Outside, chaos has bloomed.
Screams echo down the streets. Boots thunder on cobblestones. A bell clangs—the kind reserved for fires, revolts, or sex scandals too big for polite whispers. A window shatters somewhere below. The unmistakable shriek of a baker's wife hits a high note that rattles the glass.
And then, cutting through the noise like thunder with better posture—
"SAAAAAYAAAAA!"
The voice.
My voice.
Well. His voice.
I'm already up before I even think about it, goblet discarded, wine forgotten, lunging across the room like a startled cat dragging a silk curtain. I grab the nearest sheet—wrapping it around myself in something between a toga and a cry for help—and sprint barefoot through the chamber, down the corridor, and up the spiral stairs.
When I burst out onto the rooftop terrace, the air is hot. Too hot.
Because the roof is on fire.
Not metaphorically. Literally. Flames lick the ornate wooden beams. Sparks spiral into the night. Below, the town bell tolls furiously as people scramble with buckets and curses.
And there—on top of the domed bathhouse roof across the street—is him.
The Dragon.
My Dragon.
Scaled, winged, majestic, irate.
He sees me and his eyes flare molten gold. "THERE YOU ARE!"
"Here I am," I say, panting, half-covered in bed linen and regret.
"I thought you'd been captured again!" he booms, wings fanning smoke off the roof. "I sensed distress! I felt your aura dip below chaos threshold!"
"Well, I was captured," I shout back over the chaos. "Kind of. It's complicated!"
His claws scrape the tiles as he leans closer. "How complicated?"
I sigh. "I was sold, then seduced, then collared, then pampered, then possibly wed."
He stares.
I stare back.
The fire crackles between us like dramatic punctuation.
"I'm getting married," I say flatly.
His jaw drops. "To whom?"
I point vaguely back toward the window.
The merchant's daughter is there. Still bent over the bed. Still being admirably serviced by our designated village himbo, who looks like he's either climaxing or having a small heart attack. Possibly both.
The Dragon blinks. "...You're marrying that?"
"No, the one under him," I say. "But, again, it's complicated."
He looks at the burning roof. The window. Me.
Then back to me.
Then down at the fire.
I glance at my singed sheet toga. At the flames. At the faint outline of the bridal necklace still dangling between my boobs.
I sigh. "Fuck it."
I leap.
Right off the edge.
He catches me mid-air, wings flaring wide, one clawed forelimb swooping me up with ease and long-suffering exasperation.
"Honestly," he mutters. "What is wrong with you?"
I settle in against his warm scales, sheet flapping behind me like some demented bridal cape. "Where do I begin?"
Below us, the townsfolk scream and point. Water buckets fly. A goat runs free for no reason.
Behind us, the bed keeps squeaking.
And above us?
Freedom.
I grin.
"So," I murmur, "where to next?"
He groans. "Somewhere without weddings."
"Deal."