Chapter 70 The Question of Where She Sleeps
Damien
The sun has barely touched the horizon, and already I’ve checked the supply manifests three times.
Provisions—accounted for.
Weapons—sharpened and cleaned.
Guards—assigned in rotating shifts with enough redundancy to satisfy even my most paranoid instincts.
Maps—charted, cross-referenced, and sealed.
Still, I go over them again. The room smells faintly of parchment and wax, the kind of scent that used to steady me before a campaign. It doesn’t anymore. Not when the cause this time isn’t conquest or defence, but her.
My dragon stirs, voice curling through my mind like smoke. You’re pacing again.
“I’m thinking.”
You’re fussing.
“It’s called preparation.”
It’s called obsession. The dragon sounds amused. We’re not marching to war, we’re travelling with our mate. There’s a difference.
“There are threats.”
There are always threats. But right now, the greatest one is that she’s sitting in a dusty room full of dead trees instead of eating.
I stop mid-stride. “What?”
She’s in the library. Hasn’t moved for hours. I can smell the ink from here.
I rub at my temple. “I told her to rest.”
You also told her you would find her for dinner.
“I forgot.”
Exactly. There's a pause, followed by that low, lazy rumble that means trouble. If you don’t feed her soon, I’ll take over and do it myself.
“You will not.”
Try me.
I sigh, grabbing my coat. “Fine. I’ll go.”
Bring food, the dragon reminds me. And wine.
By the time I reach the library, the light has softened into evening gold. The great doors stand open, spilling warmth and the faint scent of parchment into the corridor. Inside, she’s curled up in a chair by the fire, one leg tucked under her, hair spilling loose over her shoulder. Gilfred is a small lump of contentment beside her, his tail twitching lazily.
“Snowflake,” I say quietly.
She glances up from her book, eyes bright but distant, as though she’s halfway between worlds. “Did you know Frostborn used to be artists?” she says instead of hello. “They made ice gardens that never melted.”
“I didn’t,” I admit, stepping closer. “But I do know you haven’t eaten since morning.”
Her brow arches. “You came all the way here to tell me that?”
“I came here to make sure you’re not starving.”
“Well, that’s dramatic.”
The dragon hums in amusement. Tell her you brought food.
I set the covered tray on the table beside her. “Dinner.”
Her eyes flick toward it, then to me. “You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to,” I cut in, sitting opposite her. “It’s easier than letting my dragon break through the door.”
Her lips twitch, but she doesn’t argue. She closes the book and slides it aside, pulling the tray closer. Steam curls up as she lifts the lid—roasted meat, bread still warm, fruit glazed with honey. The kind of meal I’d normally have eaten alone.
“You cook this yourself?” she teases, picking up a slice.
“Do I look like I have time to cook?”
“You look like you have control issues.”
“That’s fair.”
We eat together, quietly at first, until the silence softens into something companionable. The fire crackles. Gilfred sneaks a piece of fruit and scampers off to his usual hiding place. Every few minutes, she looks at me—small, fleeting glances she probably thinks I don’t notice.
“You’re staring,” she says finally, smirking without looking up.
“You’re eating,” I counter. “I’m making sure you continue.”
Her laugh fills the room, light and genuine. It hits me somewhere deep, the way warmth does when you’ve lived too long in the cold.
She’s happy, my dragon murmurs, pleased. You did that.
Don’t sound so surprised, I murmur back.
I’m not. Just proud.
When the plates are cleared and the fire burns low, I lean back in my chair. “We should rest early,” I say. “Tomorrow will be a long day.”
She nods, stretching slightly. “Good idea.”
And then there's… silence. The kind that feels too loud. She doesn’t move. Neither do I. Because now comes the question I’ve been avoiding since dawn—where does she sleep? Her room, mine, somewhere else entirely? What are the rules now? There are none. That’s the problem.
My dragon is not subtle. She sleeps with us.
She might want her own space.
She doesn’t.
You don’t know that.
She’s thinking about your bed right now.
I grit my teeth. You don’t know that either.
I do. She’s picturing it in perfect detail.
Stop—
The sheets. The firelight. Your—
Enough! I mentally yell at him.
There’s a beat of startled silence—then a soft laugh from across the room. I glance up sharply.
She’s smirking. “You do realise the line of communication is wide open, right?”
I freeze. “You—”
“Heard everything,” she says sweetly. “And I have to admit, it’s much more entertaining when I can hear both sides of the argument instead of just watching you make faces.”
My dragon purrs, smug as sin.
I glare at nothing in particular. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”
Bella leans forward, chin resting on her hand. “You really were overthinking it, weren’t you? The whole does she want to sleep in my room thing?”
“I was… considering options,” I say stiffly.
Her smile widens. “Well, considering you literally tied your soul to mine, bit a hole in my neck, and made my legs useless for an entire day…” She stands, crossing the room until she’s right in front of me, eyes glinting with wicked amusement. “I’ll be sleeping in your bed.”
My dragon hums approvingly. Smart woman.
I can’t help it—the corner of my mouth lifts. “You’re incorrigible.”
“I’ve been told that before.”
When she moves past me toward the door, I follow automatically. The air between us hums with something I can’t quite name—equal parts warmth, amusement, and that quiet understanding that’s been there since the moment we stopped pretending.
She glances back once, hair brushing over her shoulder. “Coming, Majesty?”
I nod, voice low. “Of course.”
As we walk the quiet corridors toward my chambers, I let the dragon’s satisfaction wash through me. See? She’s ours. She belongs here.
She’s not something to own, I murmur.
No, he agrees. She’s someone to keep.
I look down at her walking beside me—barefoot, tired, stubborn as ever—and I don’t argue. The frost outside may be melting, the world shifting toward something new, but in this moment, everything feels steady.
When we reach the door, she hesitates just long enough to glance up at me. “Tomorrow,” she says softly.
“Tomorrow,” I echo.
She steps inside first, the flicker of firelight catching in her hair. I follow, closing the door behind us—and finally, I’m not thinking about what comes next. I'm entirely focused on just this. Just her.