Once, in a bad, early week, when Bran had tried to hold James, Lilith had screamed and snatched him away, hissing furious. James remembered jamming his nose into her collarbone, scared to tears, and curling round and round her trembling forearms into a tiny, snakish loop of scales.

Bran never pressed her after that. Instead, he brought Felicity home to them. She’d adored Bran, then. Hadn’t hated his cigarette-smelling arms.
Had never really met Eric. Hadn’t liked James too much.

It didn’t matter how many times she heard James was her brother or her half-brother or anything. Felicity had known that normal brothers did not climb trees with claws and webbed wings for balance and then become little boys who made fun of her at their tops.

Of course, they’d all changed a fair bit since then. Felicity had the muscle packed in her calves nowadays to break an oak board clean, and her love was a refined ore–she didn’t give the raw product all away in one go, and she charged much more for it. James understood.

Three deadlines snuck up on me at once, so I’ll be posting scenes for the last four days in only two actual posts. Writing is both my joy and my bane, but by God if I’m not going to use it to create uncomfortable family dynamics between dragon shapeshifters.