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

by Ruby Dixon

  Is it possible I’m stalling because I’m scared of him in his dragon form? That the reason I keep insisting he stay in human form with me is because that’s easier for me? I can’t lie to myself—him in dragon form scared the shit out of me. He lost his mind all too quickly, and I couldn’t get him to talk to me. What happens if his wings are destroyed and it makes him go over the edge again? How do I bring him back?

  That’s not the only problem. There’s also the question of…intimacy.

  I don’t know how to be a mate. Or a girlfriend. Or anything like that. You would think it would be something that would come naturally, but every time Zohr gives me a heated look, I freeze up. It doesn’t matter that we’ve had sex twice. It doesn’t matter that he’s in my brain. Every time I get a hint that he is turned on or is watching me a little closer than normal, I freak out. I don’t know how to handle it. How do I react? Do I flirt? Ignore it? Encourage him? How?

  I usually end up going for “ignore” and then mentally berate myself afterward. Truth is, I’m not good at sexy. I have zero knowledge on flirting. We haven’t even kissed and…I think I would really like to. I feel like we’re going about our weird-ass relationship all wrong. I flung myself atop him, had really quick sex to get the job done, and then we’ve been slowly working our way backward from that. Heck, at some point we’ll get to the point where we can have a nice kissing session and not have it lead anywhere.

  Maybe.

  Why is it that I can be decisive about everything else in my life, but the moment he gives me a heavy-lidded look, I get all giggly and nervous and run away?

  He must be pretty disappointed with a mate like me.

  I turn the fish on the spit and then glance over at him to see if he’s paying attention and picking up my thoughts, but he continues to stretch and scratch at his shoulder, his claws dancing ever closer to the tight stitches. Good, he’s not aware of my thoughts.

  Truth is, I’m a little troubled. I’m attracted to him, but I’m worried about his dragon side. I’m also worried I’m not good at being girly anymore. I’m more combat boots than heels now, thanks to necessity. Even if the world changed back tomorrow, I don’t know that I could. I’ll probably always be that girl with a bit of dirt under her nails, who baits her own hooks, skins her dinner before she eats it, and prefers an empty room to one full of people.

  And now…I have a companion. From the sounds of things, Zohr thinks this thing between us is permanent. I didn’t think beyond rescuing him, and now I’m stuck trying to figure out how to navigate our strange relationship. He was all over me when he was sick and burning with fever, but now that he’s “better,” he’s ignored me. It’s confusing.

  Zohr jerks to his feet, startling me. For a moment, I think he’s going to come over and tell me he’s heard my thoughts, but he moves past me and my small grill to lean out the window, sniffing the air.

  “What is it?” I ask, worried.

  I hear something. He lifts his head, smelling the air again. But I am not sure what—

  I grab my water and pour it over the coals of my small fire, sending smoke pouring into the air. I cover it with a blanket to quickly muffle the smoke and smother anything that remains. Dinner is destroyed, but if someone’s coming, the last thing we need is to be discovered. I grab my knife and move to his side at the window. “What do you hear?”

  He frowns, then shakes his head.

  I hear it a moment later, though. A low purr in the distance. It’s the sound of a muffler.

  Motorcycles. I can guess who they belong to. I shut the window quickly, glance around our little hidey-hole to make sure nothing is lit up or can be seen from outside. We’re good. I hunch down next to the window. Zohr hunches down next to me, one big clawed hand moving possessively onto my shoulder.

  We stay down, he tells me. They come closer.

  I nod. He doesn’t need to tell me twice, because I can hear the leisurely purr of the motorcycles growing louder and louder. I grip my knife, tense. I’m waiting to hear the motorcycles get even closer and then stop. I’m waiting to hear the slap of boots against pavement, so I can determine how best to fight them.

  You will not fight them. I am here. Zohr’s thoughts are fierce.

  You are not transforming, I tell him. Absolutely not.

  He growls low in his throat, and I automatically put my hand over his mouth, silencing him.

  He goes still. His thoughts fluctuate, change. They turn…aroused.

  It…it’s strange. I feel a weird flutter in my belly, and I keep telling myself I should pull my hand away. That he’s an adult and he doesn’t need me covering his mouth like a child. But his skin is so very warm under mine, and I’m fascinated at how he feels. His gaze meets mine and I can see his eyes are completely and utterly golden, shining brightly.

  My pulse flutters again and I feel that weird sensation of pleasure deep between my thighs, at a spot that’s only started to hollowly ache since I had sex and now I know what I’m missing. I let my fingers slide down his mouth, noticing for the first time that it’s surprisingly full and firm. I’ve always just pictured him as golden skin and fangs, but he’s got a mouth that’s so perfect he’d put all human men to shame. And that jaw…sigh. He glances down at my fingers and I notice for the first time just how long and thick his golden lashes are.

  I also notice how callused and scarred my hand is, and how jagged and short my fingernails are. Ugh.

  I pull away from him.

  He immediately catches my hand and pulls my fingers back to his mouth, putting them against his lips once more. Vaguely, I hear the motorcycles purr away and know that they’re not coming any closer. We could move apart from each other any time now.

  Except, I don’t know that I want to.

  I do not want you to, either, Zohr tells me, his eyes intense. What is wrong with touching?

  Nothing. I just…

  You are afraid of me. I realize this. His hand caresses my fingers, still placed over his mouth. You think I am not aware? I can smell your fear when I mention changing forms. But know this, my Emma—I would never harm you. Even when I was wild with pain, did I hurt you?

  I shake my head.

  I did not. I could not. You are my mate. My existence. My reason to continue on in this strange, terrible world. I could never hurt you. But my battle-form is part of who I am. I cannot remain as you see me right now forever and be happy. I must change, and I do not want you to be scared of me.

  I know. It’s just… I swallow hard, thinking of that night of terror, of being clutched in his claws, blood everywhere, and unable to talk to him at all. You weren’t you. You were somewhere else, and I just worry it’ll happen again when you transform once more.

  You mean when I change to battle-form and see how badly my wings have fared? There is light humor in his tone. I have no hopes that they are salvageable, my mate. I accept that they are gone. I gave them up for you.

  I pull my hand away, stung. “But I didn’t ask you to.” God, now that sounds petty and resentful. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, burying my face in my hands. I feel awful. He’s given up so much and I’m still…

  You are still afraid, he agrees. I can sense this. You are afraid of what I am, and you are afraid you will lose me. You are afraid you will want me to leave you and I will not, and you are afraid of what will happen when that day comes.

  Maybe he’s been listening in on my thoughts, after all.

  It is difficult not to, though I try to tune it out. I know you do not care for it, but it is like asking a thirsty male to only take one sip when he would drink a river. I want more than just a sip of you.

  And what if all I’ve got are sips?

  Then I will take what you can offer and learn to be patient. I feel a hand touch mine. His claws brush against my skin—again, sharp, but so careful not to cut me—and then he takes my hand in his. You are everything I want, my Emma. I would do nothing that would upset you.

  I look up and meet his eyes aga
in. “I just…I worry that we moved too fast. That girl who took her pants off and got on top of you? I worry that you think that is who I am.”

  That is who you are. A protest forms in my mouth, but he stops me again with a firm thought. You are brave and caring. You are unafraid to help another, even if it means risking yourself. That is who you are, Emma. If you mean that you are not experienced in mating and not comfortable with approaching me, then we will wait. Or you can use me until you get comfortable.

  Use you? I can feel my eyes widening.

  A surge of amusement rushes through his thoughts. Of course. I am yours for the taking.

  I can’t help but be filled with a bit of wistful longing at that. How many times when I was a girl did I hope that Jack and I would run into cute boys? I was desperate for someone to talk to, to hold hands with. Someone to kiss.

  I will kiss you.

  I know. I bite my lip and consider him, then shake my head. Not tonight. I’m still…rattled.

  Because of Azar’s men? I cannot smell them on the wind any longer. Nor do I hear their metal dragons.

  I had hoped he’d given up on us, I admit.

  He is Salorian. He will never give up.

  That’s depressing.

  Think about kisses instead of Azar. I know I will. The look he gives me is downright roguish.

  I’m tempted to give in, but I hesitate. I’m cautious by nature, and I’m most comfortable when I can think things through. Tomorrow?

  Tomorrow, he agrees. After you take out my stitches.

  I’m not sure…I begin, and then stop.

  He gives me a knowing look. Do you want to leave them in because you truly think my injuries need them? Or because you are afraid of how I will transform when they are gone?

  Sometimes it sucks sharing a mind with someone that can hear all your thoughts. Fine. Stitches come out tomorrow.

  And then you will see all of me once more and see that there is nothing to worry about. His eyes gleam with triumph. And then we will kiss.

  Such confidence.

  21

  ZOHR

  The next morning, as agreed, we ready for Emma to remove my stitches.

  She is clearly not happy about this. While she does not smell of fear, I can see the wariness on her face as I sit down on the floor in front of her and present my back. She gets a tiny pair of scissors and a metal thing she calls “tweezers” and studies my wounds. “If you’re bleeding a lot or if I have any doubts,” she warns me, trailing off.

  Of course. We will do what we think is best.

  But I am impatient to get it done. Already the small stitches itch and chafe against my flesh. I am eager for them to be gone, to be able to transform.

  To feel free.

  It is almost as if I have traded one sort of prison for another. It is unfair of me to think like that—I know my Emma has done the best she can and she has tended to me well. But I hunger to transform to my battle-form. I do not feel whole trapped as I am. I want to see what my wings look like, what they feel like.

  “Here we go. Tell me if this hurts,” Emma murmurs and presses her scissors against my skin. I feel something slight, like a prick, and then the itching in that spot stops. She wipes at my skin. “There’s a little bit of blood, but you’ve actually healed up really well. I’m impressed.” And surprised, judging from her thoughts.

  Good. That means there is no reason not to remove all of the stitches. It is difficult to remain still as she continues to the next one, and from a glimpse through her eyes, I know there are a lot of them. I am humbled at how long she worked to sew my back up, to ensure that I healed as well as possible. She is a good mate to me and…I am impatient to be done. I want to be free of this already.

  I force myself to sit quietly as she works. She murmurs soft encouragement to me, telling me how well I have healed. I know this. I can sense that my wounds have mended, but I curb my impatience. She does this because she cares and does not wish for me to suffer. It is not her fault that I tore my wings to shreds in my haste to protect her. I do not want her to feel I am angry at her. I am simply ready to shift forms and feel my powerful limbs return. I do not know how she can be “human” all the time with no battle-form to transform to. I would go mad.

  Well…madder.

  When Emma smooths her hand down my back one last time and gives a little sigh, I realize she is finished. Done? I ask, just to make sure.

  “You’re going to have some interesting scars, but yes, I think so.”

  I turn to look at her and I cannot stop the grin from spreading across my face. And you will not run away and hide when I change to battle-form?

  She gives an indignant little snort that belies her anxious thoughts. “Hide? No. I just worry about your wings, though. I stitched them, too, and I don’t know how that’s going to work with your transformation.” Concern shows on her face. “What if they tear to pieces again because I tried to save them?”

  I caress her cheek, comforting her. The same thought has gone through my mind, but there is nothing to be done. The time for worrying over such things has passed.

  Says you.

  I pull her against me and wrap my arms around her, because I am pleased. I stroke her hair and nuzzle her. She is trying hard, and I feel the need to touch her and let her know I understand this. That I realize how difficult this is for her to put away her unease and help me. To be brave even when she does not wish to be.

  Emma stiffens in surprise in my arms, as if she was truly not expecting to be touched, and then relaxes. I catch pleasure in her thoughts, and surprise. She thinks for a moment and comes to the realization she has not been held in a very, very long time.

  In that moment, I vow that my mate will be held, a lot. She deserves to know that she is loved, and to know it often. She deserves caresses and affection.

  Come, I tell her. Let us go outside so I can shift forms.

  Her reluctance gives way to amusement. I guess you can’t do it in here. Then she visualizes me changing inside and the apartment we are staying in crumbling around us. I have to chuckle at such a thing. Even I am not so crazed as to destroy our home, no matter how temporary.

  I take her by the hand and lead her outside, scenting the air automatically, my protective instincts at work. There is no faint smell of strangers, though. No other humans, no metal dragons, nothing that would say that others are lurking nearby. Good. I do not care how badly I wish to transform, I will not risk my mate or her safety.

  “All clear?” she asks, glancing up at me.

  All clear, I agree. Step back. I caress her cheek lightly with my claws and then move forward. I brim with anticipation—no, need—at the thought of shifting. It has felt like far too long. With one last touch to Emma’s mind, I close my eyes…and release.

  Ahhhh.

  It feels so good to be in my scales again. Pinprick flares of not-quite-pain move along my wings, and then I stretch my limbs, embracing the sensation of being in my battle-form. I open my eyes and spread my wings, determined to check the extent of the damage.

  Nearby, Emma stands, her hand to her mouth, worry on her face. Are they okay?

  They do not hurt, I tell her, stretching them. That is not entirely true. They ache, but it is the ache of an old tooth or a long-unused muscle. They also do not stretch very well, and I flex harder, knowing that the sinew and tendon should extend farther, that the full sail of them should grab at the breeze. Instead, they feel…thick. Heavy.

  Clumsy.

  I cannot fly. I know this even as I try to stretch them again. There is a lightness to the wing when you fly, and my wings feel tight and bulky. I twist them forward, trying to see. Scar tissue striates up once-delicate membranes, dense and ungainly. These will not carry me.

  I knew this. I knew this would happen, and yet even now, I feel the crash of disappointment. I had hoped…and yet this is another thing Azar has taken from me. The dim rage starts to build inside my mind again, growing thick. Thick, like my destr
oyed wings—

  My mate flicks a worried look at me and then moves forward, her fingers still pressed to her mouth. Can I see?

  I lower one for her, and she moves her hand lightly over it. Strangely enough, despite the thick membranes, I can feel her touch. It is something, at least. “Do they hurt?” she asks.

  They are tight. I cannot unfurl them properly, I tell her, and demonstrate. I extend the wings, stretching as far as I can and they only come half uncurled. If I push any further, they will tear. It does not matter.

  She looks thoughtful. Her hand skims my wing again. “I remember back when my brother was younger, he hurt his leg playing little league softball. I don’t remember what the injury was.” She seems frustrated for a moment, and I can sense her irritation at her own poor memory as it flashes through her mind. “But I remember he went to physical therapy and he told me they did a lot of stretching.”

  Stretching?

  Emma nods and strokes her hand down my wing again. “Maybe we could try something like that. And I could get some lotion from a pharmacy somewhere and we can lotion your wings and stretch them to try and make the tissue more supple.” She cocks her head. “I wonder if we could find a book on physical therapy? We need to find a library or a bookstore. Or both. And then another pharmacy.” She nods to herself, and I can feel a sense of determination in her thoughts. “How does the rest of you feel?”

  I flex my claws. It is hard to push past the disappointment of my wings, but I force myself to focus. Other than the fact that my wings are useless, I feel good. My back is strong, my limbs strong, my tail strong. I am strong all over. I lean down and nuzzle my mate, who seems so much smaller and far more delicate now. I am fine.

  She looks up at me with worried, dark eyes. And your mind? You’re not going to…you know, lose it?” Her gaze moves over me. “I can tell you’re not feeling…a hundred percent in your mind. I just worry.”