Flight of Dragons(348)

He was pretty sure she needed a paddling, but that thought was entirely inappropriate and unhelpful. “Lessons can be geared to all skill levels. Even the most advanced—”

“Yes. That is what I am. The most advanced rider. Thank you, Father, but I don’t need any lessons.”

“Brother. I am not a priest.”

Her eyes flashed in annoyance. “Okay. My point is that I was hired by this group to be the instructor. So it would be unproductive for me to take time away from that to have a lesson with…you.”

The silent, pregnant pause said everything she thought about his flying abilities.

He took a deep breath. Perhaps they were both making rough assumptions here. “I didn’t mean you, necessarily. Perhaps I could volunteer my services as a support guide for tomorrow’s outing? What is your plan?”

Her eyes narrowed. She wasn’t going to tell him, clearly. “Most of our party is staying here and working with the monks and the dragons.”

“Most?”

She pressed her lips together. She wanted to lie to him, he could see it in the way her gaze slid to the right. Again an urge rose within him to haul her into a dark corner and punish her—a complete stranger.

And he was goading her with suggestions of flying lessons.

He needed to excuse himself.

The silence stretched between them for a moment, then she gave him a slow up and down appraisal. “Some of us will—weather permitting—go higher.”

Before he could respond, someone at the next table over roared and crashed their mug down on the table. Mikka hurried over, and Bjorn didn’t get out of the way fast enough. Mikka bumped his shoulder, shoving him forward into Britt’s personal space. She didn’t move.

He inhaled deeply as he braced his core so he didn’t need to grab her to keep himself steady. Touching her would be a complete mistake, and from the shaky rise and fall of her chest and the way she stared at him, her dark lilac irises disappearing as her pupils dilated, he was pretty sure his secret was exposed.

It had been seven years since he’d felt this…no, he’d never felt chemistry like this. Like fate—

No.

Britt narrowed her gaze, her mouth tightening. She’d believe in fate. In gods aplenty and primal mating.

Beneath his belt, his balls tightened and his cock thickened.

He opened his mouth to say something—excuse himself, throw up a distraction, anything—but just then Mikka turned around to apologize and he just made things worse.

“Brother Bjorn flies well,” the other monk offered, completely oblivious to the taunting tension zinging back and forth between Bjorn and Britt.

“I’m sure he does, for a monk.” She smirked and crossed her arms, and even though Bjorn knew better than to be prideful, he saw red at the deliberate poke at his ability.

That’s what he told himself—that she’d just offended him. And he believed it enough to rile up in response, but it didn’t feel like she’d insulted him.

He held up his hand when Mikka started to protest. This was his quarrel with this woman, and he didn’t want to share it. It might be all they had. “Do you think we’re just going to let you all mount up and fly our dragons to the top of the mountain?”

“Your dragons?” She pushed to her feet and glared at him. “Let’s go outside and have this conversation in front of them. See how long you get to pull that possessive ownership routine before one of them nips you on your uptight ass.”

Language aside, she wasn’t wrong. He didn’t mean our dragons as in belong to the monks. More like ours, not yours. Of this continent and this mountain. Not for easterners’ consumption. He slowly stood and pressed his palms together, breathing calm deep into his chest. “Of course our flying beasts are not owned by anyone. But neither are they sporting animals. If you wish to harness something, may I suggest a donkey?”

“A donkey!” She stepped back, weaving around the table, and grabbed a mug of mead. Not hers, but she didn’t seem to notice the man grasping at his now lost beverage. “I’ll race you up this mountain, monk, and I will win.”

“A challenge is hardly necessary—” Bjorn cut himself off as she arched one eyebrow and pursed her ruby red lips at him. Her cheeks were flushed with anger and…

Flushed cheeks. Red lips. Bright eyes.

Mead.

She was drunk.

And his reckless disregard for the welfare of a guest was unbecoming.

Dropping his head in a polite bow, he closed his eyes, already sad it needed to be over. “Of course, my lady. We can make arrangements at dawn. And now perhaps we need more bread and roast pheasant?”