Chapter 66: Bollo

Bollo.

Gods.

That man.

Ok, Taurean.

In case you were wondering what makes this girl so giddy.

My regular down in Toemacha. Big fella. Shoulders like ox yokes. Chest like a beer barrel. Voice like gravel being poured over silk. Dumb as a cartwheel, but stars above—he knewexactlywhat to do with all that meat.

We hadfun. Real fun. The kind that makes your toes curl and yourliver ache. I’m not even exaggerating. I’d limp for days after a visit. Madam used to tease me, said I looked like I got hit by a blessed cart. I said, “No, just Bollo.”

Brute, in the best possible way. No finesse, no nonsense. Just raw, honest-to-godsusage. Picked me up like a rag doll, pinned me to the wall, plowed me through a feather mattress once. Still miss that mattress. It never recovered.

Met him again, years later. Wasn't expecting it. I was passing through this sleepy hill town, pine trees everywhere, and there he was—hauling timber, shirtless, sweating like sin. My knees just about gave out.

We didn’t talk much. We both knew why I followed him behind that grove.

Quickie. Pine needles on my back. That same old growl in his throat.

But it wasn’t the same.

Afterward, he smiled all crooked, pulled his breeches back up, and said he had to get home. Turns out he’s got awifenow. And ason.

Heh.

I don’t blame him. Life moves on. Some people grow roots. Some of us just keep flying from fire to fire.

Still.

Every now and then, when the campfire’s low and the dragon’s snoring like a thunderstorm, I think about Bollo. About the way he used to slam into me like a man trying to knock sense into the gods.

And yeah. I smile.

And walk a little funny, just from the memory.

It was lunch. Which meant fire, grease, and unsolicited lectures.

I sat cross-legged, barefoot, picking at a piece of smoked rabbit and glaring at the cracked femur resting across my lap like a personal insult.

Bone marrow.

Gods.

I took one look at the glistening tube of horror and announced, “I hate this.”

Across the fire, the Dragon made an absolutely obscene slurping sound. He was three knuckles deep into a femur the size of a fencepost, tongue doing ungodly things to what remained of some poor beast’s insides.

He didn’t look up. “Bone marrow is good for you.”

“So is not dying. I’m still not eating it.”

“It makes your tendons supple.”

“I like my tendons just the way they are—useless and decorative.”

He cracked the bone a little louder, like punctuation. “Wings flap better when the joints are nourished.”

“Don’t have wings.”

“Yet.”

I threw a twig at him. It bounced off his snout. He didn’t blink.

“This is disgusting,” I muttered, nudging the bone like it might scuttle off if I stared long enough.

“It’s a delicacy,” he corrected, licking his lips. “Savages eat meat. Connoisseurs eat marrow.”

“You’re a savage with opinions.”

“And you’re a courtesan with crumbs in her cleavage.”

I looked down.

Damn it. He was right.

Still.

“I’d rather starve,” I said, tossing the bone onto the pile with exaggerated revulsion.

He snorted. “You said the same about beetle paste. And then you ate three helpings and licked the bowl.”

“That was different. I was drunk. And horny.”

“You’re always drunk and horny.”

“Exactly. So I know what I’m talking about. Bone marrow isnotsexy.”

He raised a brow ridge. “Strong joints are sexy.”

“You’re insane.”

“You’re malnourished.”

I picked up a piece of flatbread and jammed it in my mouth, defiant. “This is all I need. Bread. Fire. Freedom. And maybe a pickle.”

“Your bones will snap like twigs.”

“So will yours if you keep flapping those wings while I’m napping.”

He gave me a long look. Then, with all the theatricality of a cathedral bell, let out a dramatic sigh and said, “Fine. More marrow for me.”

“Enjoy your goo tube, lizard.”

He slurped again, louder this time, just to spite me.

Gods, I hated how smug he looked when he ate like a troll.

Still.

I stole one of the roasted carrots from his pile while he was distracted.

That’s called abalanced diet.