Terms of Shelter

Chapter 6

Dawn Ellery's point of view

A soft knock pulls me from the depths of dreamless sleep, each tap a physical pain against my consciousness. I groan, rolling toward the sound as if through molasses, my body a collection of aches that remind me of last night's orchard adventure. The light filtering through the curtains tells me morning has arrived, though it feels like I've barely closed my eyes. Four hours of sleep after touching ancient magic is not nearly enough.

The knock comes again, more insistent this time. I drag myself upright, the silk sheets sliding away from skin that feels too sensitive, as if the rune's energy still courses just beneath the surface. My dragon tattoo pulses with residual warmth between my shoulder blades, a constant reminder of whatever awakened in me last night.

"Coming," I rasp, my voice a stranger's—thick with exhaustion and something else, something wild that lingers like the taste of those glowing apples on my tongue.

I stumble to the door, yanking it open without checking my appearance. A petite woman with coppery hair twisted into an intricate braid stands in the hallway. Her eyes—ordinary brown, not the predatory green of the twins—widen slightly at my disheveled state.

"Good morning," she says, her voice gentle as spring rain. "I'm sorry to wake you, but Rain asked me to inform you that breakfast is being served. There's a clubhouse meeting afterward that you're expected to attend."

Of course there is. Heaven forbid I get a full night's sleep before being summoned to dragon court.

"What time is it?" I ask, rubbing grit from my eyes.

"Eight o'clock," she replies with an apologetic smile. "The meeting's at nine."

I nod, attempting to look more alert than I feel. "Thanks. I'll be down after a shower."

She hesitates, eyes flicking to something behind me. I follow her gaze to the abandoned apple from the orchard, now sitting on my nightstand. It glows faintly in the morning light, its skin luminous with inner magic.

"Where did you get that?" she asks, voice suddenly tense.

"The orchard," I answer honestly, too tired for lies. "Last night."

Her expression shifts, concern replacing politeness. "Be careful with things you take from the Hidden Bowl. They're not always what they seem." With that cryptic warning, she nods once and retreats down the hallway, her footsteps whisper-quiet on the plush carpet.

I close the door and lean against it, exhaling slowly. My limbs feel weighted with lead, each movement requiring conscious effort. The magical exertion from last night has left me drained in ways I didn't anticipate. It's not just physical fatigue—though that's certainly present in the trembling of my hands and the dull ache behind my eyes—but something deeper, as if the connection with the ward temporarily borrowed energy my body wasn't prepared to give.

The shower calls to me like a siren song, promising revival under hot water. I strip off the pajamas I changed into after returning from the orchard, noting the faint scent of apple blossoms and night air that clings to the fabric. In the bathroom mirror, I barely recognize myself. My heterochromatic eyes seem brighter somehow, the amber one almost luminous against my pallor. Dark smudges beneath them testify to insufficient sleep, but there's something else there too—a wildness, a knowing that wasn't present before.

I step under the shower spray, tilting my face upward as hot water sluices over me. Steam rises, enveloping me in a cloud that smells faintly metallic, like the magic that pulsed through the orchard's ancient trees. I scrub my skin until it pinks, as if I could wash away the lingering sensations of last night's revelations. Not that I want to forget—the connection I felt to the ward was the first thing in my life that's ever made sense—but the intensity of it left marks I'm not ready to examine too closely.

The hot water eventually works its restorative magic, loosening tight muscles and clearing some of the fog from my brain. My mouth still tastes of stale sleep and something else—something wild and ancient that reminds me of the rune-tree's energy flowing through me. I brush my teeth twice, trying to remove it, but it lingers like a memory I can't quite shake.

Clean and marginally more alert, I face the wardrobe that mysteriously knows my size and style preferences. The "magic wardrobe," as I've mentally dubbed it, has been replenishing itself daily since my arrival. Each morning, fresh clothes appear—all perfectly tailored, all in colors that complement my complexion and heterochromatic eyes. It's thoughtful, intrusive, and more than a little suspicious.

I have a strong suspicion about who's behind it. Riku, with his mischievous eyes and too-knowing smirk, seems the most likely culprit. The thought of him selecting lingerie for me sends an unwelcome flush of heat across my skin. My body's response to the twins continues to betray me, regardless of how much their secrets frustrate me.

I select black yoga pants and a deep purple tank top, comfortable enough for whatever this "meeting" entails but not so casual I'll feel underdressed. As I pull them on, I note how perfectly they fit—the pants hugging curves I didn't know I had, the tank top's built-in support offering just the right amount of lift. Whoever's stocking this wardrobe has an intimate knowledge of my measurements that should disturb me more than it does.

My hair goes into a high ponytail, practical and out of my face. I consider makeup, then decide against it. Let them see the shadows under my eyes, the evidence of my midnight wandering. Let Rain's disapproval wash over me like water off a duck's back. I may be their guest—or prisoner, depending on how you look at it—but I won't pretend this situation is normal.

I glance at the orchard apple once more before leaving. Its glow has dimmed in the daylight, but something about it still calls to me. I wrap it in a scarf I find in the drawer and tuck it away in the nightstand. Something tells me flaunting my nighttime acquisition won't win me any favors with Rain.

My bare feet make no sound on the plush carpet as I pad into the hallway. The twins' doors remain closed as I pass them, though I sense movement behind Rain's—the soft rustle of paper, perhaps, or the quiet tap of fingers on a keyboard. I wonder if he slept at all, or if he spent the night brooding over whatever secrets he's determined to keep from me.

The grand staircase stretches before me, each step a minor mountain to my exhausted body. I grip the banister, steadying myself against a wave of dizziness that suggests four hours of sleep after magical exertion isn't nearly enough. My muscles protest each movement, reminding me that running through the orchard and communing with ancient magic has physical consequences.

Yet beneath the fatigue lies something new—a quiet certainty, a connection to this place and its magic that can't be severed by exhaustion or the twins' half-truths. Whatever they're hiding from me, whatever this bond between us truly means, I'll discover it.

One way or another, I'll have my answers. But first, breakfast—and then, the inquisition.

The communal breakfast area hums with muted conversation that dies like a snuffed candle when I enter. Dozens of eyes—some curious, some wary, some openly hostile—track my progress as I move toward the buffet table laden with platters of eggs, bacon, and fresh fruit. The scent of coffee mingles with something spicier, something that reminds me of the orchard at night—wild magic simmering just beneath the mundane surface of scrambled eggs and toast. I keep my chin high, refusing to shrink under their collective gaze.

A woman with a jagged scar running from ear to collarbone watches me with undisguised suspicion, her fingers drumming against the knife sheathed at her hip. The message couldn't be clearer if she'd spoken it aloud: You don't belong here. You're a threat.

In contrast, a burly man with salt-and-pepper beard nods in acknowledgment as I pass, raising his coffee mug in what might be a gesture of respect. I remember him from my first night—he was among the first to return to his drink after my dramatic entrance.

The ceiling above draws my attention as I fill my plate. Intricate dragon scales have been carved into the wooden beams, each one catching the morning light at a slightly different angle. The effect creates an illusion of movement, as if a massive dragon rests above us, breathing slowly in sleep. Unlike the carved dragons in the Great Hall, these have no crystal eyes, yet I can't shake the feeling of being observed, evaluated.

I choose a seat at the end of a long table, far enough from others to discourage conversation but not so isolated as to appear antisocial. As I eat, I'm acutely aware of the whispered conversations, the sidelong glances, the subtle shifting of bodies to keep me in peripheral vision. The eggs taste of ash in my mouth, though the coffee—rich and black as midnight—revives some small part of my exhausted brain.

"The light witch rises," murmurs a voice from a nearby table, just loud enough for me to hear. "Wonder how long before she burns this place down too."

I focus on my plate, refusing to acknowledge the barb. The scorch marks from my entrance through the ward are apparently common knowledge—a visual reminder of how dangerous and uncontrolled my magic remains. As if I need the reminder.

My fork scrapes against the plate with unnecessary force as frustration bubbles beneath my carefully neutral expression. I came seeking answers and control, yet find myself treated like a ticking bomb. Not entirely unfair, I concede reluctantly, given my track record so far.

A bell sounds—three clear notes that cut through the murmured conversations. Around me, club members rise, abandoning half-finished breakfasts and conversations to file toward the Great Hall. I follow, plate abandoned, swept along in their wake like a leaf in a current.

The Great Hall transforms in daylight, sunlight streaming through high windows to illuminate details missed in evening's shadows. The carved dragons flanking the massive hearth seem more alert now, their crystal eyes catching light in prism patterns that dance across stone walls. The ceiling soars overhead, wooden beams arching like the ribs of some ancient beast, each one etched with runes similar to those I touched in the orchard.

Club members arrange themselves in a loose semicircle, leaving the space before the hearth conspicuously empty. I'm guided to the front by the red-haired woman who woke me, her hand gentle but insistent on my elbow. The message is clear: this meeting is about me, and I am to be on display.

A door at the far end opens, and the temperature in the room seems to shift. Rain enters first, his movements precise and controlled, every step carrying the weight of command. The leather of his jacket creaks softly as he moves, the sound somehow louder than it should be in the hushed hall. Riku follows a half-step behind, his posture more relaxed but no less dangerous—a predator who doesn't need to advertise his threat.

They position themselves before the hearth, the carved dragons at their backs seeming to extend their presence, amplify their power. The crystal eyes in the stone beasts pulse once—a subtle flare I'd attribute to imagination if I hadn't seen stranger things in this place.

"You've been granted sanctuary within our territory," Rain states without preamble, his light green eyes fixed on me with uncomfortable intensity. "The ward will protect you from Sorin and his ilk. But your presence here comes with conditions."

My spine stiffens at his tone—authoritative, brooking no argument. I've spent my life being told where to go, what to do, how to behave. Foster homes, group homes, a parade of authority figures who saw me as a problem to be managed rather than a person to be understood. Something in me rebels against falling back into that pattern, even as another part recognizes the necessity of rules in a place like this.

Rain steps forward, the motion fluid as water over stone. His muscular frame radiates barely contained power, the thin t-shirt he wears doing nothing to disguise the strength coiled beneath. A silver chain glints at his throat, disappearing beneath his collar, and I find my eyes following it before I catch myself.

"First," he continues, his voice cold as mountain ice, "there will be no unsupervised use of magic. Your powers are unstable and dangerous." His gaze shifts pointedly to the scorch marks marring the wall near the entrance doors—evidence of my dramatic arrival.

I roll my eyes before I can stop myself. "Clearly I need help," I reply, unable to keep the edge from my voice. "Help that hasn't been particularly forthcoming."

A muscle in his jaw tightens, the only indication that my words have penetrated his icy control. "You'll receive training when you're ready. Not before."

Ready by whose standards? I want to ask, but bite back the question. There will be time for that battle later.

"Second," Rain continues, moving closer until I can smell the scent of him—pine and leather and something wilder, like lightning striking stone. "No nighttime wanderings. The ward may protect us from outside threats, but there are dangers within these boundaries that you're not equipped to handle."

The scar on his face seems to pulse in the light filtering through the high windows, a reminder of whatever battle marked him. His eyes bore into mine, knowledge of my orchard expedition evident in their depths. "Last night will be the only night this will happen, do I make myself clear?"

His voice brooks no argument, the command hanging in the air between us. I fold my arms under my chest, irritation bubbling up like a hot spring. Who is he to dictate my movements? To cage me like some dangerous animal?

Yet beneath the irritation lies the undeniable awareness of him as a physical presence. My body reacts to his proximity with a heat that has nothing to do with anger and everything to do with the bond Liora mentioned—that invisible thread connecting us whether I want it or not. I curse my traitorous flesh, the way my pulse quickens when he steps closer, the way my skin prickles with awareness of his every movement.

I nod curtly, unwilling to trust my voice with a verbal response. The concession costs me, but I choose my battles carefully. This isn't the hill to die on—not yet, not when I still understand so little about this place and its dangers.

"And finally," Rain says, his voice dropping to a register that reverberates in my chest like distant thunder, "no secrets. Your presence here puts us all at risk. We need to know everything—about your past, your powers, and any contact with Sorin or his ilk."

The name sends a ripple of unease through the assembled club members. Shoulders tense, eyes narrow, hands drift closer to concealed weapons. Whatever—whoever—Sorin is, these people fear him. Not just fear, I realize, studying their reactions more carefully. They hate him.

"I'll tell you what I know," I agree, meeting Rain's gaze steadily despite the unwelcome flutter in my stomach when those pale green eyes lock with mine. "But I know precious little. That's why I'm here—for answers as much as protection."

Rain's expression doesn't change, but something shifts in his eyes—a flicker of acknowledgment, perhaps, or resignation. He knows I won't be satisfied with safety alone. Knowledge is the currency I seek, and I'll pay for it with compliance—to a point.

The crystal eyes in the hearth dragons pulse again, brighter this time. No one else seems to notice, their attention fixed on the exchange between Rain and me. But I feel it—a resonance with the light magic simmering beneath my skin, a recognition that feels almost like approval.

Whatever game the twins are playing, the magic of this place has its own agenda. And somehow, I've become a piece on both boards.

As Rain's words hang in the air like smoke, Riku sidles closer to me, his movement fluid as water over stone. Where his brother radiates icy control, Riku exudes a dangerous warmth that I find equally unsettling and alluring. The air between us charges with something I still don't understand—this bond that pulls at my insides like an invisible hook. He leans in close enough that I feel his breath against my ear, a whisper of heat that sends unwelcome shivers racing down my spine.

"Don't let Rain scare you, sunshine," he murmurs, his voice a low purr that resonates in places it shouldn't. "Rules are more like... suggestions. Prove you can be trusted, and you'll find we can be quite... accommodating."

The pause before that final word transforms it from innocent to something else entirely. His grin is all heat and promise, emerald eyes gleaming with mischief and something darker, hungrier. The metal of his tongue piercing flashes as he runs it over his bottom lip, and my traitorous body responds with a flush of warmth I can't suppress.

I step back, needing distance from his intoxicating presence. "Like the 'magic wardrobe' that happens to acquire new items daily?" I challenge, fixing him with what I hope is an accusatory stare rather than the flustered glance it feels like. "Seems like someone's been shopping for me."

Riku's smirk widens, unrepentant pleasure dancing in his eyes. "You look good in green," he says, neither confirming nor denying his involvement. "Though purple suits you too." His gaze drops briefly to my tank top, lingering just long enough to make my skin prickle with awareness.

I huff in exasperation, too aware of my position—physically between the twins while emotionally pulled toward both, despite my better judgment. The club members watch our exchange with varying degrees of interest and suspicion. Some seem amused by Riku's flirtation, others clearly disapprove. A few wear expressions I can't interpret, their eyes calculating as they observe the dynamic between us.

This is a test as much as it is a meeting, I realize. They're evaluating how I handle myself, how I respond to authority and challenge. My place here isn't guaranteed by the twins' decision alone—I'm being judged by the entire club, my worth measured against criteria I don't yet understand.

I use the moment to take stock of my sanctuary more thoroughly than I've done before. The Great Hall isn't just impressive; it's strategic—high windows placed for maximum light but minimal vulnerability, multiple exits leading to different parts of the compound, subtle wards etched into doorframes and window casings. What I initially took for decorative metalwork around the main entrance reveals itself as reinforcement, the door itself thick enough to withstand significant force.

These people aren't just hiding from the world—they're prepared for war. The thought should terrify me, but instead, it brings a strange comfort. Whatever danger Sorin represents, the Black Pistons are equipped to face it.

As the twins step back, a united front despite their contrasting approaches, I feel the weight of expectations settling around my shoulders. I could play the grateful refugee, the damsel sheltering behind dragon wings. It would be easier, safer in the short term. But that's never been who I am, even before light erupted from my hands and changed everything.

I stand taller, lifting my chin in quiet determination. The dragon tattoo between my shoulder blades warms as if approving my resolve.

"I understand," I say, my voice carrying clearly through the hushed hall. "And I'm grateful for your protection." I meet Rain's cool gaze, then Riku's heated one, refusing to flinch from either. "But know this—I'm not just some damsel to be sheltered. I'm here to learn, to grow stronger, and to face whatever threats are coming our way."

The declaration hangs in the air, bold and perhaps foolish given my position. But it's true—I didn't cross that ward just to trade one cage for another, no matter how gilded.

Rain's eyebrow arches slightly, a flicker of something that might be respect crossing his features before his mask of indifference returns. His light green eyes assess me with new consideration, as if recalculating some internal equation.

Beside him, Riku's grin widens, taking on a predatory edge that makes my heart skip despite myself. "I told you she had fire," he says to his brother, though his eyes never leave mine.

"Fire burns," Rain replies, his tone neutral but carrying a warning I can't quite decipher.

The tension stretches between us, a three-pointed star of competing energies. Then Rain nods once, a sharp gesture that seems to release the hall from stasis. Club members begin to disperse, conversations resuming in low murmurs as they return to whatever duties occupy their days.

I remain where I stand, unwilling to be dismissed without addressing what matters most to me. "When can I start learning control?" I ask, directing the question to both twins. "Last night proved I need it more than rules."

Rain's jaw tightens at the reference to my midnight wandering, but he doesn't dispute the point. "This afternoon," he says after a measured pause. "Liora will show you the training grounds after lunch. You'll work with her on the basics."

Not with him, I note. Not with either of them. The distance they maintain feels deliberate, a barrier against the bond that pulses between us like a living thing. I wonder if control over my magic will also mean control over this inexplicable connection—if mastering one might help me understand the other.

"And if I have questions Liora can't answer?" I press, unwilling to settle for partial truths and cautious lessons.

"Then you come to us," Riku answers, his playful tone undercut by seriousness I hadn't expected. "But give her a chance first. She knows more than you think."

I nod, accepting the compromise for now. The crystal eyes in the hearth dragons pulse once more, their blue-white glow a subtle echo of my own magic. No one else seems to notice, but I feel their awareness—ancient sentinels watching this exchange with interest beyond human understanding.

"Dawn," Rain says, drawing my attention back to him. His voice has lost some of its edge, though his posture remains rigid as steel. "This isn't just about your safety. The ward has existed for centuries, protecting this territory and those within it. Your arrival has... changed things. The magic responds to you in ways we haven't seen before."

It's the most direct acknowledgment he's given of my connection to this place, to the power that flows through the Hidden Bowl. Not an explanation of the bond between us, but a step toward honesty.

"I felt it," I admit, remembering the rush of awareness when I touched the rune-carved tree, the way the ward's magic flowed through me like it belonged there. "Last night, in the orchard. The ward recognized me."

Riku and Rain exchange a look loaded with meaning I can't interpret. Some silent communication passes between them, twin to twin, dragon to dragon.

"Then perhaps your training is more urgent than we realized," Rain concedes, his light green eyes studying me with renewed intensity. "We'll adjust the schedule accordingly."

As the hall empties around us, I stand my ground, caught between these powerful men and my own growing determination. The coming days promise challenges beyond anything I've faced—learning to control my magic, understanding the ward's connection to me, navigating the politics of a dragon shifter motorcycle club.

And always, underneath it all, the pull toward Rain and Riku, a current I can neither explain nor resist entirely. My body responds to their presence like a tuning fork struck to perfect pitch, even as my mind remains wary of their secrets and motives.

Whatever this test of resilience brings, I'll face it head-on. Because for the first time in my life, I'm not running away from who I am—I'm running toward it, with all the danger and promise that entails.