Fire In His Embrace: A Post-Apocalyptic Dragon Romance (Fireblood Dragon Book 3)

by Ruby Dixon

  Give me a few, I tell Zohr. I’ll be there shortly.

  I cannot leave, he replies, wryness in his tone.

  Right. Sorry about that.

  The bed in this room is stripped, but that’s not surprising. One of the things I never really thought would become rare in the After is fabric, but now that years have passed and clothing is in short supply, fabric’s become a hot commodity. If there were sheets here, someone already grabbed them. That’s all right. I can make do. I cut the nylon cords from the broken mini-blinds in this room and the next, tying them into a longish, skinny rope that should hold my weight. I tie it onto the bed and push the frame against the window. When I dangle the rope over the ledge, it doesn’t quite reach the ground, but it’s close enough that a fall won’t kill me.

  The “rope” itself cuts into my hands when I test it, so I pull off one of my shirts and wrap it around my hand and use that to anchor myself. I brace my feet against the outside wall and slowly creep down, my arms burning with the chore of holding my weight. I lose my grip a short distance before the bottom and tumble to the ground the rest of the way, knocking the air from my lungs.

  EMMA!

  I’m okay. I lie flat on the ground, head ringing, and wait for the world to right itself. Just lost my breath. Don’t panic. I wince as I crawl to an upright position. My stitches are throbbing and I feel scraped up, but otherwise, nothing’s broken. I’m good, I reassure Zohr. On my way.

  Be careful. There is frustration and pent-up rage in his thoughts. Not at me, I realize, but at the situation. At those that are making us sneak out at night. I worry that Zohr’s not entirely with me in our plan, that I’m going to free him and he’s going to lose his shit on the others and go nuts. That our bond is a lie and this could all be an elaborate trap.

  We’ll see, I guess.

  I trust you. You must trust me.

  He’s got a point. Trust is all we seem to have right now, I tease, but he doesn’t find it funny. That’s all right, I guess. If my head wasn’t ringing, I might not find it all that funny, either.

  I do not like that you are hurting yourself.

  I’m not a fan of it, either, I tell him, rubbing my sore ass. I must have landed on it. But since we’re low on options, I’ll take what I can get. I glance around to make sure no one’s noticed me and then head toward the outside doors to the pool house. Normally I go in through the front, the part that leads off from one of the long corridors of the hotel lobby, but since that wasn’t available, I’m exploring new routes. I’m not surprised to find the metal outside doors are chained together to keep anyone from getting in…or out. No problem. I can handle a few locks.

  After a few picks, I remove the padlocks and carefully slide the chains free, link by link, so they make no noise. I crack the door, inwardly wincing at the thought of an alarm going off, but there’s no power. The interior’s just as muggy as ever, and on the far side of the pool area I see a guard seated at a folding table, a candle lit for light. He’s got a magazine in his hands and is fondling his crotch absently.

  Gross.

  I hear Zohr’s chains rustle, and I know he’s trying to free himself again, flexing against his bonds.

  “Shut the fuck up,” the guard lazily calls, then flips another page of his magazine and rubs his crotch again.

  I freeze in place. Fuck. That’s Old Jerry. He’s the only one I’d have qualms hurting. I don’t think he’s a bad guy, like most of these idiots. He just makes poor decisions. He’s the only one who’s been nice to me in his own way. I hesitate, then pull my knife out anyhow. I don’t have a choice. If it’s Old Jerry or Zohr, there’s no question. Zohr never chose to be here. Old Jerry did.

  I consider the best way to approach him. It’s shadowy in the pool room, but he’s got a handgun sitting on the table next to his candle, and I don’t want to get shot. I’m not sure how to approach.

  I will distract him.

  I’m not sure—

  “Ohllzhherreee,” Zohr calls out before I can stop him. The name’s so thickly slurred that it takes me a moment to realize it—Old Jerry. Oh. I’m so startled at the sound of his voice that I pause. I know he’s in my head and I know how he thinks, but still hearing him aloud is…different. He’s all growly and fierce and untamed, and it’s both fascinating and a little scary.

  Jerry freezes in his chair, his gaze flicking toward the empty pool, where the dragon-man is chained. He hesitates for a moment and then gets to his feet. I hold my breath, worried he’s going to take his gun with him, but he walks away from it, heading to the edge of the pool.

  As he gazes down at Zohr with a confused look on his face, I move along the far wall, heading over to his seat. I feel a surge of triumph when my fingers close around his gun and I raise it in the air. Success!

  I raise the gun high and point it at Old Jerry. “Turn around slowly and put your hands up, Jer.”

  He stiffens, glancing over his shoulder at me. “Motherfuck.” He shakes his head. “I shoulda known you weren’t to be trusted. Pretty girls don’t last long with this crew.”

  “I’m not with this crew,” I tell him, and gesture that he needs to sit. “Don’t make me shoot you. I like you. You’ve been kind to me.”

  “Fuckin’ hell, girl. I don’t want you to shoot me, either.” He puts his hands in the air and slowly walks toward me. “Don’t know what you’re thinkin’, though. If you want to go, just go. I won’t tell no one nothin’.” He thumps into his seat. “Just don’t wanna end up with a bullet in my brain is all.”

  At least he’s being reasonable. I pull out the handcuffs in my pocket and toss them into his lap. “Put those on.”

  He curses under his breath but does as he’s told. I pull out my duct tape and start strapping him down to the chair, just enough to slow him down if I have to make a fast getaway.

  “Told you, girl, I ain’t gonna put up a fight,” he says as I wind the tape around his legs. “This shit ain’t necessary. Dunno why you ain’t just goin’.”

  “Need to take a friend with me,” I tell him.

  At that, his lip curls. “So. You’re a dragon-fucker just like that other cunt, eh? Fucking disgusting.” He spits at me and it lands on my shirt. “Nasty bitch.”

  I’m shocked at his attitude. It’s gone from almost grandfatherly and understanding to…hellish. “Wow, you kiss your mama with that mouth?”

  “Fuck you, whore.” The look on his face is downright ugly and appalling. “I don’t want nothin’ to do with traitor sluts.”

  “I take back what I said about liking you,” I tell him lightly, and then rip off a piece of tape to put over his mouth. “Now I see why you’re with these creeps. You’re one of them.”

  He’s silent, but he glares at me as I finish up with the last of my duct tape and then pocket his gun again. I’m a little hurt at his vicious reaction, but I’ll get over it. Time to get Zohr free.

  I hop down into the pool and race over to his side. I hate that he’s splayed out like a snow-angel, chains all over his arms and legs. His eyes are wide, blazing with a mixture of gold and black, and I don’t know what that means for his mood.

  It means you free me and I will tear the throat out of that male that dared to speak to you in such a way.

  “Let’s just focus on getting free,” I tell him, running a hand over the cage on his chest. There’s a padlock under his back, which means he’ll have to be standing up for me to get it off him. Okay, arms and legs first, and then we can take his strange, reverse-spiked vest off of him and get him free.

  My gaze lands on the collar. It looks tight, the flesh around it dark and chafed. When he swallows, I watch his Adam’s apple push against it and feel a surge of frustrated anger that they’ve collared him like a dog.

  I can take it off now, though. “Can you lift your head?” I ask him, getting my lockpicks out.

  He does, his nostrils flaring. Your scent is awful.

  I can’t help but chuckle at that. “I put on a bit extra t
oday just in case.” My paranoia made me double up on perfumes, just because I wanted to make sure I was heavily masked. “Sorry about that.”

  I will be glad when I can smell your sweetness instead of this, Zohr tells me, disgruntled. When we are free from here, never wear another scent again.

  “No perfumes, ever,” I agree. I’m tired of them. My fingers move along the back of the collar. I already know which pick to use, and I’m able to slide the bit of metal into the lock and twist. With a little click, it falls away and then the collar is loose on his neck. I sigh with relief and pull it off of him, tossing it aside.

  His growl of pleasure is audible.

  “Now the rest,” I tell him, reaching for one wrist.

  There’s a loud click somewhere in the distance, and it takes me a moment to realize what it is. A gun. “Stop right now,” a voice calls.

  I freeze and look up, surprised.

  Kurt steps out of the shadows, shotgun in hand. Azar’s next to him, an ominous figure in pale clothing and sunglasses. On the other side, there’s another nomad—Marty.

  We’re busted.

  I did not smell them, Zohr tells me, furious. Their scents were covered by your perfume.

  Well, shit. I stare up at them, horrific dismay rippling through me. I don’t move. I wait to see if they’re going to shoot me now.

  Azar steps to the edge of the pool. “Did you truly think I would not notice that your scent changed? Do you think me so unobservant?”

  I’m silent for a long moment, and then I shrug. “Yes?”

  His jaw clenches and I feel a heavy darkness in the air. Which is odd, given that nothing’s changed, but it feels different in the room.

  I can feel his thoughts pressing on my own. He is trying to link to me. He wants to speak.

  Don’t do it! That’s what he’s been trying to get from you! He wanted you sane enough to talk to.

  Zohr’s thoughts become strained. He is pushing thoughts of you into my mind. It is difficult to tell which ones are you and which are not…

  “Then don’t talk in your head,” I murmur to Zohr, my gaze on Azar. “Don’t talk to anyone until we get out of here.”

  Azar pulls his glasses off and his eyes are a cold, pale gray. It’s so weird…and creepy. I don’t understand. If he’s a dragon, they normally go between two colors—gold and black. I’ve never seen his eyes be anything but icy pale gold, but now they’re this weird, in-between sort of milky gray that seems ominous and terrible all at once. The heaviness presses on my mind again, and I bite back a whimper. It feels like someone’s pushing against my skull with a brick.

  “You thought to work around me? I can feel you communicating,” Azar says. “I know you are linked. I do not know how you managed it, but I suspect you will tell me.”

  “You’re suspecting wrong.” My voice is strong even if I’m not feeling particularly brave at the moment.

  “I have my ways,” he murmurs, and then I feel the wave of mental heaviness come over me again. I bite back a groan and look over at Kurt, but he doesn’t seem affected. Is it just me? Just because of my bond with Zohr? How were Sasha and Dakh able to withstand this?

  Zohr’s low growl worries me. Is he giving in? What do I do if he does?

  The heaviness continues, until it feels like the air around us is thick with it. Like I’ll choke if I breathe. I press my palms against the plaster of the pool, panting hard.

  Then suddenly, it lifts.

  I look up in surprise, and Azar’s eyes flick back to the pale, pale gold. His gaze rests on me. “So. You will not yield your thoughts to me?”

  It takes me a moment to realize he’s not talking to me, but to Zohr. When the dragon-man beside me growls, I see a thin smile curve Azar’s mouth, displaying his odd-looking, too-square teeth.

  Kurt and Marty just look confused, Kurt’s shotgun lowers a bit as his gaze flicks from me and back to Azar again. Are they just now starting to realize something’s weird with Azar? Something that they have no comprehension of? I almost feel sorry for them. Almost.

  “Take the girl,” Azar commands in his calm, silky voice. “With her, we can make him yield.”

  “How?” Marty asks, and I practically cringe at the malevolence that rolls off of Azar.

  “With whatever it takes,” Azar replies, doing his best to look as calm and unruffled as possible. I can sense an undercurrent of anger in him, though, and his eyes still have black edges, which worries me. I’m so focused on the distant rage that’s radiating off of the Salorian that it takes a moment for me to realize he’s talking about harming me. He lifts one tiny finger and then shrugs. “We can start by breaking her fingers one at a time and see how he reacts. If that does not get a response, we can try…other methods.”

  Both Kurt and Marty grin eagerly, looking at me, and I feel sick to my stomach. I can just guess what that would be.

  Zohr’s growl gets even louder, more furious. It’s so loud that it seems impossible that all that rumbling is coming from one man, no matter how oversized he is.

  “Go and retrieve the female,” Azar tells them.

  They hesitate, looking at each other.

  I pull a knife from my boot, ready to fight. If they want to use me against Zohr, it’ll be over my dead body. I’m going to go down fighting.

  Flashes of strange images start to flick through my mind, and I blink rapidly, confused. I don’t understand what I’m seeing. Deserts and blood and…anger? Is this more from Azar? The images disappear, then flick through my mind again.

  “I said, retrieve the female,” Azar repeats, his voice deadly calm.

  That decides Marty and Kurt. Both nomads hop into the pool, heading toward me.

  I get to my feet, standing protectively in front of Zohr, my knife in hand. They won’t touch him. I won’t allow it.

  More of the strange images crash through my head, along with a rumbling roar. It takes a moment for me to realize that the roar isn’t in my head anymore—it’s all around me.

  Marty goes pale. Kurt drops his gun.

  Something surges behind me, knocking me forward off my feet and onto the ground. I slap onto the chipping plaster of the pool, palms down, and pain shoots up my arms. My knife skitters a few feet away.

  The air is roaring around us.

  I don’t understand what’s happening until Marty touches his face, and I realize it’s spattered with blood. Kurt, too. Even Azar’s clothing is flecked with red.

  Something heavy moves behind me. The world seems like it’s moving in slow motion, and I turn.

  It’s a dragon.

  Covered in bright, coppery blood, his wings shredded like bloody spiderwebs, Zohr plucks the cage-vest off of his scales and flicks it aside. His eyes are whirling with black, and I can smell fire building, like charcoal and ash and brimstone just waiting to ignite.

  He’s burst free. Zohr’s given up on his wings and his freedom and burst free of his confines, destroying them.

  “Oh, my poor Zohr,” I whisper as he folds the shreds of one wing back and then roars his agony. The images flutter through my mind, faster and faster. Hate. Anger. Frustration.

  The need to protect.

  His crazed thoughts are overwhelming me, and I feel pinned to the ground all over again, as if his thoughts are holding me down with the intensity of them.

  Kurt recovers first. He scrambles to pick up his gun.

  Zohr lets out another earth-shattering roar and flicks his foreleg forward. Kurt goes flying, his body smacking against the side of the pool with a crunch.

  Marty bellows, raising his shotgun, and before I can scream a warning, it goes off.

  Zohr ignores it, and I remember dimly that dragons aren’t hurt by gunfire. I gasp as Marty and the gun disappear into Zohr’s toothy maw. He lowers his enormous head—golden and beautiful and deadly—and I see Marty’s legs hanging out of his mouth. He shakes him back and forth, violently, like a dog with a bone, and then drops him to the ground as if he can’t be bothered t
o eat him.

  I stare at the crumpled corpse in front of me, dumbfounded. I’m unable to move.

  Something hard moves gently around my waist, and I look down to see claws encircling me. Zohr picks me up and pulls me against his chest. There’s blood everywhere, and heat envelops me like a wave. He bellows his anger again, and my mind fills with more wild images—some of the current situation, some of strange battles, some of other dragons. They’re chaotic nonsense, and it’s impossible to think straight.

  I…worry that Zohr has snapped.

  WHERE IS HE. The thought blasts through my head, and I whimper, putting a hand to my brow.

  THE SALORIAN. WHERE. IS. HE.

  Panting, I try to look out blearily, but I don’t see Azar anywhere. There’s only Kurt and Marty’s bodies in the bottom of the empty pool, and blood on everything. So much blood. “He-he’s gone. He might have gone to get the others—”

  Zohr gives another wild snarl and launches himself from the bottom of the pool. His great hind legs give a powerful shove and then he stumbles forward, and I get a flash of surprise in all of the ferocious, wild images pouring through my mind. He can’t fly. His wings are destroyed.

  It doesn’t matter to him though. The claws tighten around me and he pulls me closer. On three legs, he pushes against the thick, heavy glass wall of the pool house, and when it doesn’t budge, he backs up and swings his head at it like a wrecking ball.

  Glass shatters everywhere, raining down. I scream, burying my head in my arms to protect my face, only to be shoved against Zohr’s scales as he does his best to shield me. He bugles his fury, as if he’s pissed that the wall would dare to try and harm me. There’s no reasoning with him, I realize. He’s completely lost to his madness.

  Then we’re surging forward, into the cooler night air, and into the darkness. Zohr pushes through the parking lot full of broken-down cars, knocking over the bikes of the nomads and flinging aside anything in his way. He’s not moving fast—he’s moving with the intent to destroy.