by Naomi Sparks
My side aches something fierce, and I’m huffing for breath. Faris is at my side now, and the ass looks like he’s out for a fun stroll at the park.
Finally, I practically collapse onto the ground. I'm so winded I can't speak, can't move. My muscles are cramping so I curl into a gasping ball. And I'm cursing all the time I'd spent in front of Netflix that I could have spent at the gym.
Faris sits on his heels a couple feet away from me a moment later. His gaze is steady, and he's not at all short of breath. He doesn’t even have the decency to even pretend to breathe hard. The jerk.
But at least he doesn’t try to eat me.
I glare at him because it’s all I can do. To his credit, he doesn’t look terribly smug as I lay gasping on the ground, but he also doesn’t look apologetic enough.
After a couple of minutes, when I can speak, I say, "Take me home."
"I can't," he replies. But he still doesn't sound unhappy about it. "I'm sorry for using my venom to knock you out last night. You were freaking out… That’s my fault. I should have handled it another way. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time. I'm sorry."
I touch my neck where he bit me, but all trace of it seems to be gone. The spot isn’t even tender. Weird. I can still feel his teeth sink into my neck. A flash of pain, and then…
Bliss.
The vivid memory makes me shiver, but I’m not entirely sure it’s out of fear. "Is that like your dragon knockout juice?"
He tilts his head at me like I remember him doing at the store. At the time, I thought he was trying to figure me out. Now, I’m just not sure if it’s a Faris thing or a dragon thing. "It can work that way. But that's not its real purpose."
I don't want to ask what its real purpose is. I don't want to show any indication of actually caring. But my damn curiosity just won't let it go. "Okay, then. What else does it do?"
His grin widens as he recognizes the win. Then he flops down from his heels onto his butt, like a young man without a care in the world. "How kind of you to ask. When most of my people were killed, it was overwhelmingly the females that were targeted. They had less mobility than the males since—back then—it was the females who raised our young. And the male dragons wandered the world."
"Sounds about right," I say sarcastically. Apparently, patriarchy hadn’t just extended to the human population way back when. Or it was, at the very least, outrageously unfair. “I hope things have changed for the lady dragon’s sake, at least.”
"For some, I’m sure. I don't see that working out so well in this day and age—at least not with more modern mates.” He chuckles. “But you have to remember how much the world has changed." His gaze shifts to the distance, and I wonder what he's thinking about. “Things were very different. So different that I’m not sure someone as young as yourself can really imagine how changed the world is now.”
I don’t roll my eyes, just barely. "So the venom…"
He nods, coming back to our conversation from wherever his thoughts had wandered. "Our venom is fatal in large quantities. Not that it’s used for that often, because quite frankly its usually just easier to kill someone the old-fashioned way. But in smaller doses, it imbues our partners with healing abilities and keeps them alive as long as we live."
I refuse to ask him what the old fashioned way of killing people is. No way. If I get through this, I’ll have enough nightmares as it is.
Wait… How long did dragons live?
"And how long is that?" I ask, for the moment so fascinated that I forget to be afraid.
"We aren't immortal, but we age very slowly. We don't even start to get grey hair until we get up to five thousand or thereabouts."
I suck in a quick breath. He is so casual about it. I know I shouldn't ask how old he is. I know that I shouldn't get any more involved with this man—this freaking dragon. But I can't help wanting to know more about him. Despite the fact that I'm scared shitless of him, he is still fascinating. And embarrassingly enough, sitting in the dirt after being followed by him for over a mile, my body still stirs in his presence.
But I can’t help it. I have to know. “How old are you?”
"Me? I'm no spring chick. But I'm not as old as some of the others in my crew. Near as I can figure, I'm about eighteen hundred years old." He shrugs. “Honestly, I can’t be one hundred percent certain, but that’s close enough. I’ve lost track here and there. Time has a way of doing that.”
I just stare, because I can't think of anything to say to a man who has just told me he's older than I can imagine. That he’s too freaking old to remember exactly how old he even is. And he doesn’t look a day over thirty—thirty would even be pushing how old he looks.
"I was born in the Parthian Empire. The bastard son of a king and his witch." Faris sighs, but his expression is wistful. "I helped my father build and keep his empire—something you could only really do with brute force back then. And I was good at brute force. Those were the days. Justice was swifter, and the ladies were far more cooperative." He winks at me. “Just being a bastard price was usually enough.”
I glare harder, and I pointedly do not ask enough for what. "That's what you meant when you said that Islam was after your time. It didn’t exist yet when you were young. Were you ever human?”
“Dragons aren’t made like that, beautiful. We’re a different species from humans. My father, like me, was a dragon. And like I said, my mother was a witch. I was born a dragon, like him. But I like to think I got my looks from her.”
I just glare harder.
But his cheerful mood doesn’t sour. "I had to flee my country after my father died. New kings don't like the blood of old kings lingering around, even in a bastard. Back then, it opened too many possibilities for a coup." He sobers. “But I didn’t lie to you last night. I loved to travel. I discovered that in a big way after my king was killed.”
“I take you killed with your venom, even back then? At least sometimes?” The conversation is so surreal, I almost forget to be afraid of him. Almost.
His gaze slides to my neck, to the spot where he bit me. “Rarely. But yes. But that isn’t our venom’s main purpose, like I said.”
I try to wet my lips, but my mouth is so dry. "So this venom—it's for your enemies, and your…"
"Our mates." He says the word mate as if tasting it. In his gaze slides from my neck back to meet my eyes. His gaze is meaningful, and his pupils are dilated. "It keeps our mates alive, strong, and healthy for our entire lifetimes. So that we never have to be without her. It’s especially important now that dragon women are almost nonexistent."
A shiver. Despite everything that has happened, my body still wants him. Even though my mind is saying no way. And it's clear, that Faris still wants to be with me, too. I can read the heat in his gaze as easily as he can probably read the desire in mine.
He is a dragon. And he claims to be eighteen hundred years old. I'm all for dating a slightly older or even younger man—but that's too big of an age gap. I have to draw the line somewhere, and over a millennia in age difference seems to be a good place. Even if I could ignore the fact the man turns into a damn dragon. What could we possibly have in common?
But the way he looks at me makes my lower belly tight. Makes me want to crawl out of my skin and get close to him. Smell him. Dance with him again. Hell, if I’m honest with myself, I want to do a lot more than dance with the man.
But no. I can’t let myself go there. He’s a freaking dragon. He isn’t a man, no matter how much he looks like one. I have to remember that.
"Do you have any powers?" he asks, voice casual.
I start, both at the question and the shift in the conversation. "What you talking about?"
He leans closer as if sharing a secret. And I do my absolute best not to fall into his dark eyes. “You know, powers. Anything you might call...witchy?”
“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I reply immediately.
But there’s a flicker of memory al
ready touching my thoughts. Images of things flying. Of my grandfather’s angry face. Of Dez laughing at me, and mocking my tears.
I've blunted the memories for so long that I'm not even sure how to tap into them. If Faris hadn't asked, I never would've even thought about it. Because most of the time, that time in my life feels like a dream.
"Dragons can't mate with ordinary humans. We can only mate with humans who have dragons or witches in their family tree—that necessary genetic component. Sometimes, that doesn't mean the woman or man has powers. Sometimes it just means our dragon can sense the genetic makeup. But often…" He stands and then reaches out, offering me a hand to help me get up.
After a long hesitation, I take it. I'm so damn tired. Mentally and physically. Emotionally, I’m just a damn mess. I don’t have it in me to fight with him right now. It’s a real shame life doesn’t come with time-outs.
My legs are already screaming at me when I stand. I’ll be lucky to move at all tomorrow when the real soreness will set in. I try to focus on that. The cramps in my legs. The fire still burning in my lungs. The fact that a dragon is holding my hand.
But the memories flutter to the surface. I’m just too worn to fight them. Things moving even when I didn’t touch them. My Barbie, flying into my hands from the bathroom counter into the tub so I didn’t have to go get her and get the floor wet. My excited confession to my grandfather. And his angry, terrified reaction.
He said I was sick.
My telekinesis isn't real. My grandfather had told me so when I was still a little girl. Dez had told me so, too, but given the amount he's lied to me in our lives, that didn't mean as much as grandfather saying it. I know that Grandpa loved me.
He threatened to have me committed—told me that it was nonsense. That I had to stop talking about it. Looking back on it now, I think he really worried I had schizophrenia. Hadn’t he muttered something about it running in the family?
Maybe I should tell Faris about my vague memories of things flying when I wanted them to. But I can't bring myself to—not now. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
"Please just take me back," I say, tiredness obvious in my tone. "Back to the road, wherever. I can hitchhike. I need to go home." I need to take a bath. Sleep in my own bed. More than anything, I need some time alone.
Weirdly, I didn’t relish the idea of never seeing Faris again. But I did want, more than anything, to hide for a little while. To shut out a world that had just gotten a million times crazier than it already was. Which is saying a lot, considering how insane my brother already made everything.
He steps closer to me, and his clean, masculine scent envelops me. Makes me want to trust him. Makes me want to lean against him. But I stand straight.
Voice gentle, he says, "I can't do that just yet."
And then he picks me up and holds me close. Sweeps me into his arms in a way that would be the stuff of romantic movies if we’d been in any other situation. I want to struggle, but I'm too tired after my run. Too tired after our conversation. Too tired after the last exhausting twenty-four hours.
Plus, I don’t really want to fight him right now. Part of me enjoys cuddling with him. It feels right on a level I can’t explain, not even to myself. Hating myself for my weakness just a little bit, I rest my head on his shoulder.
Moving at a leisurely pace, Faris starts walking back to camp. He doesn't push me for more information, and I don't ask him any more questions. He doesn’t even tease me when I close my eyes for a moment and trust that he isn’t taking me anywhere other than where he said he would.
Is it possible that my telekinesis wasn't some childhood fantasy? Or worse, the beginning signs of schizophrenia manifesting as hallucinations? That's what my grandfather had been afraid of—what he’d told me. The more I think about it, the more the memories come through. He had truly believed that I was mentally ill. Until the day I die he died, he watched me carefully to ensure that I didn't show any other signs of mental illness or breakdown. That I didn't do anything that made it seem like I might be a risk to myself or anyone else.
But what if… What if my memories of moving objects is real? What if I wasn't dreaming it or hallucinating? It hurts my head to think about, but I have to.
If dragons are real, is there anything that isn’t possible?
I take a deep breath, letting Faris’s scent sink into me further. And his hold around me tightens just a bit before he relaxes again. Almost like a hug.
We pass a boulder, and over Faris’s shoulder, I focus on the rock. With my mind, I try to make it move. Not sure exactly what to do, I just stare at it hard and will it to move. But it doesn't. And I swear just the effort makes my head pound.
I have no idea how this even works—if it's even real. My memory of that time of my childhood has faded with time, even more so because grandfather was so disappointed in me for talking about it. I have pushed most of those memories out of my mind as well as I could.
But maybe my grandfather was right. Maybe I just imagined it after all.
7
Faris
Since I'm certain Kyra will try to escape the moment she gets a chance, I tether her with a rope in our camp. The rope loops around her ankle, and is long enough that she can walk through much of the camp, but not long enough to let her out of my sight. I feel awful doing it, but I'm not sure what else to do to make sure she’ll stay.
I can’t let her go.
Kyra is quiet and sullen, and she glares at me anytime I come into her eye line. She isn't quite as mean to Hannah when she attempts to be friendly with her, but she virtually ignores the other woman and her endeavors to engage Kyra in conversation. The only time Kyra has a single word to say to me is when she needs to use the restroom, and she seems extra angry when I escort her to the campground bathrooms and wait outside of the door.
I get it. The embarrassing intrusion of it. But I’m just not sure what else to do.
For their part, my crew does their best to be nice to her, and to pretend that they don’t see the rope tied around her ankle. I can see the extra effort they're putting into being calm and less threatening, and I appreciate it. But it isn’t working in the slightest. When Bren approaches her, asking if she wants some lunch, she practically sprints to the other side of camp to get away from him and the sandwich he offers.
And I can feel my crew's eyes on me, too. Studying. Wondering. But no one pushes. Yet.
As the day wears on, I try to include her in our conversations. But she refuses to join in.
"I promise that I have no intention of hurting you," I tell her as the afternoon moves toward evening. It's not the first time I’ve said nearly those exact words today. But I keep hoping that one of these times she'll realize that I'm telling the truth.
"I have trouble believing my kidnapper," she snaps at me. She waves toward the rope around her ankle. “I mean, come on. How can I believe anything that you say?”
Pressure squeezes my chest at her words. She still afraid of me, and that bothers me more than I'd like to admit. But I can’t really blame her, can I? I try to take heart that at least she's talking to me, but it's very little comfort.
I start a fire and ignore the ever-increasing looks from my crew. I know that this isn’t the first time any of them has seen a prisoner. They’re all much older than humans can live, some even older than I am. They have seen war and violence on a scale most modern humans, living in a developed country, can’t really understand. I know the looks aren’t for the harshness of my treatment of Kyra. But they are worried about the club. About the trouble a kidnapping a human might cause.
After our short conversation, she ignores me again. But she does finally relent and take Hannah's offer of food with dinner. I'm glad to see her eating, but I wish I knew what to with her now.
The evening turns to night, and everyone eventually wanders back to their own tents. I bury the nearly-dead fire in earth.
“Ready to get some sleep?” I say to Kyra, gesturing toward my tent.
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She laughs, a half-hysterical sound. “Yeah, right.”
She takes a seat on the cold, hard ground outside of my tent, and she turns her back toward the entrance to my traveling home, after giving me a final glare. It’s a clear message of defiance, and my respect for her grows even more.
"It would be far more comfortable for you inside my tent tonight. It's going to be cold," I tell her, knowing even as I speak that she isn’t going to bend.
She sits cross-legged on the ground, and at my words, she merely crosses her arms, too, and shoots me another glare over her shoulder.
I could pick her up and carry her inside of my tent. I could force her to lie in my arms. I might, using all the charms I’ve learned over the centuries, convince her to have sex with me, even. I can be damn convincing when I want to be. But the very idea of seducing Kyra makes me want to rage—I shouldn’t have to seduce my own mate. Even the thought of forcing her to lay beside me in that tent feels wrong.
And dangerous.
Because the more time I spend with her, the more my control over the mating lust is carved away. Just watching her sit on the ground glare makes me hard. If I had her in my arms right now… I could never forgive myself if I lost control.
She must be approaching ovulation, that's the only explanation I can think of for my increasing lust. It would be one thing if it were a normal desire, but I feel like I'm fighting every moment not to throw her over my shoulder like a caveman and drag her off into the woods where we can be alone.
I duck into my tent, but I don't zip it up. With the door open, I can watch Kyra. And if she suddenly decides to, there’s nothing stopping her from joining me.
If I can't win her over before my control reaches the breaking point, I'll have to send her back to Juniper. I'll be forced to let another member of my crew return her. Because I can't risk hurting her. Can't risk having her around when I am unable to control my desire to claim her. And I can’t even trust myself to actually take her home.
