by Ruby Dixon
Your thoughts grow sad. He is…gone?
I nod. “About a year now, I guess.” My eyes get wet and I sniff, even though I promised Jack I wouldn’t cry over his bony ass. “Medical care isn’t what it used to be and since we avoided forts, there was no doctor to see. Heck, even if there was a doctor, I don’t think they could have done anything for him. I think it was cancer, because he just got really tired and weak, and after a while, there were lumps under his ears and his arms. After that, he didn’t last much longer.” I swipe at my face with my arm, my fingers full of his hair. “Sorry. I should be used to this sort of thing by now. Nothing’s ever permanent in the After.”
Zohr pulls away from my braiding and turns to look at me, his eyes wide and swirling with black edges. Why do you water like that? Is there something wrong with your face? One big, clawed hand touches my cheek, and there is alarm in his thoughts. Do you hurt?
“Huh? I’m crying.” I sniff again and use the edge of my poor re-stitched T-shirt to wipe my face. “And shut up. It’s not something I’m proud of. Jack hated sissy shit. No time for it, you know?”
But…why? Why do you water?
I blink, surprised. “Your people don’t cry? When they’re sad?”
Is that what this is? He touches my cheek and then stares down at the wet pads of his fingers. I do not like it.
“Well I’m not a big fan of it, either,” I tell him, half laughing, half weeping. ”I don’t like being sad. I can’t fix it, so I focus on what I can fix.” I gaze at him, taking in the waves of thick, rich golden hair that tumble over his big shoulders. “Like that braid I almost had done before you yanked it out of my hands. Now sit down and rest. I don’t want you hurting your back.”
He growls low in his throat, but it’s more grouchiness than anything. When I put my hands on my hips, he gives me an almost sulky look and returns to his seat. His back is stiff, a sure sign that he’s hurting, but he gives no indication otherwise.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
It is as you say. I cannot fix it, so I prefer not to focus on it. He closes his eyes and his expression calms. Come and touch me more and distract me.
A sudden flush moves over me. “You mean your hair, right?”
For now. There’s a playful tone in his thoughts.
“Mmmhmm.” I can’t help but smile, and the last of my tears dry up. “Nice try, chacho, but we’re not doing anything else until you feel better.”
Then I will recover quickly.
19
ZOHR
I wake up later that night and realize that my Emma is gone. She is not at my side.
Fear and panic flare through me, but with one quick sniff, I realize her scent still hangs in the air. Where is she, if she does not sleep with me? I get to my feet, stiff and aching. I have tried to hide from Emma just how much my wounds hurt and how badly my shoulders burn, as if my wings themselves are aching despite not having them in my two-legged form. It is an intense pain, one I fear will not be leaving anytime soon.
But I can endure it, as long as I have my Emma.
I pace through the strange nest that she calls an “apartment,” following her scent. There, in one of the back rooms, she huddles on a strange flat seat, blankets pulled tight around her. Her back is to the wall and next to her, she holds a knife. Always prepared, my mate.
I do not understand why she has abandoned me, though. I study the place where she sleeps, and there looks to be room enough for me to slide my larger body next to hers. I get down next to her and she immediately clenches the knife, jerking awake. I cover her hand with my larger one, stopping her before she can bite at me with it. It is me, Emma.
“Oh. You scared me.” She yawns, and then her brows draw together. “What are you doing up, Zohr? You should be sleeping.”
I will, now that I am next to you again. Why did you leave?
She moves over and shrugs before lying down again. “Didn’t want to disturb you. You’re still wounded.”
You never disturb me, I tell her, and put my arm around her, pulling her closer. You are my mate.
She hesitates for a moment, then relaxes in my arms, drifting back off to sleep. Yeah, but that’s only temporary.
Temporary? I ask, stunned.
But she is already drifting off to sleep once more. There’s a brief thought of us going our separate ways soon, and then she is dreaming.
I do not sleep, though. My back screams with agony and feels hot, but it pains me less than my heart. She is leaving me? She will not stay?
I think about what she has told me. Nothing’s ever permanent in the After. I remember her thoughts, her stories about Jack and how he taught her to be independent, to count on no one. I think of her startled realization of how deeply we were connected in our minds and how it unsettled her.
Did she think that by mating me, she would help me escape and then leave? That it would be nothing more than a momentary connection that could be easily severed?
In her sleep, she turns her back to me, and I realize that it is exactly what she thought. That when she mated to me, she thought she was offering assistance, not her heart.
I am stung and insulted. Am I not worthy of being her mate? She has given no indication that she finds me displeasing. Even now, the soft braid she made of my hair reminds me of how she takes care of me. Her thoughts were full of pleasure at the sight of it. She likes my appearance. Her thoughts when she thinks of mating are not of fear or revulsion, but shyness.
Does she not truly realize that I gave her my heart the moment I gave her my fires? That her spirit is now connected to mine and we will never be separated? That if she dies, I die, too?
But this is Emma. Fierce, independent, strong Emma, who had a sibling who betrayed her, and parents and a mentor who all died. No wonder she thinks she is better off alone, that she can depend on no one but herself.
My heart aches for my mate, that she is still so lonely.
I can demand that she sleep next to me every night. I can demand that she give me her body. I can push my thoughts into her mind and sift through her memories. It is my right as her mate. But how can I make her need me? How can I make her want me?
How do I make someone as independent as Emma not resent the bond we have together? How can I make her see that our spirits joined makes us both stronger?
This is not something that has ever occurred to me. When a drakoni gives his fires, it is after a long courtship battle with a female. She is subdued, angry but proud at a male that is strong enough to vanquish her. It is an honor to receive a male’s fires. She knows the bond between them will be for life and that there will be companionship and joy…and young.
Perhaps things are different with humans. Emma’s thoughts indicated that she did not expect to find a mate. I am the first one that has touched her, as well. Pride and fierce joy at the reminder rush through me, and I pull her small body against me. She is mine and mine alone.
My mate murmurs in her sleep, shifting, and she finally turns and curls against me. I stroke her hair with my claws, thinking.
I must find a way to make her realize that we are right together. That she will need and want me after we are both safe.
That she will never escape me.
And that she will never want to. But how do I convince someone so used to being alone of such a thing? She has to want to be with me.
She has to want to come to me. I cannot push her.
I continue to stroke her hair, troubled. I have much to think about.
20
ZOHR
One week later
I look into the wide brown eyes of my sweet, delicate mate and wonder how such a creature can be so bloodthirsty. Explain to me again?
Emma rolls her eyes at me, impatient. “You take the hook like so, right? And you grab the body of the worm and push it through, spearing it on here.” She demonstrates. “That’s called baiting the hook.”
You torture one creature to entice another?
&n
bsp; “It’s not torture. The worm doesn’t feel anything. I think.” She gives me a sideways look. “Don’t ruin fishing for me, you big scaly chicken.”
I am nothing like a chicken, I tell her, irritated. I have seen them. They cluck and wander like fools. They are covered in feathers and they shit on everything. How is that like me?
She giggles, and the sound makes my spirit ache with the sweet pleasure of it. “Okay, so you’re nothing like a chicken. It’s just a human saying.” She pulls her fishing rod back and gently eases her line into the water, a bright red and white ball hanging off the line. She sits on the end of the dock and lets her legs dangle over the side, then glances at me. “Want me to cast your line for you?”
I can do it, I grumble. I do my best to mimic her movements, but my ball does not go more than an arm’s length in front of me in the water. I feel a flare of her amusement and it stifles my own annoyance at this task. As long as I can make her smile, I will endure it. I sit down next to her and pretend like my line is not directly at my feet.
Human sayings are strange, I tell her to distract her thoughts. Like when you said you were in my face and you were not…what was it?
She leans back, laughing uproariously. Her face is an expression of pure joy. “Atángana? You caught that?”
Of course I did. I am in your thoughts. What does it mean when you say you are in my face?
“It’s kind of like…stoosh.” She lifts one hand and pushes it toward my face, close to my nose but not quite. “You know…just, stoosh. Atángana.”
I still do not understand.
She thinks for a moment, frowning. “Kind of like…‘I showed you.’”
Showed me what?
Laughter bubbles from her again. “It’s just bragging, all right? It’s me being a braggy jerk.” She grins over at me, all smiles and amusement.
I am filled with joy at her happiness and yearning at the same time. My Emma. I never knew someone who could make me smile so much. Who could make my heart burn with even more fire than I thought possible. Who could make my spirit feel light even when I have lost my wings and have been trapped in two-legged form for what feels like an eternity.
Her gaze goes back to her line and she points at her red and white ball. “When the bobber goes under, that means you’ve got a bite. You jerk on the line to make sure the hook catches in the fish’s mouth, and then you reel it in.”
So we are torturing another creature.
“He can’t feel anything.” Her thoughts are curious and a little worried, though. She wonders if they can feel something, and her soft heart aches a little.
You should let me change to battle-form, I tell her. It is much easier to catch meat that way.
She arches an eyebrow at me. “Nice try. You know the drill. Not until your stitches come out.”
I grunt acknowledgment, but I am not pleased. It is something we have argued over for the past week. I want to ignore the pain and let my wounds take care of themselves. I can protect her more when I am in battle-form. I can hunt for us. I can travel farther, longer.
She feels it would be wiser to let my back heal. She wants me to stay in my two-legged form and do small things around the apartment, such as lie on my back and nap all day long.
I am not fond of these plans. I have told her so many times and she has ignored my wishes. There is no point in arguing, however, because my Emma is as stubborn as she is independent.
It is quite infuriating at times.
I glance over at her, touching my mind to her own. It is something I do often, and I am unable to help myself. It is not only because I enjoy her thoughts, but because touching her mind reassures me that she is, in fact, real. That she is mine. That she is not a dream conjured out of the madness.
“You should let me bandage your back,” she tells me, glancing over at my shoulder. “Make sure everything stays covered and clean.”
My back is fine. Drakoni heal fast. Unlike humans. I send her a sour thought and a mental image of her bruises, which are just now fading to an ugly yellowish-purple.
She rolls her eyes at me, smiling. “You’re not going to be saying that when I have to pick splinters out of your ass later. Seriously, you should think about pants. I bet we could find some.”
Splinters? In my ass? Why?
“Because this dock is old and you’re sitting on it naked?” Her expression turns delicate as she looks over at my body. For all that she has been nursing me back to strength, my Emma is still shy about my body. She avoids touching me if she can help it, and she looks at my face more than anything. She distinctly avoids looking at my cock, as if gazing at it will make it harden and make me want to mate.
She is not entirely wrong in that matter.
My strength has come back slowly over the last several days, and as it has, it has become very clear to me that Emma still does not know what to make of our mating. She has not indicated that she wishes to mate again, even though she was the one that first climbed atop me. Nor has she tried to sleep next to me again. That is all right; I find her and climb into her nest every night, because I am determined. Most vexing of all, though, she insists I wear the coverings she calls “clothing” and drapes them all over her body.
I do not see the point in hiding things, especially when it is hot. I run one claw lightly over her forehead, catching a few beads of sweat. You would be much cooler if you took your coverings off.
“But I’m not going to,” she tells me, and then concentrates on her fishing pole as if it has suddenly moved.
I am fascinated by the shy thoughts I am getting from her. We have been mated for days and days now, and still she acts as if I have not buried my face between her thighs? Truly? I decide to push the matter further. Do you wish for me to cover my form because you find it unappealing? I am different from you, it is true. Even in two-legged form, I carry spikes on my forearms and my head. Perhaps she finds these unpleasant to look at.
“What? Don’t be silly.” But now she stares pointedly at her fishing rod.
Then do you think I would find your body strange? Or unpleasant to look upon?
“Of course not.” Her thoughts drift back to the night that she mated me.
I am encouraged. I have been careful not to push Emma too hard. I want her to stay with me because she wants to, not because she feels she has to. I want her to realize that she wishes to be my mate, after all. I know this will take time. It was easier when I slept all day to regain my strength, though. Now that I am recovering, it makes it more difficult not to pull her against me and bury my face against her neck, breathing in her delicious scent.
If she gave me the word, I would push her down on this crumbling dock, splinters and all, and lick her cunt until she screams with joy.
“You’re bobbing,” she murmurs.
I glance down at my cock. It has hardened at my thoughts, true, but it is not “bobbing.”
“Um, your fishing pole.” Her thoughts are choked by a mixture of laughter and embarrassment both as she points at the water.
Ah. I realize she is right and the strange rod is jerking in my hands. I think for a moment and then decide to see what my mate will do. Show me how?
“Sure.” She is all purpose as she leans over me, her hands moving next to mine. “Give it a tug, and then you slowly reel in, like this.”
I pay no attention to what she is doing. I am more interested in the scent of her hair and her skin as she leans over me, the way her elbow grazes my thigh, the feel of her fingers brushing against mine. If this is what fishing entails, I do not mind it at all.
“Are you even looking?” she asks, amused.
My attention is all yours, I tell her, and I mean it.
EMMA
That night, we have several small perch roasting atop the coals of our tiny fire. It smells delicious as it cooks, and I season it with some spices I found in the apartment next door. Zohr doesn’t seem all that interested in dinner, and he gazes out the window instead, staring hard
at the clear orange skies as the sun goes down.
I feel a twinge of unhappy guilt at the sight. “Dragons?” I ask, just in case.
No. Just many thoughts. He glances over at me. Do not worry. They do not make me sad.
“How can I not worry? I know you feel stuck,” I tell him, frustrated. He’s recovered quickly, but I know he wants to shift forms. More than that, I worry about how bad his wings will be. I feel responsible no matter what happens. “It’s my job to take care of you,” I tell him, and give dinner another sprinkle of pepper.
I am not your responsibility, he tells me, and his thoughts are edged with impatience. I am your mate. We are partners.
And now it’s my turn to go silent, because I’m not sure what to say to that. I don’t know how to be partners. With Jack, it was never truly a partnership. He was the mentor, and I was the student. Then he got too sick, and I was his caretaker until the end. I don’t know how to work alongside someone. I sure don’t know how to depend on someone.
And I’m pretty sure I’m shitty at trusting, too.
I glance over as Zohr scratches at one shoulder, trying to reach his stitches. I know they itch. He’s told me that over the last few days, and the wounds have all closed and scabbed over cleanly. I wonder about his delicate wings, tucked away against his shoulder blades, and if they healed well. I wonder if it wouldn’t be smarter to take the stitches out where I can see them and let him heal naturally at this point. I took out my own stitches two days ago, and Zohr’s look cleaner than mine did.
