Accidentally Married to the Dragon Lord

As Thalassa strolls down the street, whispering voices drift from the open shutters above.

"There goes the crazy elf."

"Living on old bread when she could be drowning in gold. Dragons pay triple for artifact repair, but no… her pride is as big as her empty stomach."

She knows they are referring to the bread crust in her apron pocket. Ma Imogen had tossed it beside the village well for the birds. Thalassa had simply been faster than the birds.

“Because what's free is free!” She chirps happily:

She doesn't bother looking up at the gossip mongers. Pride doesn't fill a belly, but it keeps her ancestors from rolling in their graves. Besides, she is a simple girl with simple pleasures: fixing tiny gears and avoiding giant, arrogant lizards who think the world revolves around them.

Suddenly, a boy dwarf sprints down the center of the avenue, throwing his hands fearfully in the air.

"Dragon Lord! The Dragon Lord is in town! Clear the street!"

Instantly, everyone panics.

Shopkeepers slam their wooden shutters so fast a cat nearly loses its tail. Mothers snatch up their children like sacks of potatoes, dropping baskets of apples that go rolling down the street. Within three seconds, the thoroughfare is dead silent.

Thalassa doesn't run. She doesn't even hurry her pace. She rolls her eyes, takes a crunching bite of her bread crust, and keeps strolling right down the middle of the empty road.

"Cowards," she mutters, loud enough for every fretting human peeping through shutter cracks. "Hiding under the bed over a glorified, overgrown lizard."

A shadow falls over her.

Before she can react, a gauntlet clamps onto her shoulder, spinning her around like a toy top. Two guards in dragon-scale armor block her path.

"Mind your mouth, filthy half-breed," the guard snarls, hauling her off her feet by her collar.

"Hey! Let go of my shirt!" Thalassa kicks at his shin. "Is insulting overgrown geckos illegal now? I have rights! Release me!"

Behind the guards sits a huge black carriage, drawn by four scaled steeds. The door clicks open, and a voice speaks from the dark interior. It is low, yes, but as delicious as warm honey.

"Where is the female mage?" the voice purrs. "The one who repairs enchanted trinkets in this quaint little dump."

Thalassa freezes, her kicking stalling in mid-air. 

A dragon asking specifically for her??

Did they know?

Had someone discovered her secret?

Her heart pounds so hard as she fights to sound brave.

"What do you want with her?" she demands, glaring at the carriage. "She hasn't done anything wrong!"

A long leg steps out of the carriage, followed by the rest of him.

The air disappears from her lungs.

Oh, no. He's hideous, she thinks. He's supposed to be hideous!

He is breathtaking. Broad-shouldered, striking, and infuriatingly elegant, with sharp features framed by silver hair and eyes the shade of molten gold.

Thalassa can't stop herself from staring. Her mouth hangs open just enough to be embarrassing. She loves to picture Dragons as ruthless, snobbish tyrants, but how can she hold onto her righteous anger when the man stepping into the dirt looks like a romance novel cover come to life?

He moves closer, his golden gaze sweeping down her grease-stained apron, her dirt-smudged cheeks, and the linen wrap hiding her pointed ears.

A dangerously handsome smirk touches his lips. "I have never seen a dirtier pretty thing," he murmurs, looking straight into her eyes.

Thalassa blinks, her face turning crimson. Behind closed shutters, dozens of terrified villagers are peeping through the cracks. Realization hits her like a splash of cold water: she is practically drooling over a dragon. 

She pulls herself together, dusts off her apron with aggressive speed, and glares up at his ridiculous face.

"Save the charm, gorgeous," she says coldly. "Turn that fancy carriage around. That female mage won't help you."

The Dragon Lord raises an amused brow, taking a step into her personal space. "No one refuses me, little thing."

"Try her. That's her shop right there.” She points a thumb toward the crooked building with the faded gear sign.

Without another word, he brushes right past her, his heavy cape sweeping against her arm and smelling outrageously good… like cedarwood and warm fire.

He walks straight to the small, crooked shop with the faded gear hanging above the door and pushes inside.

Thalassa crosses her arms, counting under her breath.

Three... two... one...

He steps back out, his forehead creased in adorable confusion. "The shop is empty. Where is she?"

Thalassa lets out a laugh, pointing a finger at her own chest. "Right in front of you, big guy. I'm the female mage. And I don't do business with dragons."

The pompous guards gasp at her blunt tone, but the Dragon Lord simply stares at her with growing amusement.

He reaches into his coat, pulling out a tarnished silver pocket watch wrapped in dark silk.

"Every high mage in the empire has tried to fix this," he says, stepping so close she can feel the heat radiating from his chest. "You will repair it."

"And if I say no?" Thalassa challenges, puffing out her chest despite her trembling knees. "Are you going to throw me in a dungeon?"

The Dragon Lord leans down, making his lips hover inches from her ear. His breath is warm. It makes a traitorous shiver run straight down her spine.

When he whispers, his tone is far too sweet for a tyrant. “I already have seven political wives. Adding another scandal to my reputation would hardly surprise anyone."

For a moment, Thalassa simply stares at him. Surely she has heard him wrong.

"Seven?"

"Seven."

"And you're saying that like it's a normal number?"

He raises his chin higher. "For someone of my elevated standing, it is."

She looks him up and down, from his expensive robes to his arrogant expression. "You say that like collecting wives is a hobby."

The amusement on his face wavers for barely a moment, but Thalassa notices.

People usually lower their heads when he speaks. They praise his choices, accept his commands, and call every decision he makes brilliant before he even finishes making it.

No one has ever looked at him like he has just admitted to collecting decorative objects.

Especially not with that expression.

Like she genuinely thinks he is ridiculous.

"You are criticizing a Dragon Lord's marriage arrangements?"

"Yes," Thalassa replies immediately. "Because apparently no one else has had the courage to tell you that having seven wives is a little absurd."

A stunned silence follows.

Then, to her surprise, the corner of his mouth lifts. “You hate my marriage arrangements, little artisan. Then, I’ll make you a proposition.”

Thalassa scoffs, wondering just what absurdity this lizard is about to spew. Nothing prepares her for what comes next.

“Refuse me... and I will make you my eighth wife.”

Thalassa’s jaw drops. His eighth wife?!

"Now," he purrs, pulling back to enjoy her utterly horrified… and blushing? expression as he holds out the dead watch. "Shall we go inside, wife-to-be?"