"You smell like me now," Cael said against Neve's wrist. "Finally!"
Neve looked at the top of his head and sniffed his own shoulder experimentally.
Cael's scent was definitely there. And underneath it, still present but quieter, the faint trace of the unknown — the dragon mark that had been there first. And under all of that, something that was just Neve, which apparently still existed somewhere under two bond marks and forty-five per cent pheromones.
'By the time all ten are done,' he thought, 'Am I going to smell like a whole tribe?'
He stopped thinking about that.
He finished the stew and handed the bowl back. Cael took it and was gone and back in under a minute, efficient in the way he was efficient about everything.
"You should sleep more. You must be tired," Cael said.
"What time is it?"
"Morning still."
"When does the festival start?"
Cael paused. "Evening. The guests arrive before sundown."
Neve threw his legs off the bed.
"Neve—"
