This takes place at the B&B in Scuffenbury where Tam and Lucy stayed, right after Lucy had that bad dream, I believe...forgive accuracy errors, this is a spur of the moment thing. :) Reviews are appreciated.
She had the strangest eyes.
Sometimes green, sometimes rich, dragon violet. The strangest eyes...except for his, which were brown like a bear's. Who was he, to speak or think of strange eyes when his own were solid, polar bear brown?
She had fire in her-dragon fire, that could melt or preserve whatever she chose it too. Dragon fire could do that, and so could the fire that spilled from her lips in torrents, the sparks sprung from the tip of her tongue as if someone had struck flint to steel in the back of her throat. Her words were sharp, more often than not. They should not have hurt him. He had the thick, protective fur of a bear. And yet some of them pierced him like the knives she meant to fling. He did not show it, but it was there. A tiny scar, a tiny burn, left upon his heart.
The heart of a man, or the heart of a bear?
If it was the heart of a bear, then how could her words inflict such damage? How could he dwell upon her the way he did? Just now, at the bed and breakfast in Scuffenbury, when she'd cried out, when he'd run to her, afraid, truly afraid of what he might find...
If he truly had the heart of a bear, he should not have been afraid.
It was not for himself that he feared for, he reminded himself. It was for her. Had whatever evil that ailed her-had there been one-still been there when he reached her, he would have fought it. He would have killed it. He would have destroyed it if he found her with so much as a scratch.
Because he had promised David he would keep her safe? In that case, perhaps he did have the heart of a bear. Bears keep their promises, particularly to dragons. And then again, Kailar, the fighting bear, was in him. That could explain the desire to rip apart Lucy's tormentor.
But he knew it was deeper than that.
He could not deny it any longer.
He reached out and tucked her a strand of her flyaway red hair behind her ear. She looked up, and he swore he felt her tremble as his knuckles brushed her jawbone. He took her hand, tracing his thumb around her palm. She had a sculptor's hands, he noted. Rough in some places, smooth in others, strong and gentle at the same time. He gathered her close, pulling her against him, and hugged her gently, rocking her back and forth. She cinched her arms around his neck and held him to her.
"Must have been an awful dream," he murmured, slightly bemused that the redhead seemed at a loss for words.
"'Twas," she murmured into the warm, smooth skin of his neck.
"Well, it's over now," he whispered. He laid back, her head sliding automatically to his chest, where it rested as one of her arms stretched across his abdomen. Her free hand clutched one of his, his thumb tracing patterns once more on her palm; his other stroked her hair softly.
The pair lay in silence. Who knew how long this much-needed moment of peace they shared would last?