I was sitting in the river with my thighs spread like a temptress in a stained-glass window, water lapping just high enough to keep things decent and cool enough to make me question my life choices. My dagger—polished, curved, very much not designed for shaving—glinted in the sunlight as I scraped it slowly along my shin.

  On the boulder just upstream, my dragon perched like a sulking gargoyle. One clawed foot tucked under, wings half-folded, tail twitching like he had fleas. He kept looking anywhere but at me.

  “So,” I said, drawing the blade up my calf with practiced care, “when are you finally going to fly?”

  He sniffed. Didn’t answer.

  “Because Lord Velmor is getting impatient,” I went on. “And you know what warlords do when they get impatient? They throw people into the front lines without armor. Or send them to the clerics for purification. You remember what happened to that necromancer?”

  “He was a fraud,” the Dragon muttered. “No real necromancer would raise chickens. That was amateur hour.”

  I raised a brow and tilted my leg toward the sun, checking for missed hairs. Smooth as silk and twice as tempting.

  “And what are , oh winged terror of the sky? Because from where I’m sitting—and shaving—I see a lizard with stage fright.”

  He flared his nostrils. “It’s not fear. It’s… strategy. Waiting for the right moment. You don’t just a dragon into battle like some common fireball.”

  “You’ve been waiting for the ‘right moment’ for six days,” I said sweetly. “The last moment you left the ground was when a horse stepped on your tail.”

  He scowled. “And could maybe use your pillow talk skills to make sure our doesn’t throw me at the city like a rock in a sling. Miss ‘concubine of the warlord’ and all.”

  I dropped my leg with a splash and turned to glare at him. “Oh, me for working my ass off in the infantry pleasure tents while you sunned your scaly self and complained about breakfast rations!”

  He lifted his snout. “Please. You the attention.”

  “I the attention,” I snapped. “Do you have idea how hard it is to stand out when half the camp is dripping in perfume and spread like festival pies?”

  He blinked. “Colorful.”

  “I had to compete with a woman who had bells on her nipples and could do the splits backwards,” I growled, climbing out of the water and reaching for my towel. “Another one had a forked tongue and offered ‘serpent worship sessions.’ I had to my way into Lord Velmor’s bed, thank you very much.”

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  “Charming,” he said dryly. “Truly, a tale for the ages.”

  I stepped closer, dripping, towel barely wrapped, eyes narrowed. “Don’t you mock me, you overgrown coward. I earned my way. Moaned through gritted teeth. Faked orgasms like a stage actress. Took a literal branding iron to the hip— Still healing.”

  He winced. “That’s not sanitary.”

  “And yet the one hiding on a rock while the rest of us are putting in the work.”

  He fidgeted. “I’m not hiding. I’m… brooding.”

  “Brood faster,” I snapped. “Because the moment that wall comes down, the real plundering begins. And if you’re not in the air by then, Velmor’s going to offer your carcass as a peace gift to Garthuun’s temple.”

  He growled low. “He wouldn’t dare.”

  I tilted my head, grinning. “You sure? Because I’m the only reason you’re still perched out here and not roasted on a pyre to appease their sun god.”

  “Maybe I fly,” he muttered, half to himself. “Roast the city. Eat the priesthood. Turn that damned vault into my personal nesting pit.”

  “There’s my greedy bastard,” I purred, stepping closer, hips swaying. “You want that hoard, don’t you?”

  He shuddered. “You’re evil.”

  “I’m Now get off your overpolished ass and your keep.”

  He grumbled. “Fine. I’ll about it.”

  “Think faster.”

  ***

  Lord Valimor’s campaign tent was a small palace of red silk and stitched banners, heavy with incense and hotter than hell. Candles burned low, casting flickering light across the lavish mess of cushions, armor racks, and gilded chamber pots. A squire snored somewhere behind the curtain.

  I lounged naked on his bed, half-curled in furs that probably used to be living things with names. One leg draped over his hip, one hand trailing along his sweaty chest. In the other, a silver skewer.

  “Open,” I whispered.

  He did. I slid the date between his lips—glazed, roasted, wrapped in greasy bacon that still clung to my fingers. He chewed slowly. Smug bastard. Liked being hand-fed like some conquering god.

  “My dragon’s just conserving strength,” I purred into his ear. “You wouldn’t want your siege engine misfiring mid-assault, would you?”

  He swallowed with a grunt. “He’s been for six damned days.”

  I giggled and pressed closer, smearing syrup on his collarbone. “You’re paying for , Lord Valimor. Hourly rates. No flight, no burn, no expenses. So far, nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

  He turned his head, one thick brow raised. “And yet seem to be gaining quite a lot for a girl whose dragon hasn’t flapped a single wing.”

  I pouted. Bit my lower lip. “You’re paying for other services. And I’ve been working tirelessly. Really—achingly. Just ask my hips.”

  He smirked. “You do grind like you’re trying to win a border war.”

  I grinned. “Maybe I am.”

  He shifted, half amused, half annoyed. “That wall’s coming down soon. With or without your flying lizard. I’ve got the ram crew working in shifts. Ironclads from Drevarn. They’ll crack it like an egg.”

  I dragged my finger through a trail of sweat on his stomach. “Mmm. So why not let my dragon make the opening instead? More drama. More panic. More gold dropped in retreat.”

  He snorted. “Plunder goes to those who earn it.”

  I traced idle circles on his thigh. “And I’ve more than most. I’ve done half the camp already and made you scream like a schoolboy in temple.”

  He grinned despite himself. “And yet I’m still paying for a siege weapon that spends more time sunning his ass than flying.”

  “He’s ,” I whispered. “Old. Fussy. Vain. But once he’s up there…”

  “He’d better be,” Valimor grunted. “If your beast doesn’t fly by tomorrow, your share of the spoils goes to the cookboys.”

  I rolled over on top of him, straddling his belly, sticky with sweat and grease and victory dreams.

  “Give me ‘til sundown,” I said. “I’ll light a fire under his tail.”

  Valimor’s hands slid to my thighs. “You’re good at that.”

  I kissed his chin. “Darling, I’m at that.”