, using my hands and doing something simple and good. I pull a pan down and let the flame hum to life under my palm. The smell of sizzling butter fills the air, sharp and sweet, and I find myself grinning like an idiot. My dragon rumbles in my chest, a lazy, pleased sound. She’s hungry, he murmurs through me. “I know,” I mutter back quietly. A few minutes later, the pan hisses and crackles. I glance over my shoulder to where she’s still watching the TV, but her head has slumped to one side, cheek resting against the couch cushion–the flickering light dances across her face. The faint shadows under her eyes make her look younger, more human, more teal. I turn back to the pan and smile to myself. “You’d think she’d fight me on this,” I say softly. She’s learning, my dragon says, a deep chuckle threading through my chest. So are you.

When the food is ready, I plate it and bring it to her. Eggs, toasted bread, and some makeshift fried rice thrown together from the leftovers. She stirs just as I kneel beside the couch and place the dish on the low table. “Smells good,” she mumbles, blinking her eyes open. I chuckle, brushing a stray hair from her

forehead before I realise I’ve done it. “Eat. You’ll feel better.” The first bite makes her groan, a quiet, involuntary sound that sends a bolt of heat straight

through my chest. “Good?” I ask, half–teasing.

“Too good,” she says around another mouthful. I chuckle, leaning back against the couch beside her. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” We eat in silence for a while. The TV flickers, the moonlight shimmers, and I feel… complete, whole, and so happy. When she finishes, setting the plate aside and curling back into the cushions with a sleepy hum, I look at her again—the girl who wasn’t supposed to have anyone. The girl the world keeps underestimating, and I think,

clear and certain as fire in my chest, I will protect her with my life.

1/2

4:34 pm

PPT

Mine To Protect Mine To Love

Comments

Kati Wood