Twin Troubles: The Dragons' Dilemma

Chapter 4

Rain Draven's point of view

Twenty-seven floorboards from wall to window. I count them again, my boots silent against the ancient oak that's witnessed centuries of dragon councils. The runic candles cast long shadows that dance across the leather-bound tomes on our desk, their flames responding to my agitation with subtle flares. My dragon claws at my insides, demanding action when restraint is our only option. I turn at the window, catching Riku's amused gaze as he lounges in his chair like this is all some cosmic joke rather than the crisis it truly is.

"You'll wear a trench in that floor, brother," Riku says, his voice carrying that perpetual undercurrent of mirth that grates against my nerves today. He sprawls in the leather armchair like a cat in sunlight, one leg thrown carelessly over the armrest, his fingers tapping an erratic rhythm that matches nothing but the chaos of his thoughts.

"And you'll accomplish nothing sitting there," I snap, immediately regretting the edge in my tone. Control. I need control. I resume my pacing, focusing on the sensation of each step rather than the pull that tugs beneath my sternum like an invisible hook embedded in flesh.

Our office reflects our duality—ancient and modern, order and chaos. Bookshelves line three walls, filled with texts older than most human civilizations. The carved dragon heads that adorn our chairs—thrones, really, though we rarely use them for official business—watch with ruby eyes that sometimes seem to blink when the light shifts. The antique oak desk between us bears the weight of scrolls I've been unable to focus on since Dawn crossed our threshold.

Dawn. Even thinking her name sends a ripple of heat across my scar.

"We need to discuss how to proceed," I say, keeping my voice measured, professional. The club president addressing his vice president, not a dragon fighting his most primal instinct.

"Proceed with what, exactly?" Riku's emerald eyes dance with something dangerous—desire, amusement, challenge. "Teaching her about her magic? Protecting her from Sorin? Or are we finally going to acknowledge what's actually happening here?"

I stop at the window, staring out at the Hidden Bowl without really seeing it. The ward's energy pulses at the periphery of my awareness, a constant reminder of the boundary between our world and the human one. Between safety and vulnerability.

"We keep her at arm's length," I say finally, the words tasting like ash. "We teach her to control her magic. We protect her from Sorin. And we ignore everything else."

Riku's laugh holds no humor. "Right. Because that's working so well already." He sits forward, suddenly serious. "Rain, you can't actually believe we can just... what? Pretend this isn't happening? Our dragons recognized her instantly. The bond is already forming whether we want it or not."

"There is no bond," I say, the lie bitter on my tongue. My dragon roars in protest, clawing harder at my control. The scar on my cheek pulses with phantom pain, a reminder of what happens when we lose focus. "There is physical attraction. There is magical resonance. Nothing more."

"Bullshit." Riku stands in one fluid motion, his tattoos seeming to writhe with a life of their own as his anger feeds his magic. "I felt it the moment she crashed through those doors. You felt it too. She's our—"

"Don't." The word comes out as a growl, dragon seeping into my human voice. The candles flare higher, responding to my loss of control. "Don't say it."

"Mate," Riku finishes, defiant as always. "She's our mate, Rain. Our dragons have chosen her. Fighting it will only make it worse."

I turn from the window, facing my twin fully. We're identical in appearance but opposite in nature. Where I plan, he acts. Where I analyze, he feels. Where I restrain, he embraces. It's what makes us effective leaders together and what's tearing us apart now.

"Have you forgotten what happened to mother?" I ask quietly, knowing the words will land like blows. "Have you forgotten what a mate bond did to her when father was killed? How it nearly destroyed her? How it left us to pick up the pieces?"

Pain flashes across Riku's face, quickly masked by renewed determination. "This is different."

"How?" I demand, advancing a step. "How is it different? We are dragons, Riku. We mate for life. If something happens to her—if Sorin gets to her—what happens to us? To the club? To everyone who depends on us for protection?"

"So we protect her," he counters. "We're stronger together than apart. The three of us—"

"We've sworn never to claim mates," I remind him. "After everything we've seen, everything we've lost. That was our pact."

"Pacts change when circumstances change." Riku's fingers drum faster against the armrest, betraying his growing frustration. "We never considered the possibility of sharing a mate. Of having someone whose magic complements both of ours. Do you have any idea how rare that is? How powerful the three of us could be together?"

I turn away, unable to look at him when he's voicing the very arguments my dragon whispers constantly in my mind. Power. Completion. Protection. All the things a mated trio could achieve. All the vulnerabilities a mate bond would create.

"It's too dangerous," I say finally. "For her. For us. For everyone in our territory. We keep her at arm's length, teach her what she needs to know, and then—"

"And then what?" Riku's voice drops lower, challenge evident in every syllable. "Send her away? Watch her walk out that door knowing exactly what we're giving up? You think your dragon will allow that? Mine is already fighting me every second I'm not touching her."

My jaw clenches as I battle the same urge. My dragon wants nothing more than to find Dawn, to claim her, to complete the bond that's already forming against my will. The rational part of me—the club president, the protector, the strategist—knows better than to surrender to instinct.

"We resist," I say, each word precise and cold. "Whatever it takes."

Riku stares at me, his emerald eyes flashing with frustrated desire. For a moment, I think he'll continue arguing, but instead, he just shakes his head.

"You're a stubborn bastard, Rain," he says finally. "But even you can't fight fate forever." He turns toward the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. "For what it's worth, I hope you prove me wrong. Because if you're right—if we have to watch her walk away—I'm not sure what that will do to us."

The door closes behind him with a quiet click that somehow feels more final than a slam. I return to the window, staring out at the Hidden Bowl, at the path where I know Dawn walks with Liora, learning about her new reality.

My dragon rumbles deep in my chest, a warning and a promise wrapped in one. Some battles can't be won through discipline alone. Some wars are lost before they begin.

I press my palm against the cool glass, watching as frost crystals form beneath my fingers—my magic responding to my turmoil, just as the flames respond to my anger. Ice and fire, control and chaos. The eternal contradiction of my nature.

Twenty-seven floorboards from wall to window. I begin counting again, seeking order where none exists.

# Scene 2 - from Rain Draven's point of view

I've barely had five minutes to gather my composure when the door swings open again. Riku strides back in as if our conversation never ended, his expression shifted from frustration to something more dangerous—a gleam in his eye that I recognize from centuries of brotherhood. He's about to push me. Hard. The runic candles flicker nervously, sensing the storm brewing between us before the first lightning strike.

"Forgot something," Riku says, his casual tone belied by the tension in his shoulders. He doesn't move toward any of his belongings. Instead, he leans against the doorframe, watching me with predatory focus. "Something important about our little light witch."

I keep my expression neutral, though my dragon stirs at the mere reference to Dawn. "What is it?"

His lips curve into that damnable smirk—the one that's preceded countless bar fights and territorial disputes. "Her scent." He inhales deeply, eyes half-closing in remembered pleasure. "When she's aroused... gods, Rain. Like honeyed lightning and summer storms. Rich and sweet and electric."

The pencil in my hand snaps, splinters digging into my palm. I hadn't even realized I was holding it. "Stop."

But Riku isn't done. He pushes off the doorframe, taking a deliberate step into my territory. "You should have felt how her magic responded when I helped her to her room last night. Pulsing beneath her skin, calling to ours. And her scent..." He inhales again, nostrils flaring. "Her body knows what her mind doesn't yet. She wants us, Rain. Both of us."

Something primal and possessive tears through me—not jealousy of my brother, but rage that he would speak of her this way, would deliberately provoke the dragons we're both fighting to control. The temperature in the room plummets, frost crystallizing on the windowpanes in delicate, deadly patterns. The candle flames flare higher, their light taking on the blue-white tinge of my ice fire.

"You cross a line, brother." My voice emerges strange even to my own ears—human words shaped by dragon vocal cords, the dual nature of my being bleeding through my carefully maintained control. The air between us grows heavy with magic, the pressure building like the moment before a lightning strike.

Riku stands his ground, though I see the slight widening of his eyes—recognition that he's pushed further than intended. Still, he doesn't back down. He never does.

"We can't ignore this, Rain. Pretending she doesn't affect us won't make it true."

"There's a difference," I say, each word precisely formed and cold enough to freeze hellfire, "between acknowledging attraction and deliberately feeding it. Between recognizing a potential bond and surrendering to it without thought for the consequences."

The frost spreads from the window to the walls, delicate patterns crawling across ancient stone like living things. My control is slipping—a rare occurrence that hasn't happened since our territory was last challenged decades ago.

"We agreed to resist," I continue, forcing my voice back toward human tones. "Not to torment ourselves—or each other—with what we're denying."

Something in my tone finally reaches him. The challenge in his posture softens slightly. "I'm not trying to torment you, Rain. I'm trying to make you see reason. Fighting this is tearing us both apart, and we've barely known her a day. What happens in a week? A month?"

I don't answer. I can't. Because my attention has been caught by movement outside, visible through the frost-laced window. Without conscious decision, I find myself drawn to the glass, my breath creating new patterns of condensation as I watch Dawn walk the garden paths with Liora.

Even from this distance, she captivates. The emerald dress we provided flows around her legs, catching the otherworldly light of the Hidden Bowl and transforming it. Her dark hair shines with subtle highlights of amber and copper, mirroring her heterochromatic eyes that I can't see from here but can perfectly recall—one brown, one amber, both seeing too much.

She pauses by one of the light flowers, crouching to examine it more closely. When she reaches out to touch it, the blossom responds to her magic, glowing brighter and changing color to match the blue-white energy that pulses beneath her skin. Her delight is visible even from this distance—her body language shifting from wariness to wonder, her hand rising to cover a surprised laugh.

My dragon rumbles with pleasure at her joy, with pride that our territory offers her something worthy of that rare, unguarded reaction. The possessive thought forms before I can stop it: Mine. Ours.

I press my palm against the frosted glass, willing the barrier to dissolve—both the physical window and the walls I've built around my emotions. For a dangerous moment, I imagine going to her, showing her the Hidden Bowl properly, watching her face as she discovers each new wonder. I imagine her looking at me with that same unguarded delight.

"Enjoying the view, brother?"

Riku's voice shatters the moment, his tone walking the knife-edge between teasing and challenge. I hadn't forgotten his presence—I'm incapable of that level of distraction—but I'd momentarily stopped accounting for it. Another dangerous lapse.

I turn from the window slowly, regaining control with each measured breath. The frost recedes from the walls, though it lingers on the glass where my hand touched. The candle flames settle to their normal height and color.

"She needs to learn control," I say, not directly answering his question. "Her magic responds to her emotions. Makes her vulnerable."

"Pot, kettle," Riku murmurs, glancing meaningfully at the frost still decorating the window.

A growl builds in my chest, rumbling out before I can contain it. The sound vibrates through the room, making the candle flames shiver and the ancient books tremble on their shelves. It's not a human sound—not even close. It's the warning of an alpha dragon, a sound that would send most creatures running for safety.

Riku, of course, just raises an eyebrow. "Careful, brother. Your control is showing cracks."

He's right, damn him. Ever since Dawn crossed our threshold, my legendary restraint has been faltering. My dragon pushes closer to the surface each time I think of her, each time I catch her scent in the air, each time I see her—even from a distance.

"Get out," I say quietly, dangerously. "Before we both say things we can't take back."

For once, Riku recognizes the true warning in my tone. He inclines his head slightly—not submission, never that between us, but acknowledgment of a temporary retreat.

"This conversation isn't over," he says as he moves toward the door. "It's barely begun."

"Out."

He goes, closing the door with deliberate gentleness that somehow cuts deeper than a slam would have. The room feels suddenly empty, though my dragon's presence fills my awareness, demanding action I refuse to take.

I turn back to the window, my gaze automatically seeking Dawn. She's moved on, following Liora toward the sacred grove where the oldest trees in our territory grow. Their branches seem to reach toward her as she passes, drawn to her light magic as surely as I am.

As I watch her walk away, I wonder how long I can keep fighting this losing battle—against my nature, against my dragon, against the pull that grows stronger with each passing hour.

# Scene 3 - from Rain Draven's point of view

The window glass is cool against my forehead as I watch Dawn disappear into the sacred grove with Liora. My breath creates patterns of frost that fade almost immediately in the room's returning warmth—ephemeral as my resolve seems to be. The meeting with Riku has accomplished nothing except to widen the rift between us, a chasm that hasn't existed since we founded the Black Pistons centuries ago. Our dragons have always been aligned, our brotherhood unshakable. Until now. Until her.

I push away from the window, turning to face the empty office. The runic candles have dimmed to barely glowing embers, responding to the depletion of my energy after that display of temper. Dragons aren't meant to contain such emotions—rage, desire, possessiveness. We're creatures of action, of claiming and protecting. This constant restraint wears at me like water on stone, gradually eroding what I've always valued most: control.

Our private sanctuary feels hollow without Riku's presence, without the counterbalance of his fire to my ice. We've led this way for centuries—his instinct tempered by my strategy, my caution enlivened by his spontaneity. Two sides of the same coin, our mother used to say. Now the coin feels split down the middle, cleaved by the arrival of a light witch with heterochromatic eyes and magic that calls to our most primal selves.

My fingers rise to the scar that bisects my right cheek, tracing its familiar path from cheekbone to jaw. A reminder etched in flesh of why mates are a luxury we cannot afford. I earned this mark defending our mother after our father's death, when the broken mate bond left her vulnerable to enemies who would never have dared approach while he lived. I was barely a century old, still learning to control my shift, my dragon magic untested in true battle.

I remember her screams—not of fear but of suicidal rage, the broken bond driving her toward self-destruction in her grief. I remember the shadow creature that came in the night, drawn by her magical instability. I remember the burning pain as its claws raked my face while I stood between it and what remained of my family.

The scar pulses now, a phantom ache that always returns when I think of that night. Of how close we came to losing everything because of a mate bond. Of the vow Riku and I made beside our mother's bed as she finally slept, sedated by healing magic: Never to claim mates. Never to risk that vulnerability. Never to put our club, our family, our responsibility at such risk.

Now here we are, centuries later, that vow crumbling beneath the weight of instincts older than reason.

The ancient tomes on our desk seem to watch me, their leather bindings creaking slightly as if shifting to get more comfortable for the show. The dragon heads carved into our thrones gleam in the dim light, ruby eyes reflecting tiny points of flame. Even the air feels charged, waiting, holding its breath for whatever comes next.

My enhanced senses pick up Riku's return before the door opens—the familiar cadence of his footsteps, the subtle shift in the air pressure, the scent of his dragon magic mingling with something new. Something that makes my nostrils flare and my dragon stir with renewed interest.

Dawn's scent clings to him. Faint but unmistakable. He's been near her again.

The door opens without a knock—we've never stood on such ceremony with each other—and Riku enters. His expression is unreadable, which is rare enough to put me immediately on guard. My brother wears his emotions openly, uses them as both weapon and shield. This careful blankness is new.

"I just passed her in the garden," he says without preamble. "She asked about us. About what we're hiding from her."

I straighten, moving away from the window to stand beside the massive oak desk. The physical distance between us feels significant—me at the window, him by the door, the desk and chairs and centuries of brotherhood between us. "What did you tell her?"

"Nothing. Yet." He steps fully into the room, closing the door behind him with deliberate care. "But she's not stupid, Rain. She feels the pull as strongly as we do. She deserves to know what it means."

"And what does it mean?" I ask, genuinely curious about his answer. "Beyond biological imperative? Beyond magical compatibility? What exactly would you tell her?"

Riku's mouth tightens. For once, he doesn't have a quick retort. The question hangs between us, unanswerable because we ourselves don't fully understand what's happening. Mate bonds are rare enough. Triadic bonds—two dragons sharing one mate—are nearly mythical.

"She deserves to know she has a choice," he says finally. "Even if we've decided to make ours."

My dragon bristles at the word "choice," as if the very concept is offensive. In its mind, there is no choice—only the inevitable claiming of what belongs to us. I push the thought away, maintaining my human rationality through sheer force of will.

"And if her choice doesn't align with our decision?" I ask, voicing the fear neither of us has acknowledged. "If she chooses one of us? Both of us? What then, brother?"

The question lands like a physical blow. Riku's emerald eyes flash, his dragon rising closer to the surface. His tattoos seem to writhe across his skin, the ink responding to his agitation as if alive.

"Then we face that when it comes," he says, his voice rougher than before, dragon seeping into his tone. "But I won't lie to her. And I won't pretend this pull doesn't exist."

We lock eyes across the office, the unspoken question hanging heavy between us: How long can we resist? How long before one of us breaks? Before both of us surrender to what our dragons already know?

The runic candles dim further, as if responding to our conflicted energies. The room itself seems to hold its breath, ancient magic recognizing the precipice on which we stand. One push in either direction could change everything—for us, for Dawn, for the entire Black Pistons territory.

My fingers trace my scar again, the raised tissue a constant reminder of why I've maintained such rigid control for centuries. Why I've denied myself pleasures others take for granted. Why I've placed duty above desire at every turn.

Riku watches the gesture, understanding in his eyes. We may approach life differently, but we share the same memories, the same blood, the same responsibilities. The same fears, though neither of us would admit to such weakness.

"This isn't over," he says, echoing his earlier words but with a different weight now—less challenge, more resignation.

"No," I agree quietly. "It's barely begun."

He nods once, a sharp dip of his chin, then turns and walks out. The door closes behind him with a soft click that somehow sounds like the final note of a funeral dirge.

I remain by the desk, suddenly exhausted in a way I haven't felt in decades. The mate pull tugs beneath my sternum, a constant reminder of Dawn's presence in our territory. Of what waits if I surrender. Of what I'll lose if I don't.

My dragon rumbles deep in my chest, impatient with human hesitation. It doesn't understand why we resist what it already knows as truth: She is ours. We are hers. The bond exists whether we acknowledge it or not.

I move back to the window, drawn there by forces I can't entirely explain. The sacred grove glows with its own inner light, ancient trees that have witnessed centuries of dragon history. Somewhere among them walks the woman whose arrival has shaken the foundations of everything I thought I knew about myself.

The frost forms beneath my fingers again, delicate patterns of ice that spread across the glass like claiming marks. Like promises written in a language older than words.

How long can we resist? The question echoes in the silence of the empty office.

Not long enough, I fear. Not nearly long enough.