They chained me to a rock. Again.

  Left ankle, right wrist, both wrists, actually—whoever did the knotting had a flair for symmetry. Not bad, honestly. Six out of ten. Could’ve added a flourish.

  Anyway, there I was: perched like a decorative offering on the wind-kissed edge of Mount Something-Epic, draped in what used to be a dress and now qualified as a rumor of silk. It had seen better days. So had I.

  My legs were bare, toes freezing, a twig poking my backside. Of course there was.

  Damsel. Distress. Cue dramatic clouds.

  Let’s be clear—I’m no maiden. Haven’t been for a while. But these people didn’t need to know that. To them, I was the perfect sacrifice: skin like moonlight, lips like sin, hair like an oil spill with ambition.

  They bought it, naturally.

  Peasants always do. All you have to do is arch your back, cry a bit, and mumble about destiny. Works every time.

  I rolled my eyes toward the heavens, which, given my position, gave the villagers behind me quite the view. You’re welcome, lads. Tell your grandkids.

  I was getting bored. My toes were going numb, and I really hoped someone would show up soon—preferably not a real virgin knight. They never know what to do with their swords and they always want to cuddle after.

  My stomach growled. I hadn’t eaten since last night, when I flirted with an innkeeper for a bowl of stew and half a pickle. Not worth it. He cried afterward. Called me “mother.” Awkward.

  Anyway.

  I waited. Legs posed just so. Theatrical misery painted across my face.

  Something would come.

  Someone always did.

  Footsteps. Heavy boots against stone. The sharp inhale of a man seeing a half-dressed woman in distress and immediately deciding it’s his destiny to fix her.

  He emerged from the mist like a sculpture come to life—sun-bleached hair, jaw like he chewed rocks for breakfast, the gleam of steel and righteousness. And, of course, the sword. Always with the sword.

  “By the gods,” he whispered. “You poor thing.”

  He dropped to his knees and started hacking at the chains. I gasped—partly for effect, partly because I’d been sitting on my foot too long. He cut fast. Desperate. Almost trembling.

  “You’re safe now,” he said. “I’m here to slay the beast.”

  Oh, sweetie.

  I collapsed into his arms. Soft sob. Shiver. The works. His mouth was on mine before the last chain hit the rock.

  He was young. Eager. Very earnest.

  I pulled him down with me, into the furs someone had dramatically arranged beside the altar stone. (You think I don’t plan these things?)

  He fumbled. I guided. The toga was already halfway to nonexistent. The rest fluttered away with the wind.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Let’s just say the timing wasn’t ideal.

  Because that’s when the roar came.

  Over his shoulder, I saw the shape. A shadow. Wings spread like nightmares.

  “Oh, finally,” I muttered.

  “We shouldn’t—” he gasped.

  “We have time,” I whispered. “Just a little more—”

  And then came the second roar, much closer.

  He turned, saw the silhouette in the sky, and panicked like a chicken with a sword.

  “The beast!” he shouted, leaping to his feet, trousers halfway down. “I’ll hold him off—”

  “No, wait—” I started, but too late.

  His back was to me. Dumb move.

  I grabbed the nearest rock and thunk.

  He crumpled like a sack of potatoes with great abs.

  Wings beat the air. Dust rose. My hair whipped wildly.

  And then he landed.

  The Dragon.

  Massive. Glorious. Slightly dusty. One scale missing on his left haunch, the vain old lizard. He folded his wings with a dramatic sigh and looked down at the unconscious pile of hero and then at me.

  “What,” I snapped, brushing a leaf from my hair, “took you so long?”

  He raised one elegant brow ridge. “Some of us are arthritic, darling.”

  I crossed my arms. “I had to improvise.”

  He sniffed. “And I appreciate your commitment to the craft.”

  I looked down at the hero. He groaned faintly.

  “Should I hit him again?” I asked sweetly. “Just to be sure?”

  The Dragon rolled his eyes. “You’re incorrigible.”

  “Treasure first,” I said, grinning. “Then commentary.”

  He nodded regally. “As always.”

  And like that, we got to work.

  Two con artists. One scorched village. And a very unconscious paladin with his pants around his ankles—because, you see, it’s a scam.

  A classic. Elegant. Time-tested. He scorches a few fields, flaps his wings over a granary, maybe singes a shepherd or two. They panic. They pray. They consult some bearded sage who says: Offer a maiden and gold to the beast.

  Enter me. Saya. Virgin. Obviously.

  It’s always a hit.

  My job is simple. Look tragic. Look pretty. Look like the kind of girl whose tear-streaked innocence gives rise to stirring quests and noble blushes.

  Sometimes, they just hand over the gold. No questions asked. But when a hero shows up, gleaming and gallant?

  That’s when the fun begins.

  Because while they’re busy rescuing me, panting and puffing, the Dragon comes in and... well, handles things.

  Today was textbook—right up until His Scaled Highness got impatient.

  I glared at him as he sniffed around the unconscious stud sprawled at my feet. “Seriously? If you ware that late couldn’t you wait five more minutes? I was just getting to the good part.”

  The Dragon snorted, smoke curling from his nostrils. “He was about to get to the sword part, darling. I’m not in the mood for another stab wound this week.”

  “I had him under control!”

  “You had him under you.”

  “Same difference!”

  He gave me a long, tired look, then muttered, “I can shapeshift, you know.”

  I squinted. “You’re still gay.”

  He shrugged. “Fair point.”

  I sighed, tugging at the straps of the hero’s armor. “Shame. He was kinda cute. And dumb. I like them dumb.”

  “Your type, clearly,” the Dragon said, helpfully extending a claw to help unbuckle a pauldron.

  We stripped the armor—engraved, gilded, overdesigned. Even the belt buckle sparkled. “We’ll get a good price for this,” I said, holding it up. “Might even pay off your ointment bills.”

  The Dragon scowled. “It’s not ointment. It’s joint support.”

  “Sure, grandpa.”

  The hero groaned. We both froze.

  I leaned down, whispering, “Sleep tight, braveheart. We’ll leave you a nice legend.”

  “Don’t be cruel,” the Dragon murmured.

  “I’m not. He lives. They all live. It’s part of the game. We get the gold. He gets to brag he faced a dragon and saved the girl.”

  The Dragon smirked. “He just won’t mention the part where the girl robbed him blind.”

  “Exactly.”

  We bundled the loot. I gave the mountain one last glance.

  “Next time,” I said, “let me finish first.”

  The Dragon rolled his eyes. “Next time, don’t get attached.”

  “Oh, I’m not. I’m just saying—if we’re gonna play damsel and dragon, I might as well get paid properly.”

  He snorted. “Greedy little thing.”

  “Always,” I grinned. “Now let’s go. There’s a tavern down the valley with cheap wine and possibly soap. My kind of place.”

  And just like that, we vanished into the mist. A damsel and her dragon. Partners in crime.

  And somewhere behind us, another hero would wake up dazed, broke, and very confused.

  They never talk about it.

  Would you?