Fafnir felt one eye-ridge rise. Did she think to rummage around in his mind, to extract the memory of her presence? He’d like to see her try.

But he’d rather speak a promise. What did I see?

A small brush against his mind, so slight as to be almost imperceptible. Almost. He slammed mental barriers in place, watching her brow furrow as she tried to remove his memory of her. She probably could get away with reading others’ minds, but not his.

“You saw me standing here.” The High Priestess’s voice jarred him back into the moment.

That’s not all I saw.

“Yes, it is. Now, are you going to give me that ride back to the Temple or not?”

Having problems transporting?

“I’m still here, aren’t I?”

Fafnir chuckled. A ride then. He knelt, offering her his back.

Her hand touched his shoulder as some of her bristle relaxed. “Thank you.” She climbed to his back and sat, her weight a pleasant feeling against his scales.

He straightened, standing a bit taller, knowing she sat on his back, knowing she trusted him. Him. The Draconi liar, the male too afraid of his own guilt to admit his identity. But she didn’t know that, did she? No, she felt pity toward him, pity for his years of captivity, his inability to change into human form, but no outright disgust. As annoying as pity might be, he could live with it. Her disgust, though, would shatter his heart into shards of shame.

Bloody effing sap.