I yelped, wings slapping backwards, arms and legs flailing as if to make up the work.

A shadow rushed over me and then Ronson was there, catching me around my waist, making up for my imbalance with strong beats of his own wings.

"Tuck in," he said, grinning. My wings squeezed close to my back. "We'll practice together. But right now, I don't want you fighting for your life on the way back to the nest. Is that all right?"

My arms looped carefully over his shoulders, mindful of the wound I'd found earlier, and I tucked my head beneath his chin. I might've been a bigger dragon than him, but like this, Ronson was still reassuringly strong and much better at flying than me. And he always gave me a choice.

"Yes, that's all right," I murmured, breathing in his scent.

His arms tightened around me, a gentle crush. "Tell me how on earth this is possible. You're too clever not to have some idea."

I explained the portraits Beatrice and I had found, how some of the mated omegas were painted with wings, and even about Alpha Falk.

"All my symptoms hit at once when I realized you were under attack. I was fairly sure I knew what was coming, but it didn't occur to me that the wings would be a permanent addition after the transformation," I admitted.

Ronson growled and shook his head. "I would've rather you'd destroyed half the castle as a dragon than jump out of a window before you were completely certain of what was happening," he muttered, glaring down at me, but the anger cleared quickly. I was safe. He was safe. "Why do you think some of the omegas had dragons and others didn't?"

"Some betas can't transform," I mused. "But I wonder… I found in some of the documents that some mates were referred to as 'chosen,' and others not. I wasn't sure if it was just a turn of phrase, or…"

"Or if some alphas mated for the sake of an alliance rather than by instinct," Ronson murmured, nodding against the top of my head. "That would make sense. And you were certainly chosen. Chosen, claimed, always meant to be mine."

I smiled against his throat, kissed a mark to his pulse.

"You were glorious, Mairwen," he murmured.

I tipped my head back and found those dark eyes glowing warmly down at me. "I was, wasn't I?"

Ronson grinned and ducked his head, and I stretched to meet him. Kissing my mate felt a lot like flying.

"Poor Miss Pettyfer," I murmured, twisting and contorting in front of the mirror, stretching my wings this way and that to see the ruination of the back of my dress. My new stays at least had managed to survive, all straps and edges safely away from the roots of my wings. Which were tired and a little sore. Flying took so much work.

Ronson shut the door to our room behind him. "Beatrice has already sent word we'll need alterations. She thought of it before I did. And she said your father returned home after an hour of fretting. Mairwen…I…"

"You'll have to question him," I said, carefully shimmying out of my dress. Perhaps Miss Pettyfer might only have to replace the backs of my gowns rather than the entire garments. "I understand. Will you…will he…"

"He won't be put in prison yet," Ronson said, crossing to me and pulling me into his chest. He was right that any of his injuries were only surface marks, and I'd patched them up straight away when we'd arrived back at the nest. "If his inclination was to go home and not run for the docks, it's doubtful he has much to hide. Palmer probably only made use of him in the moment."

I sighed and nodded, rubbing my cheek over the soiled linen of Ronson's shirt. I hoped, for my parents' sake, that was true, but I wouldn't stand in the way of any decision Ronson had to make regarding my father. My loyalties were to my mate, and upon reflection, my family hadn't made that a strenuous choice.

"I love you," I whispered, my hands clutching against Ronson's lower back, wings tensing as if prepared for flight or another battle to protect him. "I was so afraid I would be too late."

Ronson soothed his hand over the back of my head. "Nonsense. I would never stop fighting, mate. Not while I have you to return to." His hand slipped under my chin, lifting it for me to meet his stare, soft crinkles in the corners of his eyes. "But I will never forget the sight of you soaring to rescue me. You are the most beautiful dragon I've ever set eyes on."

I warmed from the inside out. "Am I…am I a pretty dragon, then? I haven't seen."

"You were terrifying," Ronson said, and he laughed as I gasped in offense. "And yes, very pretty. You looked like very dangerous treasure."

Yes, we are treasure, her heavy voice purred in my head, approving of Ronson's description.

"We'll have to have a very large mirror crafted so you can see," he said.

I huffed. "Excuse you. 'Very large?'"

Ronson's belly laugh made my own lips twitch. "You're a dragon now, darling. Very large is ideal. Do you know, I think if you challenged me, you'd win. You could be alpha of the isle."

"I'll keep that in mind," I quipped, nudging him in the stomach, eyeing the nest around his shoulder.

Ronson took the hint with an answering purr, his hands on my arms guiding me along as he walked backward to our bed. "Niall would back you in the fight, no doubt. DeRoche too, the charming bastard."

I rolled my eyes and Ronson growled, tugging me hard against him and ducking down to slant his mouth over mine. I surrendered to the kiss. Strong as my dragon might be, I had no complaints with my alpha, certainly not enough for a challenge. Ronson's purr thickened as I opened to him, his fingers working quickly at my back, untying laces and groping sweetly at bare skin.

"Do you remember," he began with a pant and leaned back, feathering kisses over my cheeks, "our first night together?"

I blushed and nodded, recalling my unguarded curiosity, the strange power and triumph of having Ronson at my mercy. We'd barely known each other, really, but he'd let me touch and explore him, so eager and responsive. I'd never felt desire before, never been desired, and it was like opening the floodgates.

"The very first thing you asked to do was⁠—"

"Touch your wings," I said, smiling and reaching out to do so.

Ronson's purr thrummed steadily between us, and his gaze hooded. "It's my turn now, omega."

I opened my mouth but Ronson was quick, lifting me up by my waist and tossing me onto the mattress. My wings spread and flapped aimlessly, more like flailing arms still, and I let out an oof of breath as I landed in the pile of pillows and soft blankets.

"I'm not a sack of potatoes, Ronson," I scoffed, trying to hide my smile as I settled myself more comfortably.

"You most certainly are not," he agreed, climbing onto the bed, his knees on either side of my legs as he scooted up. His hand paused to squeeze appreciatively at my ass. "Spread your wings."

It took me a moment, slightly distracted by his hands kneading at my bottom and up my back. My wings stretched, and I sighed as they came to rest against my back and the bed. Ronson's hands worked their way up my spine, and I buried a groan of relief into my pillow.

"The muscles for our wings are thin but very strong. Yours will likely be sore after flights for a while, but that will ease quickly too. I'll take good care of you, my treasure," Ronson said, voice softening at the end.