Chapter 29 The King with No Pants.
The dragon shifts again, the sound of it deep and alive as bones begin to slide, scales ripple, and wings fold in with a thunderous whisper. And then there he is. The man. Still far too tall, still radiating enough heat to warm a small village, but human again, or close enough to it. His skin gleams faintly in the fading light, breath coming hard, chest bare. And, bless him, this time he actually has the decency to cover his junk right away, which is kind. But also… a little disappointing. I was getting interested. He takes a tentative step toward me, as if afraid I’ll suddenly bolt, which is funny considering there’s nowhere to bolt to. We're still on top of a massive mountain, and I'm pretty sure he would catch me within two steps anyway. He’s watching me carefully, eyes flicking over my face like he’s cataloguing each reaction. It’s almost sweet, in a feral kind of way. Behind him, the castle looms huge and dark against the horizon, a massive structure of stone spires and shimmering windows, light pooling like gold in the cracks. It’s beautiful in that intimidating, “definitely-has-a-dungeon” sort of way.
“So,” I say finally, gesturing toward it, “I’m guessing you own this place?”
He bows his head slightly, the movement oddly graceful. “Yes,” he says quietly. “This would be my home.”
“And you would be…?” I prompt, raising my eyebrows.
He hesitates, just for a second, as if remembering how introductions work. “Right,” he says, voice low and rough, like it’s unused to small talk. “My name is Damien.”
I test the sound of it. “Damien.”
“Yes.”
“King Damien, right?”
His lips twitch. “Yes.”
“Okay, well, King Damien,” I say, nodding like we’re two normal people having a normal conversation and not two half-mythical disasters standing in front of a castle surrounded by melted snow, “I’m Bella.” I stick out my hand.
He blinks at it like I’ve just offered him a riddle instead of basic human contact. His gaze drifts from my fingers to my face and back again, as though trying to work out what, exactly, this gesture means. And then he just… stands there. For several long, awkward, agonising seconds.
“Usually,” I say carefully, “people shake it.”
Something flickers behind his eyes, amusement, maybe, and then, very slowly, he moves. One step closer. Another. He’s still holding his bits with one hand, which is definitely a look, I’ll give him that. Then, with all the regal dignity in the world, he shifts his weight, frees one hand, and offers it to me. The second his fingers brush mine, he stills, like he’s been struck by lightning. His hand is big, calloused, warm, and he looks down at our joined fingers as though the entire concept of touching another person might unravel the universe. And then I realise he’s not letting go.
“Um,” I murmur, flustered, “that’s enough handshaking for now.”
I pull my hand back quickly and spin around before my face gives away just how red it’s gone.
Behind me, there’s a beat of silence. Then a low, awkward cough. “Oh. Right,” he says. “Sorry.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. There’s a shuffle of feet, a faint thunk like someone kicking something, and then the distinct rustle of clothing.
Then there's more silence before he speaks again, steadier this time. “You can turn around now, if you like.”
I do, and, thankfully, (because that was getting very distracting) King Damien now has pants. They’re dark, tailored, and a little rumpled, probably a miracle of magic considering how quickly he pulled that off. He stands there awkwardly, arms crossed over his chest, as if bracing for judgment. And I, the fugitive who froze the sea, met a siren, and rode a dragon through the clouds, manage to say the only logical thing that comes to mind.
“Well,” I tell him, trying not to grin. “That’s an improvement.”
He’s still standing there, watching me like I’m an equation he can’t quite solve. It’s the kind of look that says I need to study this specimen under controlled conditions, and honestly? It’s starting to make me self-conscious.
I shift my weight, crossing my arms. “So… are you going to invite me in, or?”
That seems to shake him out of whatever existential crisis he’s been having. His eyes refocus, and he blinks twice, like he’s rebooting.
“Oh. Yes. Of course.” He clears his throat, again, and unfolds his arms. “Please. Come inside.”
He gestures toward the enormous double doors behind him, carved from dark wood and trimmed in gold. The wind tugs at his hair as he hesitates, then adds, quieter, “It’s warmer there.”
I arch a brow. “Warmer than standing outside a castle with a half-naked man? Hard to believe.”
He looks momentarily mortified, and the urge to laugh bubbles up in my throat. I manage to swallow it, barely, until he takes another step forward and, trying to remember his manners, holds out a hand to help me. Then, just as quickly, he retracts it. His eyes flash molten gold, then back to deep brown, flickering like embers caught in the wind. He clenches his jaw, nostrils flaring slightly, as though he’s in the middle of a very intense argument with someone no one else can see. The dragon. Obviously. I can practically feel it in the air—the tension between them, like two halves of the same soul pulling in opposite directions.
I laugh. A full, unrestrained laugh that echoes across the courtyard. He looks startled by it, as though no one’s ever laughed in front of him before.
“Alright,” I say, still grinning. “If you’re going to have an identity crisis, I might as well save you the trouble.”
I step forward, closing the distance between us, and slide my hand through his arm. His very muscular, very warm arm. He freezes. Completely. Every muscle locks up, his breath catching in his throat. Great. I’ve broken him. I glance up at him, trying to read his expression, but it’s somewhere between awe and panic. His jaw twitches. His eyes dart to where my hand and his arm are linked, then back to my face, then back again like he’s not sure how to process basic physical contact.
“You alright there, Your Majesty?” I ask sweetly.
He blinks down at me, voice low and a little hoarse. “You’re… cold.”
I shrug. “I’m fine. That's normal for me.”
The faintest smile tugs at his mouth, like it’s a new and dangerous thing to try.
“Still,” he murmurs, “you shouldn’t be.”
The way he says it sends an unexpected shiver down my spine. I look away quickly, pretending to study the giant doors ahead instead of his face.
“Lead the way, then,” I say briskly.
He exhales slowly, and then he nods, the tension in his body easing slightly.
“Right,” he says, voice a little steadier now. “This way.”
And as he starts to guide me toward the castle doors, I can’t help noticing that even with all his awkwardness, all his careful restraint… he never once pulls his arm away.