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I crawled up to Sylus like I had every right in the world to do it.
He was stretched out on the sofa, one arm flung over the back, looking annoyingly comfortable in that way he had when he thought no one was watching. I watched. Then I moved closer, knee by knee, until I was finally on him, draped over his torso as though he were a mattress someone had thoughtfully provided just for me.
He made a low sound of surprise. “Nyx.”
I settled more firmly, resting my cheek against him and folding my arms where they felt best. Warm. Solid. Mine, in the easiest sense of the word. Not possession, never that. Just the soft, steady certainty that he was here, and I was here, and that was enough.
“You are my dragon and I am your kitten,” I stated seriously.
There was a pause.
Then I felt his chest move beneath me as he laughed — not loudly, not enough to jostle me, just that quiet, helpless kind that started deep in him and escaped before he could stop it.
“My kitten,” he repeated, as if tasting the words.
“Yes.”
“And I’m the dragon.”
“Yes.”
His hand came up after a moment and settled at my back, broad and careful, like Sylus knew exactly how to hold something precious without pinning it down. “That so?”
“It is,” I said, utterly convinced. “Dragons are strong and brooding and warm. Kittens are small and demanding and like to lie on their people.”
That made him laugh again, softer this time. “You’ve clearly thought about this.”
“I have an excellent sense for important truths.”
“I can see that.”
I burrowed a little closer, because apparently I had decided that my place for the evening was directly on top of him, and he seemed content to accept this arrangement. His fingers moved once, slow and absent-minded, stroking down my hair in a way that made my whole body go loose with contentment.
After a while, he said: “You do realise dragons usually breathe fire.”
I lifted my head just enough to look at him properly. “Are you threatening me?”
A grin tugged at his mouth. “Would I threaten my kitten?”
“No,” I said solemnly, then added: “You would probably just carry me off and keep me somewhere safe and warm.”
His expression shifted then — something gentler, quieter. Fond, unmistakably. The sort of look that made my throat feel a little tight.
“Yeah,” he said. “Probably.”
So I laid my head back down on him and let myself be exactly where I wanted to be.
And when Sylus kissed the top of my head — brief, soft, entirely unhurried — I decided that dragons were, in fact, very good things to belong to.
I lifted my head again, because a thought had struck me with the force of something genuinely important.
“Dragons have hoards,” I said.
Sylus’s brows rose slightly. “Do they.”
“Yes,” I insisted, making the point with complete seriousness. “Treasure. Jewels. Gold. Important things they keep close.”
He looked far too pleased with himself. “Mm.”
I narrowed my eyes at him, then tilted my head and made my best attempt at big, pleading eyes. It was a dangerous technique. I knew it. I used it anyway.
“What kind of hoard do you have?” I asked, pouting a little for effect.
For a second, he just stared at me.
Then the corner of his mouth twitched.
“Is that what this is?” He asked. “An interrogation?”
“It is a perfectly reasonable question.”
“You’re looking at me like you expect a confession.”
“I do.”
That did it. His laugh came out quiet and warm, and his hand at my back shifted so he could draw me closer, not that there was much room left between us to begin with.
“My hoard,” he said at last, “is apparently a very determined kitten.”
I gasped, offended on principle. “That is not a proper answer.”
“It’s the only honest one.”
I gave him a long, wounded look, which only made him more amused. His thumb brushed over my shoulder in lazy circles, as though he were calming an especially dramatic creature who had not yet learned she was being ridiculous.
“Go on then,” he murmured. “What sort of hoard were you expecting?”
I considered him solemnly. “Shiny things. Old coins. Rings. A suspiciously large pile of blankets.”
He hummed. “Reasonable.”
“And books,” I added. “And weapons, perhaps. Dragons like those.”
“Do they.”
“They do in the stories.”
He tilted his head. “And what do kittens like?”
I blinked once, caught off guard.
Then, much to my own embarrassment, I said: “Warm laps.”
His smile softened so quickly it almost undid me.
“Then I suppose,” he said, voice low and amused and far too gentle, “my hoard is exactly where it ought to be.”
My pout faltered. I looked at him, properly looked, and found that Sylus was watching me with that expression he got when he was trying not to be too obvious about caring and failing spectacularly.
“That was smooth,” I muttered.
“I’m aware.”
I huffed, but it came out fond rather than indignant, and I tucked myself back down against him with complete satisfaction.
“Good,” I said. “Then I shall remain in the hoard.”
His chest rumbled under me as Sylus laughed again, and one hand slid up to cradle the back of my head.
“Yes,” he said. “You absolutely shall.”