First Chosen by the Dragon (Evelyn) novel Chapter 31

[Evelyn’s POV]

The mark wakes me before the sun does. Heat blooms across my chest like a handprint pressed to a stove, and when my fingers find the skin above my heart, the outline is still there—Draven’s palm, his fingers, seared into me during the ceremony just days ago.

I trace the edges in the dark, feeling warmth pulse under my fingertips, alive and insistent. Not painful. Worse than painful. Intimate. Like he’s still touching me, even now, even with walls and corridors and all the careful distance between us.

“You’re awake early,” Aspis murmurs through the bond, her voice thick with drowsy warmth. “Or did you never actually sleep?”

“I slept,” I lie. “A little.”

“Your heartbeat says otherwise. It’s been racing since midnight.” Aspis counters easily, because apparently nothing gets past her.

“My heartbeat is a traitor.” I swing my legs off the bed and reach for the dark clothes folded on the chair—routine now, practiced, the way everything about sneaking through service corridors has become practiced since the beach.

Since Aspis hatched and the world split open. Since Draven stood beside me in moonlight and looked at me like I was something worth looking at. “How are you feeling? Any better than last night?”

“Restless. The walls are too close. My wings keep hitting things.” I think I can hear a tinge of whining there, and it twists my heart in turn.

I pull my tunic over my head and lace my boots in darkness. The compound sleeps around me. I ease my door open and slip into the service passage like a shadow returning home.

The hidden corridors smell of damp stone and old wood. I know every turn now—left at the cracked pillar, down the stairs where the third step groans, right at the broken sconce.

This path is muscle memory, worn into me by regular predawn visits, and my feet carry me through the dark while my mind stays fixed on the heat radiating from my chest.

Draven’s door is unlocked. It always is, this time of morning—an agreement neither of us ever spoke aloud. I slip inside and let my eyes adjust to grey light seeping through curtained windows.

“I hear you,” Aspis says, excitement spiking through the bond like a struck match. “Come.”

I cross to the private alcove and pull the heavy curtain aside. Aspis lifts her head from where she’s curled on stone, white scales catching dim light like scattered moonstones, amber eyes finding mine with fierce joy.

She’s the size of a large hunting cat now — sleek and muscular, wings folded tight, tail curving around her haunches. Beautiful. Impossible to hide much longer.

“Hey, gorgeous,” I whisper, crouching to press my forehead against her snout. She chirps—a deep, resonant sound that vibrates through my sternum—and pushes into my touch. “You’ve grown again. Your wing nearly reaches the window frame.”

“I can’t help it. Everything feels too small. The ceiling is wrong. I need sky, Evelyn.”

“I know. We’ll figure it out.” I stroke the ridge between her eyes, feeling the bond hum steady and warm. But the energy coiled inside her trembles against my palm—restless, building, wings twitching with the need to fly. She shifts, and one wing clips the curtain rod with a metallic scrape that makes me wince.

I reach up to adjust the curtain, and that’s when I hear the footsteps. Measured, deliberate, the stride of a man who owns every stone beneath his boots. I smooth the fabric into place and straighten just as the door opens.

Draven enters already dressed for the day—dark leather and steel, blade strapped to his thigh. His gaze sweeps the room, tactical and automatic, and then it finds me.

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