Fourth Wing

A dragon without its rider is a tragedy. A rider without their dragon is dead.

“Killing you wouldn’t be any trouble, Violence. It’s leaving you alive that seems to cause the majority of my trouble.”

“Should I get the wingleader?” Tairn flat-out laughs in my head.

“I’m over here keeping my hands and memories to myself because you asked me to, and you’re fucking me with your eyes. That’s not playing fair.”

The break in his voice takes the anger right out of me. “We are not allowed to help you. To save you.”

A dragon without its rider is a tragedy. A rider without their dragon is dead.

Flaming hot. Scorching hot. Gets-you-into-trouble-and-you-like-it level of hot.

The third turns in my direction and my heart simply…stops.

He’s tall, with windblown black hair and dark brows. The line of his jaw is strong and covered by warm tawny skin and dark stubble, and when he folds his arms across his torso, the muscles in his chest and arms ripple, moving in a way that makes me swallow. And his eyes… His eyes are the shade of gold-flecked onyx. The contrast is startling, jaw-dropping even—everything about him is.

He’s the most exquisite man I’ve ever seen.

And living in the war college means I’ve seen a lot of men.

A dragon without its rider is a tragedy. A rider without their dragon is dead.