Embers - Dragon shifter romance story, Chapter Seven (Patreon)

Ok, it's still half an hour to go here in the UK before Friday officially becomes Saturday... I'm sorry it's so late tonight. It's a bit of a rollercoaster this one, and again, it's still double my intended wordcount for these 'short' episodes, at 1.6k. 

No real warnings, but  Mikaeïl 's past relationship is brought up... 

And all I'll say is... I'm sorry???! *flings this at you and then ducks and hides under a rock*

One, Two , Three, Four, Five, Six   

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A text from Mikaeïl drew a soft smile from you as you woke the next day, rolling over in the crinkly warmth of your covers and stretching your spine out with a grunt. 

‘Morning beautiful,” his message began and you already found yourself grinning broadly. What a romantic… “I hope you don’t find this too much too soon, but I’d like to ask you out for a drink this weekend, tonight if you’re free. I know it’s short notice, but if you’re around, there’s a gorgeous wine bar in the old part of town. It’s run by this crazy old goblin, and I’d love to take you there.’

You actually squeaked and were very grateful that he had asked you via text and not phone call because you had enough butterflies to fly you straight back to high school again with the way you were feeling. With slightly shaking fingers, you messaged, ‘Just woke up. I’d love to come out tonight! And no, I have no life - don’t judge me.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it’ came his immediate response. ‘Besides, most of my Saturday nights consist of a log fire and a glass or two of whisky, so… who’s got no life now…?’

You snorted and rolled onto your stomach. ‘Log fires? Even in summer?’

‘Reptilian, remember?’

‘Ah, yes. How could I forget those beautiful golden eyes of yours?’ you messaged and then immediately regretted it for how sappy and gross it sounded. 

Luckily, he didn’t seem to mind. ‘I’m flattered. Would you like me to pick you up tonight? I’ll book us a table because it’s usually busy.’

‘You mean you don’t know the ‘crazy old goblin’ personally?’

‘Of course I do. He’ll give me the best table in the house, I know it. But still, formalities and all that…’

‘XD. I’ll meet you there? Where is it?’

A short pause was swiftly followed by a message with a link to the restaurant, called ‘La Cantina’ and which seemed to be very fancy. 

‘I feel like I need a top hat and tails to go to this place,’ you texted after scrolling through its web page. 

‘Nothing so formal,’ he reassured you. ‘Actually it’s very much a case of ‘wear what you like’.’ A second later he added, ‘Within reason, of course…’

‘Got it. I’ll wear my favourite neon leotard with exposed nipples for a touch of class…’

‘Perfect. I knew I liked you for a reason.’ 

You spent most of that morning giggling over your conversation with him, but you did manage to catch up on a couple of bits of work that had been shoved to one side during the week, and when you left the house that evening, you felt pretty sure you’d look alright. A pair of dark jeans and a smart-ish top which had always been one of your favourites seemed to do the trick, and it wouldn’t crumple on your bus journey into the centre of Old Trollbridge either. You couldn’t turn up looking like an old paper bag if you wanted to impress your, what, boyfriend? Were you officially dating now? 

That thought sent a thrill through you, and you had just taken a deep breath to try and regain some of your limited stock of composure when you saw him up ahead. 

He was walking down the cobbled street towards you, his hands in his pockets, his head slightly downcast, and your breath caught in your throat. The last of the sunlight had vanished to leave the milky blue haze of dusk, settling lazily about the buildings and chimneys of the old university town, and he looked as much a part of the place as the gargoyles and grotesques looming above and the worn streets below. Slender, strong, confident, and yet strangely soft, almost serpentine you supposed, Mikaeïl approached and the hard lines of his pale face gentled visibly as he looked up and saw you standing there, watching him. 

His long red hair was half drawn back off his face on his left, twisted once and pinned, while the rest of it fell in shimmering red down his back. His eyes glowed in the dim light and your heart skipped a beat or two at the sight of them, slit pupils widened to leave a halo of gold. When Mikaeïl finally drew level with you, he slowed and you tried to take in a bit more of his outfit. As usual, he was wearing very little colour: a crisp and beautifully fitted white shirt, sleeves cuffed back to the elbow, tucked into black pressed trousers, and black Oxfords that gleamed. 

Then his hands had taken yours in his strong, cold fingers and he pressed a kiss to your knuckles. “You look lovely,” he said earnestly in his warm baritone. “I’m so glad you were free.”

“No life, remember?” you grinned and he laughed softly. 

“Let’s see about changing that, shall we? For both of us. Come on,” and he held your hand as the pair of you turned and headed back down the street in the direction he’d just come from. 

“Did you just wander up here in the hopes of meeting me off the bus or something?” you asked, looking up at him. 

He nodded slightly. “Mmm. That, and I was hideously early for our reservation.”

He caught the endearing smile you offered him and he chuckled again, his cheeks flushing attractively. His eyelashes, you noticed were stupendously long and thick, and the most delicate shade of rose gold you’d ever seen. While you walked, he asked you how the commissions you’d been working on had gone, and listened quietly and attentively as you waffled on about how irritating one particular client was being. “Not like you,” you grinned, squeezing his chilly fingers briefly. “I wish everyone had the same reaction to my work as you did…”

His breath hitched slightly as you said that, but he made no response other than to tighten his grip on your hand for a moment. 

The restaurant was one of those that only the real locals know about; darkly lit by candles, with old barrels dotted here and there among the tables, and thrumming with a strange sense of timeless age. It was as if it had always been here, unchanging, immune to the rhythms of the world outside.

You had barely descended down the well-worn, stone staircase into the aptly named cellar restaurant when a goblin gave a clap of their long-fingered hands and scuttled over to you, grinning broadly and revealing a row of perfectly pointed teeth. Mikaeïl bent nearly double to hug him fondly, careful not to knock his horns on the goblin’s long ears, and they exchanged a chaste but familiar kiss on the cheek.

“Ahh, Mikki,” the goblin said in a voice like a creaking tree in a gale as they drew back. “It’s been far too long. And who’s this! A human!” He shook his head in mock disappointment, and then held out a knuckly hand to you, the grin firmly back on his darkly weathered face. “My pleasure, my pleasure. Come on in. Best seat in the house for you both tonight.”

“You do us great honour, Kiriavin,” he said seriously, ushering you ahead of him to follow the goblin to your table. 

The goblin merely waved a hand and thrust a menu at you without looking back. You just about managed to grab it from him. 

“Wine’s on me tonight, my friends,” Kiriavin added as you settled at your table and Mikaeïl’s eyes widened. “No, no, no; don’t you give me that look, you great overgrown lizard,” the goblin snapped, waggling his finger in Mikaeïl’s face and making him lurch back to avoid being tapped on the nose by a sharp goblin claw. “I haven’t seen you in months, and then you bring this gorgeous human in here out of the blue… Mikki, I was starting to wonder if I’d ever see you with someone else again. I’m glad,” he said, laying his dark-skinned hand on Mikaeïl’s bare forearm. 

Mikaeïl’s throat worked as he swallowed thickly, and his eyes darkened for just a moment, but he nodded and said in a slightly choked voice, “Thank you.”

When the two of you were left alone, you cast Mikaeïl a questioning look.

He sighed expansively as you settled down at the table and then looked you straight in the eye. “You want to know, don’t you?” he asked. 

“There are a lot of things I’d like to know - and a lot of them are about you…” you said cautiously, a horrible feeling souring your stomach. “What exactly is it that you think I want to know?”

As he trailed a finger across the scrubbed wooden surface of the table, his eyes lost on the patterns only he could see in the movement, he said, “Well, it’s been about thirty-five years since I was last with someone. We’d been together…” he broke off and swallowed again. “… for nearly a century.”

“Holy shit,” you breathed, suddenly feeling utterly irrelevant. 

His nostrils flared as he drew in another, steadying breath, still staring at the table. “It’s not really the kind of conversation for a first date. It’s a sad story. We… We were together a long time, but he… he got very sick.” A second later he did look up at you and added, “He was an artist too. Different style from you, but… you have something of his talent.”

“Oh,” was all you could find to say as a barrage of self-doubt crashed into your mind. 

Chapter Eight (I’m so sorry for the cliffhanger)