He is young, even still.
Young in a way that he does not understand.
Young in a way that has nothing to do with the years he has lived.
(Do years live in shadow count? When they are not lived but merely survived?)
Young in a way that should make him wary.
And yet, he does not have it in him. Because he is a predator, too. Because he does not know that dragons should fear tigers. He does not know that dragons should fear anything at all.
They are so close now that he can smell the deer’s blood on her breath. It chases a shudder down the length of his spine just to smell it on her. He is young in a way that stops him from understanding that the twisting in his gut, the primal scream at the center of him, has absolutely nothing to do with the stench of death and everything to do with their proximity.
Her focus shifts and he is suddenly acutely aware of every golden inch of himself. The throat where her gaze lingers most of all. He can feel his own pulse as it carries lifeblood through him. He wonders if she can smell it. If she can taste it without even having to take it on her tongue.
Teach me a lesson, he’d said, and she wastes no time in lunging for him. He recoils but only just so. He stifles his want to flee, to fling himself out of her reach. He lets her sink her teeth into the meat of his neck. Lets her spill his blood. Lets her paint him red. And isn’t he just a sight? An angel bathed in his own blood.
Hungry, she growls, and he grins that dragon’s grin and exhales a shaky breath. He knows what it means to be hungry, certainly. But he says nothing, just pulls back his own lips to expose his own predator’s teeth, dips his head to skim them across the surface of her shoulder.
“And?” he asks then, draws away from her and licks his lips, “what else?”
