"It looks like others are arriving now too," I said, although Ronson probably couldn't hear me, my voice echoing beneath the helmet. But dark shapes were swirling in the sky, shimmering through the warp and pebble of the glass that guarded me from the wind.
We'd passed castles and villages and more sheep than I'd known existed in the world, a patchwork quilt of landscapes and roads, but there was nothing quite like a mountain rushing closer to prove how fast and graceful Ronson's flight truly was.
I leaned forward, grunting against the fiery stretch in my inner thighs, and rested against the back of his neck. The plates of his leather hide reminded me of the rise and fall of the land below us, but up close even the sharpest points weren't painful to lean against. I wiggled my hands out from the long leather cuffs of my coat and stroked them over Ronson's hide, surprised by the pleased rumble that rattled through us both. He could feel my light touch, even in this form?
The air warmed as we descended, and I was relieved that Ronson seemed intent on landing rather than circling the mountain as some dragons appeared to be doing. I wanted a long draught of water and a good stretch, after perhaps a little time to enjoy being on the ground again.
Flying would be more fun if I could do it myself, I thought with an amused smile.
The alphas were conferring on a long, low plateau of ground cradled between the mountain and a smaller peak to the south, toward the foggy overhang of Skybern. Ronson aimed us at a large open patch of frosted grass in front of two green tents, wind rushing and whipping at my clothes as his wings beat in the air to slow our descent.
We landed with a slight thump, and I thought Ronson must be weary too, grateful to give his wings a rest.
A cluster of humans in simple uniforms ran closer, and Ronson squatted to the ground before I realized the humans were there to assist me.
You are an alpha's omega, I reminded myself, reaching out and stifling my groan as two men pulled me down from my seat. They held me steady between them, which was good because my legs were something between stiff boards of wood and boneless jelly. Another pair of men hurried forward, quickly unstrapping the seat I'd rode on and pulling it from Ronson's shoulders.
He transformed immediately, the humans stumbling back, beaten by the wave of warm heat and dragonkin magic.
And there was my alpha. If my legs hadn't been useless before, they were now. Tall, handsome, windswept, and regal, he'd barely returned to himself before he was turning and striding toward me, as if transforming from a dragon—let alone one who'd spent the last five hours flying—wasn't a burden.
"Give her to me," he said a little sharply, and I wobbled as I was abruptly pushed in Ronson's direction.
"Oof."
Ronson's arm caught me around my waist, tugging me snugly to his chest, and then he pulled the helmet from my head, the air sharper and his face clearer before me.
"Are you all right?"
"I'm fine—Oh! Ronson!" I laughed, scooped up from the ground in a tangle of buckled and strapped layers of wool and leather.
Ronson was peering up at the sky. "I think I see Niall in the distance. He'll meet us in our tent."
"I can walk," I murmured as Ronson marched us toward the larger of the two tents.
His lips quirked, dark eyes flashing down to me. "Can you?"
"Probably not," I admitted as Ronson grinned, and then words died on my tongue as we stepped inside.
Ornate lamps were lit in every corner of the square tent and hanging from the central post, gentling the transition from bright daylight to the shadowy interior. A lush and rich interior, as fine as our own rooms in the castle.
"They put carpets on the grass!"
"Skybern does like to show off," Ronson said, dropping the helmet I'd worn onto an ornate side table laden with platters of fruit and meat and crystalline jugs of wine and water. "Let me wrestle with your layers," Ronson said, chewing around a morsel of beef he'd popped into his mouth and lowering my legs to the floor.
I had to lean against Ronson's broad form, or at least I chose to, but his hands were quick on the many fastenings of my cloak, coat, and fleece tunic, until I was dressed in a long velvet gown with slits up to either hip and a pair of fitted leather leggings.
"I have to refix my hair and change before we go back out," I murmured.
"You're too sore to walk," Ronson said, frowning.
I shook my head and slipped my hand under his own coat to press it over the quilted tunic he wore. "I'm just stiff. I'll recover quickly."
Maybe not recover completely, but certainly enough to walk around the pasture outside of our tent and to stand and speak. Which I found myself strangely eager to do. Maybe not to speak; polite conversations and small talk weren't something I'd ever found myself very adept at, but I wanted to see the other alphas. I'd spent the better part of two weeks—the entire time I'd had to prepare for this event, when I wasn't worrying about that disastrous dinner with my parents—researching dragonkin and all of the many families that had given their bloodlines to the role of alphas.
Ronson's family boasted a long reign as alphas in Bleake Isle, but in Dire Peakes, north of the mountain range we gathered at today, it was common practice to ensure the next alpha did not come from the same family as the current one. The competition for the role of Alpha of Skybern was fierce and bloodthirsty and full of political deals that took place behind closed doors. And on the Craven Sea, an alpha rose from the waves with feats of strength and a good deal of canny trade.
The history of dragonkin was not a bad collection of tales for an avid reader like myself, in fact.
I reached up and cupped Ronson's face, distracting him from his own change of clothes. He tossed his tunic aside and stripped down to one of the loose linen shirts I sometimes stole to sleep in.
"Your name might be in a book someday," I said, and Ronson froze, blinking down at me. "A history book, about dragonkin. Do you think about that?"
His hands caught my waist, drawing me close. "I try not to," he said, cheeks flushing a little. "I might be marked down in a very small text about the isle as the worst alpha on record."
"I doubt that," I said, rising onto my toes. I meant to tease Ronson with a kiss on his chin, but he clutched me to his chest, dipping his head just enough for our lips to slide and fit together. Perhaps I'd known this would be the kiss instead, because I surrendered easily, humming and looping my arms over his shoulder, sinking into his chest.
A light slap of waxed canvas and a sharp breeze announced a guest.
"I told you," Niall said dryly.
Which was an odd kind of greeting, until I lowered back to my toes and twisted as much as Ronson would let me to find that an enormous man had followed Niall into the tent.
An enormous man with a roguish smile, exceptionally long and glossy dark hair, and an undeniably piratical swagger that swayed to and fro as if he hadn't quite regained his land legs.
"DeRoche, get out," Ronson growled, fingers tightening on my waist. "You too, Niall."
Both men ignored Ronson, and I scrambled out of his embrace, stumbling on awkward legs before managing a respectable curtsy.
"Alpha DeRoche."
Seamus DeRoche was precisely what I would've imagined the Alpha of the Craven Sea as, although perhaps in my more fanciful moments he had an eye patch too, rather than those vividly midnight-blue eyes that glittered with poorly restrained humor. His nose was large, his features pronounced and a little craggy, but there was a kind of handsomeness that belonged on a large man—masculinity and strength rather than beauty.
