48

I crept slowly through the narrow cavern, careful not to disturb the hoard stacked up against the walls. It was unlike the treasure hoard in the rest of the cavern, which was mostly gold and other valuables—this one held things. Empty birdcages, piles of shoes, kites hanging from the ceiling, dartboards, bookshelves stuffed with tiny carvings of animals, a massive aquarium full of gently waving green plants, bronze kettles, seashells, sewing machines. There was no rhyme or reason or organization to any of it, it just spilled everywhere. I moved extremely slowly in order to avoid knocking down any of the delicately stacked goods.

In the back was a massive four-poster bed, with thick velvet curtains pushed open. The bed was covered in blankets and pillows, stacked so high it looked more like a nest, with Draunar asleep on his side in the center of it. He looked almost childlike amid all his stuff, curled up and breathing steadily in his sleep.

All I had to do was pry two scales off his shoulders and get out. Piece of cake.

I reached into my pocket to grasp the hilt of my knife. I was too focused on Draunar’s sleeping form, though, and my elbow tapped against a precariously balanced stack of bottles piled against the walls. I bit my lip to keep from gasping as I whirled to face the stack, both hands open, as the bottle sitting on the pile that I’d knocked clicked against the others, and then toppled.

I caught it on my hand right before it hit the ground, but it was full of what appeared to be marbles, clattering moodily against each other as they resettled in the sealed bottle. The pile still swayed, and I stared at it completely motionlessly with the rogue bottle in my hand. Don’t fall. Don’t fall. Don’t fall.

The bottles stopped moving. The pile stayed intact.

I remained bent awkwardly over with the bottle in my hand as I slowly turned to look at the bed.

In the center of the mattress, Draunar shifted, but his breathing remained steady.

I exhaled slowly and placed the bottle at the foot of the pile. Then, keeping my elbows close to me, I pulled the knife from my pocket. I crept closer, until I was just a pace away from the edge of the bed.

There wasn’t a damn book in his entire library about draconic shifters. Corinne had said he was due to shed the scales that gleamed on his shoulders, but I had no idea what that process entailed. I blinked in the dim light, then leaned closer to get a better look at the scales on his shoulders.

Draunar was on his side, bare-chested, with the heavy comforter pulled up around his waist. The scales started at his nape and ran over the width of his shoulders to his deltoid muscle, then appeared more sparsely down nearly to the elbows.

I stepped closer so my thighs were almost pressed to the edge of the mattress. It was so silent and still in the room that every exhalation of my breath seemed loud enough to potentially wake him. Yet he didn’t stir.

The scales were about as big as the palm of my hand and were layered over each other. But they weren’t lying as flat as they did when he was in his dragon form—or even as they were when he had summoned them to the surface to block Elias’ attacking jaws. They were craned upward, like they were about to peel off the skin one at a time. I took the knife in hand and peered at the scales as close as I could, holding my breath so he wouldn’t feel my exhalations on his skin.

There were two right at the top of his nape. That must be where the shedding started. One green and one gold, and both looked like they were moments away from falling off on their own; they were peeling up off the skin much more than the ones on his arm. I reached out and touched the sharp tip of one of the scales.

Draunar didn’t move.

I gently pushed the scale upward, away from his skin.

Still he lay there in sleep.

I slid the edge of the knife under the scale, careful not to touch his skin or his other plates. The flat of the blade was now along the scale, until the tip barely pressed the place it was still connected. I pushed the knife in a little closer. The barest amount of pressure.

I pushed up, then the scale released itself like dead bark from a tree. I gripped it tight between my forefinger and thumb in complete stillness, like I’d been catching the bottle again.

Draunar shifted and sighed in his sleep but didn’t wake. I gazed for a moment at the gleaming emerald scale in my hand, then tucked it into my pocket.

Then I repeated the process on the other scale. Lift it up carefully. Slide the blade beneath. Pop it off. It came off just as easily as the emerald one had, and I tucked it into my pocket like a prize. I smiled to myself, inordinately pleased with my success, as I gazed at the pale pink lines on his nape where the scales had set.

The knife briefly felt heavy in my hand.

With the scales in my pocket, I had a sudden thought:

It’d be easy, so easy, to take this small knife, and slide the blade into the side of his throat. It’d only take a moment for me to draw it across his flesh and stain the mattress with his blood.

Or I could push it into his temple. Or roll him over onto his back and slam it into his heart before he awoke.

I gripped the hilt tighter.

Could I do that?

I’d killed before. I’d killed Rona with a knife barely larger than this, driven into her flank when she’d attacked me. But I hadn’t meant to—I’d just wanted to injure her and keep myself alive. I hadn’t known about the poison. I’d never killed intentionally. I’d hardly even fought someone in a setting that wasn’t an arena.