The great hall had been loud with music only moments ago — drums, clapping, the rustle of silks —but now the sound felt distant in your ears. You stood alone in the chamber the guards had ushered you into, the dragon costume still clinging to your body. It had been meant as a jest toward the Targs’ pride in their dragon blood. But the moment the performance ended, a royal guard had come to you. The prince wanted to see you.

Everyone in court knew the stories about Prince Aerion: Cruel. Arrogant. A temper that could turn a careless word into blood on stone. Men had been beaten for far less than mocking the blood of the dragon.

The door opened.

Aerion stepped into the chamber with strange stillness, his pale hair gleamed like molten silver in the candlelight, and his violet eyes fixed on you intensely. His tongue dragged slowly across his lips — a strange habit you had noticed during the feast.

“You danced well,” he said at last.

“Your Grace, I—”

“Silence.” He said, almost distracted. Aerion walked around you, his gaze travelling over the costume piece by piece — the scaled bodice, the flowing red silks, the golden chains sewn into the sleeves to form the illusion of wings. “You mocked us,” he said, but instead of anger, there was something else in his gaze.

Hunger.

“My prince, I meant no—”

“Do not lie,” he interrupted.

Aerion stepped behind you, his hand brushing the bare skin of your back where the dress opened between the shoulder blades. “You looked like one,” he continued. “When you moved.” His fingers glided down each vertebra until it reached the curve just above your tailbone where the dress finally covered you again.

“Look,” Aerion said as he turned you to face the mirror. He lifted your arms, positioning them exactly as they had been during the dance — wings spread. Aerion moved closer until the heat of him pressed against your back, staring at your reactions intensely. The costume suddenly felt far too revealing under his gaze.

Aerion clicked his tongue sharply, noticing you looking away. His hand released your arm only to grab your chin, squeezing your cheeks roughly and forcing your face back toward the mirror. “Look,” he said sharply.

“You dared dress like a dragon before me,” he said, his mouth moving closer to your ear. “And now you are embarrassed to look at yourself?”

After a moment he released your face, the loss of his presence felt almost as unsettling as his touch.

Aerion moved toward the carved chair near the hearth and sat down, leaning back lazily as though settling onto a throne. His gaze never left you. That same hungry fascination burning in his eyes. His tongue slid slowly across his lips again, and then he lifted one finger, beckoning you toward him. “Come here little dragon.”

“Dance for me.”

“Your Grace—”

“If you wished to mock the dragons,” he said, “then surely you will not mind dancing again.” There was something both threatening and strangely entranced in his voice.

“Unless,” he added. His eyes dragged slowly down your body, his tongue sliding over his lower lip again. “you would prefer punishment for disobeying a prince.”