Nightbloom by Juliette Cross

he continued. “My father was right to protect him, but just scaring the younger gang off wasn’t enough for him. You see, my father has a bit of a temper, too. Like me.”
    “You don’t appear to have a temper,” I interjected.
    The casual way he carried himself, the lazy way he smiled, the confident style of his every move—none of this denoted a man of high temper.
    “I hide it well,” he said.
    And with that single statement, I knew his calm exterior was a practiced, well-worn cover to keep his beast at bay. Just as I struggled to find my voice to be heard, he struggled not to be heard too much.
    “My father attacked them,” he continued. “The fight ended with one of their deaths and my father being lame for life.”
    I set my plate down. “Your father wasn’t imprisoned for killing him?”
    “The Morgon courts ruled him blameless. The laws in the Drakos Province are more ruthless than they are here. We moved not long after.”
    “So, that’s why you don’t fight?”
    “Yes.”
    “But you fought that guy in the Pit, the Pike player.”
    “I’ll fight if necessary.” The clenched line of his jaw showed in stark relief against the firelight. “I wasn’t going to let that asshole touch you. The fact that Kerrington would let another man touch you proves he never deserved you.”
    Not wanting my thoughts to stray to Clayton and his demands, I straightened and tried to gain clarification on something he slipped into his story.
    “You said.” I wiggled more upright. “You said ‘like me,’ but I’ve never seen you lose your temper. You’re so calm, so in control all the time.”
    His eyes glinted gold. I thought it only a reflection of the fire, but I’d seen it happen this morning when he had me on his desk, and that night under the moonlight in the sculpture garden. He was so still, watching me with intense interest.
    “This place is more than a hideaway. I need a place to center myself in order to stay in control.”
    “How do you mean?”
    “Because my dragon always wants out. Always.”
    “Your dragon.”
    A sharp, definite nod. His shoulders stiffened, lifting his right wing a fraction before it resettled on the floor.
    I’d heard Sorcha and Jessen speak of their men and their inner dragons. How sometimes the beast took over the man. A tantalizing thrill shivered through my frame when Paxon’s eyes shined molten amber, his voice dropping to a gravelly tenor.
    “All Morgons, especially Morgon men, must fight to restrain their dragon. I’ve managed to keep mine under a tight leash for a long while. I believe I struggle more than my cousins, Lorian and Lucius, because I hold my dragon so close to me. There are times when he wants out. And sometimes, I want to let him.”
    Butterflies flapped wildly in my belly. I licked my lips and sat up on my knees with my legs bent under me, using the shift to break eye contact. Paxon’s intense focus set my usual steadiness off-kilter.
    “What,” I asked, clearing my throat, “what stirs your dragon?”
    “You.” No hesitation. “You inflame him to no end.” He hadn’t moved, and yet I was staked to the spot, my pulse thrumming faster.
    “I’d like to meet…your dragon.” The bold words tumbled from my mouth before I had a chance to consider what I was saying.
    A shining flare of gold glimmered in his eyes. Definitely not my imagination. “Are you sure about that?”
    Timid Ella was thrust to the back behind the brazen one, the one who looked at Paxon Nightwing and knew who she was, knew what she wanted with all her being.
    I lifted my chin, met his gaze, as breathless as I’d ever been, and whispered a confident, “Yes.”
    In a blink, I was on my back, caged under the overwhelming power of Paxon. His wings opened, a canopy of darkness walling us in. His amber eyes glowed in the shadow, the pupils narrowing to slits. Glassy fire mesmerized me, bewitched me, made me want him more. I was indeed staring into the eyes of a dragon as I