Author's Note: hey everyone! Sorry I didn't update in time for Halloween night, I didn't have any internet! Blargh! But my dad is a superhero and he got me a new wi-fi card for my comp and now everything is back to normal. That's also why my chaps took a bit longer than normal; I tend to work on them during my free time at work, then email them to myself (can't use flashdrives on the work-comps) to work on at home but my internet wasn't working! Blegh. Anyway, here it is, a nice breather chap before we edge into something we've all been waiting for (and it involves everyone's favorite, non-homicidal dragon prince).

Also, just fyi, from now on since I typically only update monthly, I'm going to start putting a "last time on Once" segment at the beginning of the chapter like they do on tv shows and stuff. That way people can remember what happened last time. So let me know what you think as I set the stage for some good stuff, and I will see you guys again on December 1st.

Last Time on Once Upon a Time: Nuada brought Dylan back to Lallybroch after she escaped the evil bandit captain Sreng and joined up with Prince Zhenjin and his psychotic brother, Prince Shaohao, who healed Dylan's wounds (on the condition that she allow herself a chance to fall in love with Zhenjin). Dylan revealed to Nuada the truth about Sreng's identity – he is the last survivor of the human group that attacked and murdered his mother centuries ago, kept alive somehow through dark magic that has slowly driven him insane. Nuada learned of the bargain made between Shaohao and Dylan and agreed that if Dylan should fall in love with Zhenjin, he would step aside to allow her a chance at "true happiness." Upon their arrival at Lallybroch, the villagers showed signs of fear and distrust over Dylan's apparent survival of the bandit kidnapping. In the human world, Dylan's faithful brownie servant summoned three monsters from Dylan's childhood to take him to her.

.

.

Chapter One-Hundred-Twenty
I Asked My Girlfriend

that is

A Short Tale of What Sisters Are For, Infatuation, a Conversation with the King, Francesca Hitting on a Prince, a Good Dog, Francesca Getting Serious for a Second, Dylan Naked, Trespassing, Revelation, Celebration, Hypocrisy, Talk of Trust, and What to Wear

.

"Why are you doing this, Cesca?"

The next night Dylan lay in her room, eyes drifting closed, relaxing into the soft feather mattress in her private room in the village inn. The linen pillow felt lovely under her cheek. Her sister's fingers pressed deep into the muscles of her upper arm. She hissed softly whenever Francesca found a half-healed bruise or two, but for the most part it was wonderful to just lie in bed in one of Cesca's open-back tunics to air out the freshly-bathed lashes, and let herself be pampered. A puddle of midnight fur and a pool of milk-white fluff flanked her bedroom door; Sétanta and Eimh lay belly-up, eyes closed and tongues lolling, fast asleep. Apparently they agreed with their mistress's relaxation plan.

"Because I love you more than marshmallow cake. Because you earned it after putting in a hard day's work helping out all those people downstairs, even though we kept telling you to take more breaks. Also, I'm slowly absorbing your youth and beauty through demon-suckers on my fingertips."

"Thieving tramp."

"At least I'm an honest thieving tramp." Francesca pushed and kneaded at the knots of tension in Dylan's shoulders for a while in silence after that, humming to herself occasionally. At last she spoke again just as Dylan began to slowly drift into a warm, comfortable limbo of drowsiness. "So that chick with one eye and that sex machine that reminds me of a non-jailbait Aladdin—"

"You mean Princess Kamaria and Prince Dastan?"

"Yeah, them. I overheard them talking at dinner earlier—"

"And you understood them? Most nobles don't tend to use English much around here."

"Considering I went to college," Francesca replied with a sniff, "and considering I have some portions of my brain not dedicated to food, alcohol, and hotties, after a minute I realized what they were speaking and managed to follow along, being all surreptitious like. I didn't catch everything, though; my Farsi is a little rusty."

Dylan twisted her head around to try and stare at her sister, but Francesca was just out of sight. "You speak Farsi?"

"I did go to college. And I happen to really like languages; I do speak seven of them," Francesca said. Dylan's mouth fell open. "Helps with business. I learned Spanish because the diner's in the Bronx; I took French in high school and Farsi in college; an ex taught me some basic Yoruban; and Davio's teaching me German now."

"That's only five," Dylan mumbled, dazed.

"I learned Vietnamese and Chinese when I was a beautician. You act like I'm not smart or something. I'm smart. And I used Farsi when I worked at the salons, too. Have you seen the hair on some of those Iranian women? It's gorgeous. And I like being able to chat with my customers. Still do, even though I'm stuck in that hell-hole diner. Now stop interrupting. I have a question. Kamaria and Dastan were talking about someone named Zhenjin, and you've talked about this Zhenjin guy before, too. I think I met him, but just so I'm sure—he's that delicious Chinese guy with the super-kissable lips and the oh so intense green eyes, right? And the sculptor hands, flippy hair, and dancer hips? The guy who kissed my hand last week?"

Dylan bit back a grin, managing to prod it into the semblance of a rueful smile. "Yes, Zhenjin's the guy who kissed your hand. Why am I surprised you noticed all that other stuff about him? Don't you have a boyfriend?"

"I'm in love, not dead. I'm not like you; I notice the hotties. Even if I was dead, I'd probably still notice them, but necrophilia's gross, so I'd be cursed to live my life alone and miserable, unlaid, forever." Francesca threw an arm across her face like a stereotypical tragic damsel, affecting a woe-is-me expression. "Oh, the humanity. It's awful, terrible. Too cruel to think about. I'm too pretty to be alone! Oh," she pretended to drop her face into her hands, careful of the lavender massage oil on her skin, and fake-cried. "I'm so sad and pitiful now. The lonely zombie—"

"Oh, shut up. Go make out with your boyfriend, you weirdo," Dylan said, laughing. "All the zombies would totally want to tap that if you ever joined the hordes of ravening undead. Okay?

Cesca's head popped up and she grinned. "Yeah, I know. Anyway, so that's Zhenjin." It wasn't a question, but Dylan sighed and nodded. "Ooh. He's almost as scrumptious as His Royal Hotness. And he doesn't look like he's dead. Always a bonus. So what's his deal? Are you guys friends or what?"

Dylan thought of the pain shadowing Zhenjin's eyes whenever he looked at her. The jade bracelet he'd gifted her with, a token of his—supposedly Platonic—regard, hung heavy on her wrist; it was one of the first things Dylan had fished out of her packs after Cesca had helped her bathe and dress in comfortable lounging pants and the low-backed tunic. She'd lost Nuada's engagement ring during the kidnapping and the gold-and-ruby teleportation ring he'd given her, too. All she had left was her medallion, which her prince had rescued from the snow, and Zhenjin's bracelet.

She was Zhenjin's friend, and the token was one of friendship—Nuada had told her so. But Zhenjin always moved like a man slowly bleeding to death from some invisible wound whenever she'd come near him during the day. Eventually she'd just kept away from him to make sure no one caught a glimpse of him looking so vulnerable. That kind of thing could be dangerous for a royal.

And Shaohao had said she was breaking him. What did that mean? The fae loved so differently than humans in some ways. Their emotions affected them more strongly than mortals. Nuada's eyes changed color according to his moods, and if his rage or his anguish grew too strong, the shadows around his mouth and eyes grew darker. His love for Dylan and his happiness with her had helped awaken the strongest part of his magic as the Bethmooran heir. Balor's grief over his wife had literally poisoned parts of the royal gardens and, according to Nuada, parts of the kingdom.

What if Zhenjin's sorrow did something to him? To Dilong?

"I...I'm not sure."

"Well, apparently—according to the royal gossips—he wants to jump your bones something fierce, and not in a gross, rapey 'I'm a douche' way. That seems pretty friendly to me."

Dylan twisted around, ignoring the twinges all along her back, to get a better look at her sister. "They did not say that!" She protested. "That kind of talk could put me and Nuada and Zhenjin in danger. They wouldn't say that!"

"More like tap-danced around it in really clunky shoes. So what's the deal with that, exactly? I take it you have zip interest in his rocking, sexy snake-bod?"

"He's not a snake, he's a dragon Elf."

Francesca's hands slowly drifted back down to her sides. "He's a dragon." Moving mechanically, she snagged the linen towel draped over the headboard and began wiping away the oil. "You know an actual dragon person? Ohmigawd. Ohmigawd. Why didn't you ever say anything?!" She dropped onto the bed beside her sister and leaned in with wide, blue eyes. "Can...can he fly? Can he breathe fire?"

Dylan rolled her eyes. "No and no. I don't even know if they're actually related to dragons, but the Elves of Dilong are called the Children of the Dragon and supposedly, according to their legends, the royal family is descended from a sun goddess and a dragon that took humanoid form but that's probably not true. Well, the goddess part. Unless it was a sun elemental, because the elementals are often worshipped as gods, even now in provincial parts of the Twilight Realm. But I don't know if dragons even have the ability to shapeshift into humans. Humanoids. Whatever. Zhenjin can control fire, though."

Cesca whistled in admiration. "And you're...okay with that? Just, 'oh, yeah, I know a guy who can control fire and may be part dragon. Also I adopted three cat-people, there's a pencil-sized magical chocolate pastry keeping my house clean—brownie, get it? Yeah, I'm funny—I'm mistress of Irish Faerie Texas, I hang out with actual trolls, and my fiance is older than Jesus.' Like, really?"

She stretched, feeling the fading ache in her muscles. Propping her head up on one hand, Dylan smiled at her sister. "Yes, really. Remember, I've had most of my life to get used to stuff like this. Except Irish Faerie Texas and the fiance part. You remember my boss, Kaye?"

"Oh, yeah. The Japanese girl with the dye job? She had that coffee shop and bakery, what was it...? Parsnips? Patroclus? It was a weird name. Parley?"

"Persephone's," Dylan corrected, grinning. "She's a pixie."

Silence. And then, "What?"

Eimh whined softly in her sleep; her front paws paddled the air. Sétanta grunted and kicked the air with a hind leg.

"Shhh! You'll wake the puppies. Anyway, Kaye is a pixie," she repeated. "She's not actually Japanese. It's a glamour. She's a pixie. Under the blond, her hair's green. Under the glamour, her skin is green and her eyes are like, four times bigger than they look and have no whites. They're just solid black. And she has wings."

Francesca blinked. Swallowed. "Seriously?"

"And those two older gentlemen who were at my elevation ceremony? The guy all in black and Mr. Magorium? You remember Mr. Magorium, I used to work for him."

"...yeah..."

"They're both fae. I'm not sure what Mr. Magorium's deal is, but Moundshroud is..." Dylan trailed off, picturing the bone-thin eldritch king in his black velvet, the unearthly green fire in his obsidian eyes. His long, razor-sharp fingernails had left a scar on the underside of Dylan's forearm—a reminder that she'd promised him her life in exchange for the life of a young boy on the verge of death. A life he hadn't taken yet, but would...one day. "He's very old, Cesca. Very old. Older than Nuada, older than King Balor. Older than any other fae I've ever met. Stronger than any of the other fae kings and queens ruling now except two."

And that made her wonder just how old the two kings of Mag Mell were, that they were stronger even than Moundshroud. Nuada had plans to take her to the Isle of Mag Mell, an island beyond the edge of the Faerie Realm in a place between worlds. The twin kings Tethra and Mannanan were monsters, but they also possessed an impossible wealth of power—to save a life thought past saving, to make a human woman immortal...even to raise the dead.

But always at terrible cost. The price for bringing back Queen Cethlenn had been Balor cutting his children's throats and leaving their corpses under the royal hawthorn tree for the crows to eat. Dylan would never have thought she could hold something over the kings' heads, but she and Nuada had found a way. After they were married, they would go to the Isle of Avalon and figure out how to bring back some of the magical apples there. The kings of Mag Mell wanted them badly. Hopefully it would be enough to sway them so Dylan could become as long-lived as Nuada. Only then could they have a family without risking her mortality infecting the kingdom.

"If Moundshroud is so powerful, how come he can't help you out with King Buttface?" Francesca demanded.

Dylan shook her head. "Moundshroud can't get involved. It's the only reason the other kings haven't tried to kill him yet—he never interferes in matters outside his own kingdom." Then she thought of the old king's threat to castrate Nuada for kissing Dierdre mac Aengus. Dylan had turned him down and pretended he was joking, but she hadn't been one-hundred-percent sure. "He's powerful, but if the other kings and queens thought he was meddling, they'd band together and assassinate him. That's why I haven't asked him to help me with Zhen..."

She trailed off, biting her lip. One of Francesca's elegant black brows slowly crept up her forehead, a silent demand. Thirty-two years of sisterly clout backed up that demand. Dylan closed her eyes, pretending she hadn't seen. Francesca jabbed her in the ribs with a dagger-like finger.

"Ow!"

"Help you with Zhenjin? Why do you need help?" Another jab fueled by nosiness and sisterly ire. "Tell me. What help do you need? Am I wrong? Is he really a douche-nozzle? Because I've got a hulking, scaly crocodile man who thinks I'm the best thing since they put the pocket in pita. He can take some bites out of this lizard-boy if you need him to. What's up?"

"It's nothing—"

"Lies and slander. Spill it. What? Did he do something to you? Prince Prissy-Pants will get him if he did."

"No," Dylan snapped. She jerked her arms across her stomach in a defensive posture she couldn't stop. "He didn't do anything to me. It's not his fault his stupid brother forced us into this stupid deal..." Dylan bit back the rest of the words. Glanced at her sister. Nothing but concern and gentleness from that corner, but she knew if the other woman didn't get her way, all those nice tender feelings would morph into something resembling the ferocious single-mindedness of a rabid chihuahua. She sighed. "This doesn't go beyond this room. Don't even tell Tori unless I say you can. Okay? You promise?"

Dropping all mischief and slyness, Francesca nodded. Squeezed her sister's hand. "You can tell me anything, kid."

So she did. She told Francesca the truth about what Shaohao had done for his younger brother, and the price he'd demanded from both Zhenjin and Dylan. And she confessed why the situation sucked so desperately, how Nuada and Zhenjin were both being so kind and mature about everything even though this had to be hurting them, and how much she wanted to wring Shaohao's neck for hurting her truelove and her friend.

By the time the story was all out in the open, Francesca had squeezed herself onto Dylan's bed—which wasn't that hard—and offered up her shoulder as a pillow while her little sister talked. When Dylan finally fell silent, Cesca blew out a long breath.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but it seems like this whole faerie thing is more trouble than it's worth sometimes. It seems to keep coming back around to bite you on your cute little ass."

"Language."

"Oh, my gilly golly gosh, you're absolutely right. Oh, my heavens, I should know better by now but I'm such a stubborn little crackerjack of a pistol that gosh darn it, I just can't help my little old self when those big, bad words come pouring out—"

Dylan jabbed her. "As a doctor, I know a million ways to hurt you a lot."

She rubbed the spot on her side where Dylan had practically stabbed her with a fingernail. "Apparently. Brat-child. So, you have to make out with Mr. Sexy Scales. And you feel bad about this." Dylan nodded. "Because you think it's going to upset Mr. Goldilocks and Mr. Sexy Scales."

"Where do you even get these names?"

"What? He's blond and Zhenjin's scaly. It works. Would you prefer Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Dangerous and Mr. Blond-and-Bratty?"

"Nuada is not a brat. Most of the time. Hardly ever anymore, actually. And why is Zhenjin tall, dark, and dangerous? They're both almost the same height and I'm pretty sure Nuada's just a teensy bit deadlier. Although Zhenjin did almost kill him," Dylan reflected.

Francesca stared at her. "Like, actually kill? Like with weapons? Pointy stabby weapons and actual almost death? Geez, your life is so complicated. I don't know how you manage it. Anyway, I'm not even going to ask why you're friends with this guy still because obviously you know what you're doing. The rest of us just gravitate helplessly in your Tolkien-esque orbit. So anywho, why do you think making out with His Imperial Dragonian Hotness is going to hurt Nuada? Does he think you want to do this?"

"No. He knows I don't."

"Okay. Does he think you're secretly in love with Zhenjin?"

"No! Why are you—"

"So does he think you're going to get one yummy taste of Zhenjin's oh so luscious dragon lips, fall head over heels out of love with him and in love with Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Dangerous, and rush off to become Empress of Faerie China?

"No!"

"Then," Francesca asked gently, "what's the guy's problem?" Dylan opened her mouth. Closed it again. "He knows you love him. He knows you're not some skank who can't keep her skirt on when a hot guy walks by. He trusts you—and the guy clearly has trust issues so that's major. I don't think he's going to be as upset about you kissing Zhenjin and what that means for him as you think. I think he's more worried about you and how you feel. Sound legit?" After a minute, Dylan nodded. "Okay. And we'll get to you in a second. So, what's the issue with Dragon Boy? Why do you think this is going to hurt him?"

She slanted her a dirty look. "Were you even listening?"

Cesca poked her. "Yes, O Snarky Nugget of Sororital Irritation, I was listening. He's in love with you. I get it. That sucks for both of you, because he's your bestest girlfriend—apart from me and Tori, obviously—and you don't want to rip his heart out and stomp on it in your evil B-word-queen stilettos. See, I can watch my language sometimes. But! My question is, why is making out with you going to hurt him more than just being in love with you?"

Hands shaking when she raked them through her newly-regrown hair, Dylan blew out a breath. "It's cruel," she whispered. She pictured Zhenjin's face when he'd accidentally-on-purpose almost-kissed her once. He'd confessed his love in a roundabout way with a story about the moon goddess and a sea dragon, an old Chinese legend, and then he'd asked her if she understood why they could no longer be friends.

And she hadn't. Not then. Not even a little bit. Only when he'd leaned in and kissed her, his lips just brushing over hers in a sweep of warmth and softness, and he'd made a sound as if someone had slid a knife between his ribs...She'd understood a little, then. It was the same sound Nuada had made when they'd kissed for the first time in a shared dream. The same sound locked in her own throat every time Nuada had kissed her hand or touched her cheek before she'd realized he loved her, too. And Zhenjin had explained to her...

I want everything to do with you. But it is torturous to see you, to know that when you smile at Nuada, when you laugh for him, when your eyes light up when you see him...it is like a knife in my chest, to know that will never be for me. I will never be what you want...Nuada has memories of holding you and kissing you a thousand times and those memories dance through my mind a thousand times every night before I go to sleep. Those memories taunt me with what I can never have...

"It's like I'm offering him a taste...no. Not me. I'm not doing it." That wasn't where the sadness came from. She didn't feel guilty because it wasn't her fault. There was nothing she could've done to prevent any of this. No, she hurt because he hurt, because..."He's being shown a glimpse of a life he wishes he could have. Offered a taste of that life. That...happiness. But he can't keep it. It's just a game of pretend."

Her sister rolled onto her stomach and propped her chin on her fists. She nodded and awkwardly patted the top of Dylan's face, since that was the only thing she could comfortably reach.

"You're right," Cesca said. "That does kind of suck. But honey...isn't that what happened with you and Nuada? I mean, didn't you tell me that the first time you guys kissed, he wasn't sure, because it wasn't permanent? You guys didn't think you could be together," Francesca continued, raising her voice a little when Dylan opened her mouth to protest, "but you said you were willing to accept what little bit of happiness and togetherness he could give you right then. And you asked him to take that jump with you. To risk breaking your heart—and his, though you didn't think that at the time—so you guys could be happy in that moment, and be together. Weren't you two basically pretending you'd get a happily ever after?"

"But that's different—"

"Not really," she interrupted. "At least this way you know when the game is over. Weren't you grateful, happy, that you threw away common sense and just let yourself be with Nuada?"

"I wasn't in a relationship then! And neither was he!"

"Hon, when you're with Dragon Boy, you're not supposed to be in a relationship. For those three encounters, you're basically broken up with your guy. Isn't that the deal? You're supposed to give Zhenjin a shot?"

"But it's an impossible deal, Cesca! I can't just forget how I feel about Nuada! And I don't love Zhenjin! I mean...I love him, but I'm not in love with him. You know? I love him the way...the way I love John."

"No you don't, honey," Francesca murmured. "I've seen you with all three of these guys. No you don't."

Dylan bolted upright and glared at her. "I am not in love with Zhenjin. And if you give me that whole 'methinks the lady doth protest too much' garbage, I will force-feed you pickled pigs' feet. Don't think I won't."

One hand flew to Francesca's mouth as she made a revolted face. "Oh, geez. That's disgusting. You're disgusting. And I'm not saying you're in love with the guy—although you could be, if you let yourself, if Nuada up and died on you and you managed not to walk in front of a bus afterward."

"What? What are you talking about?"

"You're attracted to him. Ah-dat-da!" She lifted a finger, forestalling protests. "Wait. Just hear me out. Just because you're attracted to a person doesn't mean you love the person. Okay? Get that myth out of your brain. I think both of them are smokin', but I don't love either of them. Okay? You think he's attractive, though. I can tell because you turn pink when he brushes against you."

Dylan leaned back. Her brows drew sharply together. "No, I don't..."

She paused. Mentally rewound every time she, Zhenjin, and Francesca had been in the same place at the same time. The thing was, as much as Francesca liked trying to shove Dylan into incredibly uncomfortable sexual situations, with something like this, she wouldn't just make stuff up. And Cesca didn't lie, either. She wouldn't just say this stuff if she didn't believe it. Especially when Dylan had impressed upon her how deadly serious it all was.

Did she blush whenever Zhenjin touched her? They didn't touch much, did they? Especially not now. But before...before his confession, before the attack on the night she'd been elevated to peerage...had he ever made her blush?

Memories flitted through her mind as she dredged them up: every touch of his lips to the backs of her fingers, shocking in their warmth again and again; the odd light that often kindled in his eyes and the even odder feeling that fizzed in her stomach; the softness of his breath against her skin, always leaving a strange tingle behind. His fingertips at her cheek...rough velvet calluses brushing over her skin...always with that charming smile and the pain in his eyes and she hadn't realized what it meant, hadn't understood why the blood rushed into her cheeks every time he...

No. She'd understood. She'd just pretended not to. She hadn't wanted to consider what it could mean that Zhenjin was always so charming, that he always made her laugh even when Nuada couldn't, that he made her feel so strange when he was nice to her or smiled at her or touched her.

She covered her mouth as shame pulsed through her in three slow bursts of coolness.

"No," she whispered. "Oh, no, no, no. This...I...this can't happen. I can't do this. I can't be attracted to him." It wasn't love. She could, objectively, say that. It was merely that she cared about him a great deal and was physically attracted to him.

But that didn't help because that's what had started her spiral into absolute, unquestionable, desperate love for Nuada—friendship and attraction. Friendship set on fire, wasn't that how some of the fae described love?

And she was a doctor. A psychiatrist. She knew how the brain worked. It could trick you so easily, and the body could trick the brain almost as easily. The Law of Chastity prohibited much regarding physical intimacy, and with many good reasons. One of them was that physical intimacy chemically altered human brain patterns—and probably fae, but she didn't know for sure. Being very intimate with someone inspired a level of trust the other person might not have actually earned. It could inspire deeper affection without the experiences to back it up. Deep intimacy like sex—or some of the things Dylan had done with Nuada after they'd expressed their true feelings for each other—could make a person think their partner was the One, or one of the Ones (as Dylan didn't believe in just the One), even when they weren't.

If she went through with this—and she had to, or Shaohao would know and he would kill her, Nuada and Zhenjin couldn't protect her from him if he really meant to murder her—then she would be letting down so many walls. Walls she hadn't even allowed Nuada to breach, not willingly. Instead of letting desire and the heat of the moment carry her away, she had to let certain things happen. She had to fight her instinctive response to make them stop. But once things got underway...what if her brain started playing tricks on her? What if the intimacy shared with Zhenjin started twisting her perception of him?

What if their friendship twisted into infatuation on her part? The foundation was there already, so similar to what had fostered her love with Nuada: friendship, respect, attraction, and forced proximity. Add in the physical encounters soon to come, so much more personal than any she'd had with Nuada at that point in their relationship, and it was a disaster waiting to happen. Any infatuation wouldn't last, she knew that, but it would just make everything so much worse. Zhenjin might even think she'd fallen in love with him. Nuada might think so, too. And she had to approach the situation with "an open mind," as Shaohao had put it. She couldn't play the frigid old maid with Zhenjin and just lie back and think of England. It would negate the bargain. Shaohao had been clear on that. Francesca was right, she had to act as if Nuada didn't exist in those moments.

"I have to break the Law of Chastity," Dylan whispered, gripping the blanket in her fists. "I have to cheat on Nuada. I have to risk becoming neuro-chemically infatuated with Zhenjin—"

"Did you just say 'neuro-chemically infatuated?' I actually know what that means, but did you just say that?" Francesca asked. She laughed a little, then sobered when Dylan made a small distressed sound. "Dylan...honey, is that what you're worried about? Getting a crush on Zhenjin?"

"Well, yeah," Dylan growled.

Cesca sighed and sat up. "Sweetie...who cares if you get a crush on him?"

"How can you say that?"

"Babe. Baby-cakes. Honey-pie. My sweet, sweet, naive baby sister. My squishy little love caterpillar—"

"What?"

"You know, because we're dealing with your sexual awakening and you're like a beautiful butterfly...you know what? Never mind. Anyway, Nuada's not stupid. Since he's friends with Zhenjin, I don't think Zhenjin's stupid, either. True?" Francesca asked. After a minute, Dylan nodded. "Okay then. I get you've never had a real boyfriend before. I totally get it. So you're freaking out like a tween. Understandable. But I promise you, the world will not end if you get a crush on another guy while you're in a relationship. It happens. It even happens to married people. Just don't act on it. That's the key.

"Don't interrupt!" She added sharply when Dylan tried to say something. "I know you guys have to play Grabby-Hands but those are set encounters with rules. Right? So don't go outside those encounters. You've got a stubborn streak as wide as the Grand Canyon. You can hold out. Nuada won't get mad. And the world is not going to end if you enjoy yourself during these set encounters with Prince Dungeons and Dragons. Okay? You have to have some fun anyway. That's in Señor Psychopath's Rule Book for the Squicky and Insane Shippers. Okay? Calm down. Stop worrying so much."

The seconds ticked by in silence while Francesca waited for her sister to say something. Finally Dylan simply collapsed back on the bed, wincing when her healing back protested the softened impact. She blew out a breath that ruffled the stray curls on her forehead. Stared up at the ceiling as she processed her sister's advice.

"Okay," she mumbled.

"Okay?"

A tired nod. "Okay." She sighed. "Okay. Can you...can you send Nuada in here? He's out there...somewhere. My guards should know."

Francesca patted her leg as she heaved herself off the bed. "You bet. Should I also send up some alcohol? Maybe if we get you good and drunk, you won't be so nervous about this."

"Nuada wouldn't accept a decision from me if I was drunk. Neither would Zhenjin."

"Awww, such nice widdle Elf boys. Okay, no gin for you. More for me, then. So, remember, just be honest with the guys about how you feel—both of them. They adore you. They won't get mad and neither of them are as big of a pair of wimps as you seem to think. It'll be okay."

Nuada a wimp, Dylan thought as her sister left the room, followed by a sleepy Sétanta to help her find the prince. Never in a million years would she use that word to describe him. Or Zhenjin. Cesca was right. She needed to give them more credit.

.

Lord Iríall the Banquet Keeper, chamberlain to Balor One-Arm, was the last person the old king expected to try to talk him out of riding to meet the prince at the first of the northern villages under Nuada's control. The chamberlain had been cautioning Balor about his heir ever since the last war with the humans. As a boy, Nuada had admired the older man for his wisdom and detailed knowledge of both Bethmooran and international law, and Iríall had found the prince's respect flattering. But it seemed that respect and fondness had now grown cold. Yet despite how the chamberlain always maintained Nuada was a danger to humans and fae alike and a disgrace to the kingdom and his noble bloodline...but now Iríall was insisting Balor should stay in Findias.

"It isn't safe, Your Majesty! The prince's intelligence agents as well as your own men report violent bandit attacks in the area. What if you're hurt? What if they capture you? Danu's mercy, what if you're killed, Sire? Prince Nuada is not ready to be king in your place! And the princess is currently preoccupied with—"

Balor laid a massive, sheathed claymore of Elven silver atop his desk, biting back a sigh. Two months ago he'd lifted the heavy broadsword with ease against Eamonn mac Dubh and his men, but now...The weight made his arm of flesh tremble with the strain and his other shoulder ache where his wooden arm anchored to his body.

"My old friend...my daughter's reports of the prince's current state demand I ride out to see the truth for myself, as I promised Nuala." Though he did not wish to go. Though he knew in his heart what awaited him—Nuada, mad with grief, thirsting for human blood. All progress from the last year undone. All hope lost like ashes on the wind. "I can trust no one else with this, Iríall. He is my son. I must go."

He'd promised Nuala. He couldn't execute his son, his boy—couldn't lose the last of his children—unless he was certain Nuada was a threat again.

Long, thin fingers twisted in agitation. "Perhaps the prince has calmed in the days since Princess Nuala's initial impression. The threat may not be so dire. Or..." Iríall cleared his throat. His beady, black eyes shone with sympathy. "Perhaps Nuala's perception is colored by the situation with Ledi iz Lysaya Gora."

The king's lips thinned. He braced his hands against the cool, carved-hawthorn desk; tired eyes the color of soured champagne traced over the deep crack Nuada had left there in a fit of rage less than two moons ago.

When Balor spoke, his voice rumbled with something too bitter to be rage and too terrible to be mere sorrow. "I love Polunochnaya as my own child. She has called my daughter 'sister' and my son 'brother' for over three-thousand years. She has been part of our family, my own foster-daughter, since she was but a mere girl. Her betrayal wounds us all, Iríall. Now I am in a position where I must execute my foster-daughter for her treason...and perhaps my son for his. Do you think I wish this? I love them both. But Nuada is too dangerous, even if he were wholly sane and honorable, to be left unchecked."

"But Sire, Nuala has sensed nothing from the prince since that first rush of despair more nearly a seven-day ago!"

"Nuada had only ever blocked his sister out twice in his life, Iríall, and never completely before. Always, always, something leaked through. His emotions, if nothing else. Until now. And that concerns me greatly."

It should've been impossible due to their twinship. Over the past year, as Nuada's love had grown for the mortal, his well-maintained shields against Nuala's mind-touch should have either remained at the same level or become somewhat weakened, not grown exponentially in strength. And the king knew his son still lived; Nuala would've felt his death, as Balor had felt Cethlenn's centuries ago. As Nuala had sensed his brush with death after the duel with Prince Zhenjin Azurefire.

There could be only two possible explanations for Nuada's absolute silence: either to hid his bloody plans for revenge…or his desperate plans to join his lady in death.

"There may be more to this than Nuala knows," Balor conceded. "But that is all the more reason to seek the truth for myself. Do not worry, old friend. My Butcher Guards will be with me and we'll take the King's Road, since my son's reports tell me the Forest Road is unsafe."

Sorrow swept over the king, thick as a sodden wool blanket and heavy as grief. He thought of the unicorns—their splendor and their grace, their impossible innocence of all things evil and their awesome majesty. Cethlenn had shown a young king the glorious beauty of the unicorns during their honeymoon. Until that day, Balor had never seen these most precious denizens of his realm. But his queen had had a way about her.

And now they were dead. Slaughtered like cattle, left to rot in a sacred grove, quicksilver blood staining the snow. Balor pressed a hand to his chest as grief pulsed like an ache through his heart and he wished fiercely for Cethlenn. She would've known how to proceed. She could've stopped Nuada's madness centuries ago, if it even would have been born in the first place without the catalyst of her death. She'd have seen the fatal folly in accepting the so-called "gift" of the Golden Army, that tool of heartless, honor-less butchery.

But like the unicorns, Cethlenn was dead. And unless Balor was very much mistaken, soon both of his last surviving children would be, too, because Nuada's truelove had been murdered by her own kind.

Oh, my son. My poor boy. Balor closed his eyes and pictured not the angry, bitter man Nuada was now, but the laughing child he'd been once upon a time. I know how it wounds the soul to lose the other half of your heart. I know how it kills your hope, drowns any spark of joy. But please…don't give into your rage. Prove me wrong, my son. And please…do not give into despair.

.

Nuada and Zhenjin sat in a private room at a table with the remnants of supper growing cold. A clay mug full of wheat beer foamed a few inches in front of him. Nuada eyed it, but didn't make a move to drink. Zhenjin took a single sip from his cup of wine. The two men didn't speak. They had nothing to say at this point. But they both sensed something like a thread hanging suspended between them, a forked thread that stretched out toward Dylan upstairs in her private room. And that thread seemed stretched taut, ready to snap if the next few nights weren't handled appropriately.

Which meant not talking, apparently, until a whirlwind of curly black hair, freckles, and a grin that screamed trouble blew into the room with a jet-black dog right on her heels.

*Master! We found you!*

"Hey, Your Royal Hotness! I was just looking for you! And look who else is here!" Francesca Myers grinned and threw herself against the doorframe, striking a pose. "Hello, Prince Zhenjin. Prince Nuada has to take off, but I can keep you company if my boyfriend can come hang with us. We can tell you all about the peasant life. Or about pizza. Do you know what pizza is?"

Only centuries of training kept Nuada from rolling his eyes. He'd become a bit fond of Francesca—much to his chagrin—when he'd been grieving for his lady. She'd been grieving too, and somehow she'd understood what he needed for comfort better than most of Dylan's family and his own comrades. So the prince tolerated her now…which she'd apparently picked up on, unfortunately.

The prince opened his mouth to reprimand the woman—just because she was his lady's sister didn't mean she could speak so informally to him or to another crown prince—but Zhenjin, so quiet until now, threw back his head and laughed.

*What's so funny?* Sétanta asked, looking between Francesca and the occupied table.

"I accept your invitation, Lady Francesca," Zhenjin said, saluting her with his cup. "And please invite…what is your truelove's name?"

*His name is Davio,* Sétanta interjected. He practically vibrated in place; since Nuada hadn't ordered him to attention, he was currently in a pup mindset instead of acting as a guard dog. Well enough. *He is cold but he gives good belly-scratches. He smells like snakes, but only good snakes. And fish. Yummy fish. Master, there is extra food in the kitchen, there is fish and some rabbits, and Mistress sent me down here to help Mistress Francesca. Can I have extra food? I will go right back upstairs after food. Or should I go now? Mistress says I am not guarding now. I am playing now. Can we play? I can find a stick! Or can I have extra food?*

Francesca knelt down beside the hound pup and started rubbing his ears. "Who's a good dog? You helped me find your master! Good boy, good boy, yes. Yes, you're a good boy. Who's a good boy?"

*Meeee,* Sétanta sighed blissfully. *Me. I am a good boy. Right, Master?* The Elven prince canted his head and Sétanta's tail beat hard against the doorframe. His tongue lolled as he gave himself up to the canine bliss of head-rubs and shoulder-scratches.

"So, Your Royal Draconian Hotness…you in?"

Zhenjin nodded to her. "Absolutely. And invite Davio-juéshì."

Francesca's grin widened. "Be careful, he might drink you under the table. Hey, babe!" She leaned over Sétanta's back to stick her head out into the hall. The black hound snuck in the opportunity to lick her arm. "Come get drunk with me and Prince Nuada's friend."

Nuada eyed Zhenjin. "Are you sure about this?" He asked under his breath so only someone with superior Elven hearing could possibly hear.

Zhenjin nodded. "The little mortal amuses me. And she has a kind heart. Dylan sent her; you should go. Besides, how much alcohol could she possibly drink? She's only human."

Zhenjin didn't see it, but Nuada did—Francesca's lips curving slowly into a satisfied smirk. A sort of "wait and see" expression. Suddenly Nuada wondered just how much alcohol Dylan's sister could drink, or if she had some sort of plan up her sleeve. When she caught Nuada's eye and gestured with her chin to the hall, he knew something was in the offing.

The crocodilian came in as Nuada followed Francesca out into the corridor. Silver-blond brows drew together when the mortal said something about being a moment to her lover and then shut the door.

"Do your magical shield-y thingy, I wanna talk to you about something real quick."

A blond brow quirked upward, but Nuada did as she…requested. "It is done," he said coolly, "despite your appalling lack of social graces. What do you want?"

Francesca tilted her head to one side, smiling. "I'm the queen of social graces, Your Highness. Queen of chucking them out the window because I need some information to make sure I'm not ruining my sister's life. Do you think she's going to leave you?"

Outrage spurted through his blood like liquid fire. "What?" A wicked slash of fear followed quickly after, nipping at the heels of his anger. Why had Francesca asked such a question? Had Dylan said something?

He'd failed to protect her from Sréng. From that butcher. He'd failed to keep her safe countless times after promising again and again that he would. He'd promised her his love, his fidelity, then found pleasure in the kisses of another woman. He asked too much of her without giving enough in return—

"Dude. Cool your mental jets, Nuada."

The use of his given name caught the prince's attention, dragging him out of the sudden dread back to the conversation. Francesca had lost her smirk and the smile in her eyes. Now she watched him, completely serious.

He wondered in a distant way if he ought to be concerned.

"I'm a relationship expert—sort of. More like a man-expert. You guys aren't that hard to understand. So I know you adore her to squishy pieces and all that crud, and I know you've got issues with trusting people. Don't hit me," she added when a muscle flexed in Nuada's jaw and he straightened, looming over her. "Stop giving me the evil eye. Look, I care about you. You and her. Even if you guys had to break up because of politics or whatever, I'd still care about you because you're a good guy and there's not enough of your type in the world.

"So I'm going to deal straight with you. You're scared of losing her, aren't you? You don't have to say anything," she said when Nuada looked away. "You love her so much. I saw it—we all did. When you thought she was gone forever. I'm not trying to…to throw that in your face or anything. Dylan said people do that here, but I swear, that's not what I'm trying to do. But I can tell you're scared she's gonna leave. Either die or just walk away. Aren't you?

"She can sense that. Yeah," she nodded when his gaze slashed back to her face. "She can. She told me about Dragon Boy in there and the whole kissy-kissy deal. How freaked out she is about it."

"I never wanted this for her," he muttered, hating the defensiveness creeping into his voice. "I know this is difficult, I would never force her to—"

Francesca sighed. "Dude, her biggest issue is freaking you out, actually." He stared at her. "Yeah. Making you think she doesn't love you anymore or something. She didn't say that in so many words, but I know how my baby sister ticks, okay? I've been her favorite sister since she was born, practically. So the real thing is, are her fears about your fears actually justified? If you see her sucking Prince Dragon-Fairy's face off, are you automatically going to think she wants him and not you? Because if that's what you think, you're dumber than Dylan thinks you are, and you've made me look dumb because I told her you weren't a wimp. Because I know you're not. Not with what I know about you. Not with the crap I've seen you deal with in the last week.

"So I'm sending you up to my sister, and I'm asking you to trust in how much she loves you. She says you don't see how awesome you are. That's pretty obvious," she said, and Nuada tried to hide the strange little buzz of gratitude at the sentiment. He didn't care what a random human thought of him…except this was Dylan's sister. Except he was fond of Francesca, in a distant way. And he found he'd come to respect the way she always spoke her mind—as long as she wasn't insulting his father. "I'm telling you that you seriously rock her crazy world. She's not ditching you for Sexy McScaly in there anytime soon. So go put her mind at ease."

Oddly touched by the bright, encouraging smile she flashed him, Nuada canted his head and pulled down the glamour before turning to head up the stairs. None of Dylan's siblings had ever given such overt approval before. John had apologized for the vicious things the whelp had thrown at Nuada on multiple occasions. There had been the time, less than a sennight ago, when Petra had spoken to him about taking caution when it came to the physical aspects of his relationship with Dylan; he'd nearly roared her out of the room. The only reason he'd restrained himself was for Dylan's sake.

But never this, and never from her siblings. It pleased him, though he couldn't have said why.

He found Dylan's room easily; it was the only one with a dozen Butchers lining the hall beyond. The guards offered him the typical fist-to-chest salute as he approached. Uaithne, the leader of Dylan's retinue, knocked on her door and told her that Nuada had come to see her, as dictated by safety protocol. After nearly losing her, after she'd nearly been snatched right under their noses, Uaithne and his squadron were taking no chances with their charge.

Dylan's voice came sleepy and soft through the door. "Come in. Eimh, why don't you go sit outside with Uaithne and them, okay?"

*All right,* the white hound pup agreed as Nuada opened the door. She licked Nuada's fingers briefly and he offered her a scratch behind one ear as they passed each other. *Hello, Master. Mistress is feeling better now. I will play with Ailbho because he throws the Ball good.*

"Enjoy yourself," Nuada replied and shut the door behind him.

She was off the bed and in his arms before he had time to say anything, her arms draped about his neck and her face pressed against his collarbone. Her breath shushed warmly against the skin exposed by his open collar. Nuada settled his hands at her waist and laid his cheek against her hair. Breathed in the scent of lavender oil, rose shampoo, and lily soap. He kissed the top of her head.

Dylan sighed happily. "I missed you."

Nuada raised an eyebrow. "I was here merely two hours ago."

"I missed you anyway." She pressed closer, nuzzling the sharp edge of his clavicle with the very tip of her nose. Heat prickled under his skin as her breath lingered. His fingers twitched against the crushed velvet of the tunic she wore and he swallowed. Hard. "I just…missed you a lot."

There was a catch in her voice. "Are you all right, mo crídh?"

She didn't answer right away; just tangled her fingers in the folds of his black tunic and laid her forehead against the warmth of his skin. A shudder rippled through her. Acting on instinct, Nuada slid his arms carefully around her, cautious of her wounds. His fingers jerked back from the shock of exposed flesh and he realized Dylan wore a tunic with a low back. Had she even remembered she wore it? Surely she wouldn't have asked him here if she'd remembered. Did not her rules about modesty prohibit her from wearing such things in his presence before they wed?

Then his fingertips brushed ridged flesh and tension whipped through Dylan's body. He realized her healing lashes lay exposed to the air. She wore the tunic to speed up healing, nothing more. Francesca had no doubt massaged the rare undamaged portions of Dylan's back to help with the muscle damage she'd incurred, as well.

"I just want to be with you for a minute," Dylan whispered. "Is that okay?"

"Of course, beloved." He cuddled her close, pressing his cheek to her temple. Her shoulders began to shake. Was she crying? "Sweetheart, what is it?"

"Nothing. I'm not crying," she said, leaning back. But her eyes were damp. "I mean, I am, but they're happy tears. I'm just…it still seems unreal. That I'm safe. And then it hits me that I'm here and you're here and everyone's here and it's okay and I'm just so happy…Sorry. I'm just so happy you're here. Sorry. I think I got your shirt wet."

"It's replaceable."

She laughed. "Isn't that velvet and silk?" He shrugged and she laughed again. "Your privilege is showing, Your Highness."

The prince offered a nonchalant shrug. "Well of course. My privilege, as you call it, is standing right in front of me." She rolled her eyes, wiping at her cheeks. Nuada cupped her face, brushing a gentle thumb across the delicate edge of her cheekbone. "You're so beautiful." Her expression turned disbelieving. "I mean it."

"You don't mind my extremely jacked-up face?"

Nuada leaned into her. Breathed her in again. Touching his lips to an almost-healed cut on her forehead, he whispered, "I mind that you were hurt. I love you; of course I mind. But yours is the face I dream of at night as I lay down to sleep, the face of my own angel of mercy. The face I carry in my mind and my heart as I slog through these days of shadow and sorrow. Your face. Your scars, those beautiful blue eyes, your crooked nose which I find…what is the word? Ah. Adorable. And this mouth…"

His thumb caressed her bottom lip and Dylan's mouth fell open just slightly. The Elven warrior drew a deep breath. This felt just the slightest bit dangerous. Like dancing on the edge of a precipice. An odd nervousness jittered in his blood.

"I think of your mouth often," he confessed.

The mouth in question quirked at the corners in a small smile. He caught the scent of her breath, mint and cinnamon when she said, "Do you? Do I distract you?"

"Nearly always."

Dylan's fingers whispered over the collar of his tunic, the paleness of his throat. Gooseflesh prickled over his skin. "I apologize, Your Highness. I never meant to trespass into your thoughts that way."

He caught her hand in his. Brought it to his lips. "Trespass as you like, milady," he whispered against her knuckles. "I always welcome thoughts of you."

"So you think about me a lot then."

"Yes."

"Even when you're trying to pay attention to, say, your father lecturing you."

Dark lips curved in a smile. "I would rather think about you than whatever accusations my father wishes to hurl my way."

"You know Francesca would accuse you of thinking about me naked."

Nuada's mind went blank at the words, then an image—a memory of thrown glass bottles, an underground haven, and torn stitches—flashed through his mind. He'd seen Dylan completely unclothed once and only once before. He hadn't had the inclination to notice, care, or savor. That was good, or he'd have felt like even more of a lecherous cretin than he did when the memory of her suddenly flooded his mind.

No, he growled, forcing the image away. No. I will not dishonor her. She has asked me not to do this and I will not. No. I am an Elven warrior. I am Bethmoora's crown prince. I am in control of my own thoughts.

"You're thinking about me naked, aren't you?" Dylan asked, looking torn between sleepiness and amusement.

He shot her a sour look. "Well, now that you've mentioned it twice, yes. Forgive me."

She bounced up and kissed him on the tip of his chin. "Forgiven. Always. It's okay, it's natural. I know you're not being a creep. Just don't think about someone like…Francesca naked. That would be weird."

Nuada's jaw clenched as he shoved the bizarre and—thank all the gods—fleeting image from his mind. "You did that on purpose."

Dylan grinned. "Yeah. Your face is hilarious. And it's nice to know you actually are awkward sometimes even though you like to say you never are."

"Of course I'm not. I am an Elf, darling."

"Uh-huh. Don't worry, I know it's just that you're tired. It's okay." She settled her head against his chest again, her ear pressed to his heart. Did she hear the way it pounded in his chest? The way it matched the rhythm of hers? He could hear their hearts beating together thanks to superior Elven senses. Dylan sighed. "I wanted to talk to you about something but…is there something you want to talk to me about first? I have a feeling I need to ask."

Surprised, he considered. They'd spoken of Zhenjin. Of what they had to do in order to put an end to that butcher. The fact that their wedding plans, enforced by the king, interfered with their wish to help the afflicted northern villages. What else was there?

Memory whispered in the back of his skull: sweet, heady kisses lying in a sumptuous bed, interrupted by the sounds of children begging entrance to a royal chamber. Something sharp and hot lodged in Nuada's throat. He hadn't told her about his dream. He'd been drunk, ashamed as he was to admit it. It had only been a dream, nothing more. There was no reason to risk hurting Dylan's heart with talk of what was still just a far-off wish for the two of them. It was only a dream…

Yet it hadn't felt like a dream by the end. Not then. Not when the four children had come bounding into the room, desperate to drag their parents to the winter tree surrounded by gifts. Not when a dream-Nuada had hoisted two of the children—Balor and Boann, he remembered with a sharp pang in his breast—and carried them into the other room. And not when Dylan's robe had slid open to reveal her belly, round with child.

He swallowed. He hadn't told her about that dream. Even remembering it was like poking a hot needle into a feverish wound. He just…hadn't seen the point. He'd told no one about it, not even Wink.

But Dylan had a way about her. She knew him so well. She would have known there was something on his mind.

"Come," he murmured. "Let us sit down."

The feather mattress gave a little under his weight as he sat on the edge. Dylan hopped onto the bed and settled tailor-fashion beside him. She'd been moving with much greater ease than before the healing from Shaohao. Her knee hardly seemed to pain her at times. Was the wretched Red Dragon of Dilong responsible for this blessing as well? Nuada hated to consider the idea, given the present situation with Zhenjin.

Dylan touched the back of his hand, just a brush of two fingers. A silent message that all was well between them, that she was there, willing to hear whatever he needed to say. Warmth spread through him. Could he have asked for a better woman to become his princess? Perhaps one day his queen?

He cleared his throat. He felt inexplicably nervous.

"When you…when I thought that you were…lost to me," Nuada began, "I could scarcely bear it. I thought I'd known the kind of pain losing you would bring, but I…I was wrong. Nothing could have prepared me…"

She squeezed his hand when he trailed off. The Elf focused on the satin-softness of her skin against his, the warm pulse of blood under her skin that told him she was here, she was safe, she was alive. Though he couldn't breach the mental void between them, though their link had been severed somehow—had she shut him out?—she was still right here with him. And for that, he would be eternally grateful.

"A blizzard came," he continued. "We couldn't set foot out of doors. The local basajaun said it would last at least four days. I knew that was enough time to allow me to…to take the coward's way out and escape the pain for a time."

Dylan smiled. "Let me guess—you got totally hammered."

He frowned. "Hammered?"

"Foxed. Soused. You got drunk."

"Yes…" But of course, the whelp had told her the prince had gotten drunk with her brother. "Wink made sure I was left alone except for your brother and sisters."

"How long before you couldn't stand up?"

He considered. "I remember at one point stumbling down the hallway with John to answer the call of nature and John running into the privy door—"

"Did you run into anything?"

Nuada gave her a look. "I am an Elf, darling. Even drunk, I have more grace than that."

Dylan grinned. "Sure you do. So you both got completely snockered—John before you, I imagine—and then what happened?"

"I fell asleep. And I dreamed of you. At first I didn't remember that you were dead. I woke, in the dream, to your kiss. Your touch. We…" Would she be angry about this? "We were in bed together. Half-clothed, but it was obvious to me we had made love the night before. And you wanted to again."

Shifting around, Dylan scooted close to him. Dropped her head on his shoulder. "You haven't been feeling guilty about this, have you? I mean, it's not like I'm not wildly, desperately in love with you or anything. Or that if we were married, I wouldn't have to fight my natural Mormon-girl instincts to keep my hands off your magnificent Elven self."

"No," he shook his head, "no. Not guilty, though I thank you for the compliment, mo duinne. No, in the dream I had…memories. We were wed. We'd had a life together. But suddenly I remembered that you were dead. And dream-Dylan comforted me, told me it was only a nightmare. I wished desperately for it to be so but I knew it wasn't and you were right there, so close, and I wanted to…to lose myself for a time, to pretend you were there. That you were real. That it was all real. I wanted so much to…but I knew you wouldn't want it. So I tried to break away from the dream, and I couldn't, I couldn't wake, and it hurt deep in my heart to try…So then I prayed for peace. For mercy. For solace."

Her hand curved around his cheek and he realized he'd shut his eyes. To block out his own words or to savor the fleeting memories of the dream? He didn't know. He opened his eyes to see her watching him, gaze so very gentle.

"And did you get it?"

"I…I think I did. The dream changed. It didn't feel like a dream anymore and I suddenly knew—not felt, but knew—that everything would be all right, that what I was seeing would come to me. It made no sense because I knew you were gone, that I would never see you again, but still…somehow I knew. And it comforted me then."

"What did you see?"

So he told her of it: the happiness on his doppelganger's face and in his eyes; the four children with their golden-copper curls and their gold-flecked blue eyes and softly-pointed ears, all the marks of half-Elven children; the way they'd crowded around dream-Nuada and Dylan, laughing and tugging. And the child or children, as yet unborn within her. He spoke haltingly, unsure if he could get the words out without shaming himself. He kept his gaze fixed on Dylan's hand resting on his knee. He didn't know if he could bear to look her in the face. Would this hurt her? He hadn't realized how much he'd come to rely on their growing connection until now.

When his recitation was over, he finally risked dragging his gaze to Dylan's face. She sat staring at him. He couldn't read anything beyond her stunned expression and damp eyes. It seemed to take several small eternities before she covered her mouth with one hand and sighed. Laughed.

Laughed? Why was she laughing?

"Dylan?"

She shook her head in amazement. "Nuada, do you know what that was?"

"A dream…wasn't it?"

She shook her head again. "That was a vision. A revelation. I've had them before. Not very often, but…what you described, the feeling you described, that knowing…it was a revelation. A vision."

His lips shaped the word vision but he couldn't find enough air to make any sound. If the dream of their future life had been a vision…if she was right…then…

Dylan's eyes shone with unspeakable joy as she met his gaze. "It's ours. Our dream. A family. We can do it. We'll succeed."

"You…you're certain?"

She nodded, grinning. She bit her lip, but there was nothing pensive in the gesture. "Yes. Yes, I'm certain. Yes!" She threw her arms around him, pressing close, and Nuada overbalanced and they hit the mattress. Dylan only laughed and pushed up on her elbow. She winced a little but it seemed her wounds were healed enough not to pain her overmuch. "You asked for solace and you got it. It's going to happen. We just have to work to make sure, but it's going to succeed. Our plan. We can have a family. We can do it."

And she leaned down and kissed him. Her hair fell in a sable curtain around them as her lips caressed his, soft as moonlight. Nuada slid his fingers through the wealth of her dark hair. So soft, her hair was so soft. And her mouth, hot and yet satin-sweet, tasting of cinnamon and mint. Heat spread in a golden wash through his belly, through his blood. He groaned softly as Dylan shifted and his chest took some of her weight.

He wanted this—the closeness of her, one arm around her waist to make sure she didn't disappear in a whisper of a dream, his hand cradling the back of her head. Nuada was drowning in her scent, in her taste. He'd thought he'd lost this and then she'd returned but even now the thought of never holding her like this again left an odd, sharp, clutching need twisting in his stomach.

Nuada wasn't sure how it happened, but in moments she was half-beneath him, her hands running slowly up and down his arms as he braced himself over her. He'd forced himself to stay in fierce control over the last two days. He hadn't wanted to push, not ever, and especially not after the horrors she'd witnessed so recently. But now, with Dylan whispering his name against his lips and her fingers moving over his arms and up across his shoulders to graze along his neck and jaw to the tips of his ears…Another groan shuddered through him.

"We should stop," he somehow managed to rasp when Dylan's lips moved from his mouth to his jaw. "We should…Dylan, we might…" Oh, gods, she had to stop touching him or he'd be lost. He hadn't allowed himself enough time to process the fear, the grief, the rage over losing her…or the hope from the dream…the vision…

"You won't let it happen," she murmured absently. Kisses trailed along his jaw. "I trust you."

Somehow he managed to pull back enough to breathe. To gaze down at her, looking sleepy and happy, with that gleam of wanting he'd seen in her a few times before. He cleared his throat.

"You have no idea how much I want you in this moment," he confessed in a rasp. "I love you so much…and you're so beautiful…and if I knew without a shadow of doubt that you wanted this, that you wouldn't regret it when it was finished, I would give myself to you completely now. But—"

"But our emotions are high right now," she supplied. She closed her eyes. Cleared her throat. Sighed. "I still haven't processed everything. I'm still on edge and jittery and…you're right. I wasn't thinking. Maybe we could get away with this without getting into any serious trouble normally, maybe one of us would have enough sense to pull back before it was too late, but not…not right now. We're both too mixed up right now. And the Zhenjin thing…"

"Yes," he mumbled, moving away from her. "That as well."

They'd done this before, stars curse it. Been so wrapped up in their happiness or comforting each other that they'd lost their good sense and forgotten Dylan's rules that she cherished so much. Always they'd managed to stop before things got too out of hand but that wouldn't change how Dylan felt about it later.

Nuada didn't want her to be ashamed of their closeness, their intimacy, but he understood why broken vows bothered her. She was honorable and she'd made promises to her divine King. Promises she'd broken a time or two in Nuada's arms.

"Forgive me, milady. I didn't mean to press you—"

"Oh, stop." She sat up and straightened her hair a little. "It's just as much my fault. I'm sorry, I'm not trying to drive you crazy or anything."

The prince whispered a kiss across her knuckles. "Some say love is madness. But I cherish your trust. And I know you care about your honor and your oaths. I would be ashamed if I did not help you keep your promises…" He trailed off as realization slammed into him with all the weight of Wink's bronze fist. "That wretch."

Dylan's face twisted with confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"Shaohao," Nuada gritted out from between clenched teeth. "His little rule about the level of intimacy between you and Zhenjin for these blasted encounters. He's trying to make you out to be a hypocrite."

"I don't understand."

"Zhenjin knows that you value your God's laws. Shaohao would know it, too. He is wily and knowledgeable of many things. If we had never broken any of these rules, then nothing that happens between you and Zhenjin would bother you. But we have, so it will. And no doubt he considers your…prudery, in his mind, to be one of the reasons Zhenjin must suffer. Do you understand? He is punishing you for what he perceives as your hypocrisy."

Dylan blinked. Stared at him. "See, this is why not following the Law of Chastity always comes back to bite you in the butt. Somehow, someway, it always does. I knew this would happen. Ugh, I'm such an idiot."

Nuada raised an eyebrow. "I disagree; you're one of the most wise, intelligent women I know. But how can this possibly be your fault? Blame the Red Dragon."

"Oh, I blame him, too. But that doesn't mean I didn't screw up. Meh…rats. He got me good. Touché, Prince Shaohao. Well, that actually reminds me of what I wanted to talk to you about." She thumped her back against the bedpost. "I figured it would be best if we got this whole Zhenjin thing out of the way. You know, just dealt with it."

"I agree. Are you comfortable enough with the idea?"

"Yeah, I'm fine with it. I talked to Francesca—who we can trust to keep her mouth shut—and she pointed out that the thing that's really making me uncomfortable is that I'm worried about hurting you and Zhenjin. But she says I need to trust you more. And I do trust you. I know you love me. And I know you trust me. So I wanted to make sure you knew that romantically speaking, this stuff with Zhenjin won't mean anything. I mean, you know I value physical intimacy. I believe it's important. But I don't want it to damage what's between us. And Francesca said I should trust you not to let it, if that makes sense."

The woman is far wiser than I would have ever thought, Nuada realized. Aloud, he said, "I understand. And I agree. I admit I may be a bit…" He had to spit out the word or choke on it. "Jealous of Zhenjin, in a way. But I know it is unworthy of me to envy him. And I know this will not damage what is between us. You and he are both too honorable for that. I trust you, Dylan."

Yes, he trusted her. If she left him for Zhenjin, it would not be because she was dishonorable or cruel. It would be because she realized that she could do better than Nuada Silverlance. True, he was a warrior and a prince. But he couldn't give her the life she wanted without the cost of great heartache. Zhenjin could. Nuada would not be hurt, per se, by any intimacy between them. He only acknowledged its power to take away something precious from him. But Dylan was her own woman and she had the right to choose someone else if she wished.

She would never be unfaithful to him. He knew that much. If she ever chose to leave him, she would not seek another truelove first. She would tell him immediately, and break things off cleanly. Kindly. He knew her too well to believe otherwise.

"She said…she said I was allowed to enjoy myself," she whispered. She didn't look at him as she spoke. "Because he's handsome and skilled. She said you wouldn't be mad if I let myself enjoy…things." Dylan swallowed hard. Nuada noticed the way she fidgeted with her hands as she spoke. "Will you be mad?"

He thought of the scorching wash of pleasure he'd felt when Dierdre had kissed him. The way every nerve had seemed to jolt to life, burning with desire. He'd felt shame afterward but in those moments of impossible-to-ignore lust when he'd had the choice to push Dierdre away and instead pulled her closer, relishing the way her lips parted and her body went boneless in his arms…

"No," he said quietly. "It would be only natural. Zhenjin has considerable skill, as I do, and he will try to make this as pleasant as he can for you. I would not have you be miserable, beloved. Nor would I have you punish yourself. Zhenjin wouldn't, either. I would not be angry."

"Okay. Do…do you think…Zhenjin might end up hating us?" Dylan ventured.

Nuada shook his head immediately. "Never. This may actually make things a bit easier for him. He will have memories of his own, instead of my memories, to help ease his sorrow. He may wish for more, but at least he will not be tormented with regret, with not knowing, as I once was. I know how that can wound a heart."

"Okay." She blew out a breath. "Okay. Then…would you be okay if we got the first encounter over with tonight?"

He sighed. Forced back a sharp retort. He trusted her. He wasn't angry; merely frustrated. He would act like a man instead of a callow, feckless youth and deal with his immaturity on his own.

Nuada canted his head. "If you feel you are ready. If that is how you wish to proceed. I have no objections, so long as you do not."

She flashed him a bright smile full of gratitude. "You are the best. You know that?"

"I may have heard it said once or twice," he replied with a smug smile. "Shall I fetch Zhenjin for you?"

"Yes, please."

Just before Nuada walked out the door, he turned to Dylan, who'd slid off the bed and followed him. He pressed a kiss to the bridge of her nose, to the flat space marking where it had been broken at least twice.

"All will be well, mo duinne. Fret not. All will be well."

.

Don't panic. Dylan turned on her heel and made another lap across the room. Her fingers bit into her arms almost hard enough to hurt as she hunched her shoulders and paced. Don't panic. It will be okay. Everything will be okay. Zhenjin's not a jerk. He's a nice guy. He won't be a jerk.

Why did he have to be handsome? Why did he have to be attractive? This would've been so much easier if she wasn't attracted to him. The attraction made it weird.

Francesca had said to just enjoy herself. Nuada wouldn't be mad about that. He'd said so. Everything was fine. Everything was cool.

Everything was not cool because she had to have a PG-13 make out session with her fiancé's best friend. This was the stupidest thing ever. And when it was over, she was going to track Shaohao down and whack him over the head with a frying pan. Then she'd chop him into pieces, bake him into a pie, and feed it to a dragon. She had no idea if that counted as cannibalism or not, and no idea where she'd even find a dragon, but she'd figure something out.

Oh, no I won't, she grumbled. That jerk saved my life. He loves Zhenjin. He's crazier than Charles Manson, but I can't kill him now. He saved me. Ugh, I wish Francesca was here. She'd make this a lot less awkward. Dylan paused. Considered. Actually, no. She'd make this so much more awkward. So, so, sooo much more awkward. She'd probably hit on Zhenjin.

Why is my life like this? Never mind. I know the answer to that. I signed up for this. I must have been on drugs.

She kept pacing. What would Nuada say to Zhenjin to get him up here?

Maybe I should change my clothes, she thought suddenly. She glanced down at the silk trousers Nuada had had made for her before the trip north. Smoothed her hands over the cool, black fabric. I should change my shirt, at least. I should do that. I need a new shirt. But what shirt? She moved immediately to the clothes' press that had come from Findias and began rifling through it. That's Nuada's…that's Nuada's…that is the wrong color, too much black, I'm not going to a funeral…and that's Nuada…so is this…Why do I have so many of his shirts?

Because she liked to sleep in them. Because they made her feel safe. But she was pretty sure wearing Nuada's tunic for this little…thing…would send the absolutely wrong impression to her friend.

But she couldn't make out with Zhenjin wearing a backless shirt! Look what had almost happened with Nuada!

"Ugh," Dylan smushed her hands over her face and groaned. "I have nothing to wear…"

A nacré velvet tunic caught her attention. When she pulled it out, it draped in a shimmering curtain of green and dark gold. Since she hadn't packed her own clothes, it made sense that Dylan didn't recognize the tunic, but it was lovely.

That works, she decided, and quickly yanked off the other tunic and put on the velvet one. She'd just popped her arms through the sleeves and yanked it down to cover her stomach and settle against her hips when a soft knock rapped at the door. It took her a few seconds and a couple of swallows before she could speak.

"Who is it?"

"Prince Zhenjin Azurefire, my lady."

Duh. Why had she even asked? Because she was freaking out. He was here, and she was dressed, and she was ready. Okay. Everything would be fine.

Dylan cleared her throat. Took a deep, deep breath.

Her voice only trembled a little when she called, "Come in."

.

.

.

.

.

Author's Note: ooh, come Christmas we're gonna get some dragon-sizzle. I love Zhenjin. He's one of my favorites. So hope you guys enjoyed the chapter, hope you had a safe Halloween/Samhain/October 31st/whatever. And I hope you guys have a great November! Let me know what you guys thought! Huggles for everyone!

Concerning the Title: the title of this chap comes from the Lady Gaga song "Monster," from the line "I asked my girlfriend if she'd seen you 'round before." I meant it as a reference to the sisterly convo between Dylan and Francesca.