Immortally Ever After

by Angie Fox

  Holy hell. “Are you from the old army?”

  Galen had brought a hostile into camp. Sure, we sometimes treated the enemy—before putting them under guard. But I doubted that’s what Galen had in mind.

  Shit.

  We were harboring the enemy.

  We could be executed for this.

  She stared at me, glassy-eyed. I needed a chart, damn it. I needed to know what I was dealing with, and what I could give her.

  “Are you a werewolf?” I asked, frustration rising as I inspected the tears in her larynx. If she were human, she’d be dead.

  I glanced to the table next to me. Galen convulsed as Marc gave him 20 cc’s of toxopren. The shot was as big as a horse tranquilizer and neutralized poisons. It also burned with a fire that made grown men scream.

  If it had been anyone else on the table next to mine, I would have called for backup, screw the consequences. Galen had no right to bring me into this. I didn’t know what he was thinking—secretly harboring a soldier from the old army.

  It was his sheer dumb luck that I trusted him implicitly.

  I was such a fool.

  Shaking my head, I covered her lower body with a blanket and reached for a clamp of sterile gauze. “Suction,” I said, out of habit. I didn’t have a nurse.

  The blood seeped out as fast as I could wipe it away. Whatever had tried to take a bite out of her neck had nicked her carotid artery. I stitched up one hole. Two. There had to be at least one more. I couldn’t see with all the blood. My own pulse hammered in my ears. I needed to stanch the flow. I needed to stitch. I couldn’t do both at the same time.

  This secrecy might just kill her.

  But if I called in help, chances were I’d be signing her death warrant.

  Sweat and steam gathered under my surgical cap. “Marc?” I called, unable to keep the worry from my voice.

  “He’s not responding,” he said, his voice sharp. I knew that tone. Death usually followed.

  Heat tore through me and it took every fiber of my being to stay with my own patient. I promised him I’d save her.

  Her heart rate monitor let out a pulsing, high-pitched warning. One hundred eighty beats a minute. She was losing too much blood.

  I stanched the bleeding. Found another hole. Stanched the blood. Lost the hole. Her very life seeped through my fingers.

  Alarms screamed as her vitals plummeted.

  And then I saw her spirit begin to rise.

  “Goddamn it!” I snatched for the adrenaline on my cart. It should have been ready for me. I should have had a nurse. Hands shaking, I prepared the shot.

  Galen had risked too much bringing her here. It was impossible to work like this.

  And it was my fault. I should have called a halt to this the minute I saw how serious her condition was.

  If anybody killed her, it would be me.

  Limbs molten, I plunged the adrenaline into her battered artery.

  Her spirit faltered. She bent over her body, watching it for a long slow moment. Then she continued to rise.

  I pulled the shot out, tired, defeated, and sick with the whole damned thing. It was too late. I’d failed her and Galen. “Leta,” I said, remembering her name, angry at her, pissed as hell at myself, wishing to God I’d been quicker, better.

  She lifted her head at the sound of her name. She was beautiful, with pronounced, sculpted features and lush lips that fell open when she saw me watching her.

  “You can see me,” she said, breathless as she drew a hand down her long neck. The scars from her collar were raw and pink against her pale skin, which was surprising to say the least. Normally, spirits manifested without injuries. Her pain must have run deep enough to reach her soul. I shuddered. I’d never seen anything like it.

  Marc came up on my side as she began to rise. I shook my head and pulled off my mask. “It’s too late.”

  The spirit clamped a hand over her mouth and let out a small shriek. “You’re her!” Leta whispered.

  Jesus Christ on a biscuit.

  Marc exhaled sharply. “This woman’s a dragon.” He pulled down the blanket covering her, exposing a winged mark at her hip.

  Leta’s soul paid no attention, her focus on me. “You’re the one I’ve been dreaming about!”

  I stared at her, shock warring with complete and utter what-the-hell as Marc climbed up onto the table. He yanked at the waistband of his scrubs to reveal the dragon symbol on his hip. He positioned them together—brand against brand.

  She was dead. I didn’t understand it. Besides, her brand looked different. They had to be from separate tribes or species or something.

  He pressed against her and murmured words in a language I didn’t understand. The air thickened.

  Her spirit hesitated.

  He touched his chest over his heart, reached inside himself, and drew out what appeared to be a glimmering strand. It was so thin and light I could barely see it.

  With great care, he placed whatever he’d drawn from his own heart over hers. It disappeared into her skin, as if it had never been there at all.

  I didn’t know what he was doing, what I was seeing.

  “Petra,” Marc uttered, as if he were in another world, “stitch her now.”

  “She’s flatlined,” I said, ignoring my own words as I dragged my cart to the other side of the table. She’d stopped bleeding. Her heart was no longer beating. Hands shaking, I wiped the blood and found two puncture wounds I’d missed.

  Throat dry, I focused on my work. Not on her spirit hovering above me. Not on Marc, whispering to the dead woman as ancient magic wound around them.

  Tinges of blue fire flowed between them, through them for all I knew. They tickled my fingers as they seeped from her wounds.

  My stomach knotted. I was afraid to look directly at them, terrified of what I’d see.

  I thought I knew Marc. But I had never witnessed this side of him.

  “She’s stitched,” I said, double-checking her neck. Even as I did, it seemed as if her flesh were trying to heal, to close over the wounds.

  Marc brought his mouth to hers and breathed.

  Her eyes flew open and she jerked. Her spirit stared at him, then at me before she was sucked back down into her body.

  The heart rate monitors screamed. Her heart rate was at thirty. Forty. Fifty. I started CPR.

  Marc grabbed my wrist. “Don’t.”

  “You can’t be serious.” I took her vitals. They were too low. But they were climbing. It was impossible.

  Still, she should be dead. I watched in shock as she climbed back into normal range and the machines quieted.

  “Blood pressure ninety over sixty,” I said, my throat parched, my own heart threatening to pound right out of my chest.

  What the hell had happened here?

  She was living, breathing.

  She’d survived. No thanks to me.

  Focus on the job. She’d lost a lot of blood. I hooked her up to an IV and checked her vitals once again. Normal. Un-freaking-believable. I dressed her neck. Then I couldn’t help but glance back at Galen.

  “He’s hanging on,” Marc said, slowly lifting himself from Leta, still whispering to her.

  I checked on Galen. Marc was right. He’d done a good job. Now we just had to hope for the best.

  Galen squeezed his eyes, didn’t open them. “Will she be all right?” he rasped.

  “Yes,” Marc answered.

  Galen winced, as if the effort to speak were too much. “Thank you.”

  I turned my attention back to Marc. “You have to tell me what you did.” Maybe not right now, but soon.

  Leta clutched at Marc, her fiery red hair tumbling down her back. She seemed to resent him pulling away and reached up at him as far as she could.

  Marc’s voice betrayed his bitterness as he held himself over her. “She’s been kept as an animal for too long. She needs the touch of a human dragon or she could lose control and shift.”

  “Go.” I was only grateful s
he had him, because we didn’t have any shape-shifting dragons on call, and she would have been dead before I went checking her body for dragon marks.

  I sighed despite myself. Too often, we worked with limited information. Sometimes, it cost people their lives.

  In bits and pieces, Marc extricated himself from Leta’s grasp. Still holding her hand, he wheeled her into a private recovery room.

  I wound a length of clean gauze and dipped it in warm water. Marc had neutralized the poison in Galen’s system, which had been the biggest threat. But Galen was bloody and still in his flack jacket. It was heavy and black, etched with a Ken rune on the left shoulder. It was the mark of a warrior, the symbol of flame, sex, action, and heroism. I’d seen every bit of it firsthand.

  Not that I needed to be thinking of that.

  I wiped his face, his neck. I focused on the gold commander’s star at his collar as I slowly unbuttoned him.

  How many times had I done this when we were together?

  Only back then, as my fingers slipped each button free, I was anticipating him as a man. Now that was over.

  It wasn’t the fact that he was ordered to go. I understood that. I’d always known that was coming. It was that he chose to cut me out so completely.

  I was almost disappointed when I saw he wore a Kevlar vest underneath. It was ridiculous. Of course I was glad he’d had added protection. Still, my fingers itched to touch his chest, if only to see that he was solid and whole.

  I slid his jacket off and saw his shoulders had taken the brunt of his enemies’ fury.

  “Oh, Galen.” I sighed. It slipped out, like the words of a lover.

  Which was pointless. I didn’t know why I couldn’t shut down, stay clinical. I was a combat surgeon, for Christ’s sake.

  It was over between us. Now would be a good time to keep that in mind.

  I eased him out of his Kevlar vest. Old scars ripped across his well-muscled chest. He had a slice on his side. One near his hip. I focused on cleaning the wounds and felt every one of them as I stitched and bandaged them.

  He reached for me. “Petra,” he groaned.

  I soothed his hand away and rested it on the table. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

  I finished bandaging Galen just as Marc returned.

  He looked tired. “I have Leta in the isolation room of the ICU.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s the best way to keep her under wraps.” He glanced at a spot on the wall. “I’m having Shirley work up a new ID for her.”

  Oh, no. “You have Shirley involved in this now?”

  We didn’t need to be putting the company clerk in mortal danger. Galen had to take that woman and get her out of here.

  “She’ll require at least two days in recovery,” Marc said.

  I sighed. He was right. Optimistic, even. Two days was the minimum if everything went smoothly. Dragons healed fast, but they weren’t immortal.

  “We might as well stash them both together,” I said, gritting my teeth as I went back for Galen. I moved him out through the back of the OR and through a small hallway into the ICU.

  “At least I got a chance to check on my heart patient,” Marc said, as I led Galen past the one occupied room and into the one next to it. Leta was resting peacefully. The room wasn’t large, but we made it work.

  Marc stood next to me as we examined what we’d done. “He needs to rest.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  Marc shot me a curious glance. “We should head back. Morning rounds start early.”

  It was the last thing I wanted to do. I couldn’t keep on pretending with Marc, not after his proposal tonight.

  I followed Marc to the door, reminding myself that this had nothing to do with Galen.

  Still, a small part of me hurt as I closed the door behind us and saw him take her hand.

  chapter four

  Marc and I walked across the darkened compound. It was late. Torches burned low, flickering unsteady light across the path in front of us.

  We could see our breath in the frigid night air. He was close enough to put an arm around me. It was what he usually did. But he wouldn’t tonight.

  I was glad, because I wanted to keep my distance but would never have had the heart to say no again. I dug my hands into my pockets. “That dragon in there. She said she dreamed about me.”

  Marc snorted. “She was delirious.”

  I hoped.

  He focused straight ahead, refusing to look at me. God, I had about eighty things to say and I didn’t want to talk about any of them.

  “About your proposal,” I began, bracing myself. I needed to lay it on the line, no matter how hurtful it would be.

  He stopped. “Look, I get it.” Torchlight caught his rigid features. “It was too soon.” He cast a frustrated glance out into the dark before piercing me with a steady gaze. “I just don’t want to lose you.”

  So he felt it slipping away too.

  “Marc,” I began, wishing I could control this or him or—anything. I was grasping desperately onto the ledge. My fingers were slipping and I knew it. There was nothing I could do to keep from tumbling over. “It’s not like it was before.” I could see in his eyes that he knew. “I realize we can’t expect it,” I said quickly. “It’s hard to explain.” Maybe I’d stayed in this relationship for the past three months because I couldn’t explain.

  “So let’s talk,” he said, in a way that made it half inviting, half challenging.

  My head hurt to think about it.

  God, this had been so easy before. Back in New Orleans, before this war and our separation and everything else. But now things were never easy with Marc.

  I took his hands. They were as unsteady as mine. “This is supposed to be the simple part, where we’re in love and everything is perfect and right. It’s not supposed to be this damned hard.” Unless it wasn’t right. He had to recognize it too. “There’s something missing.”

  A muscle in his jaw clenched. “We’ll work it out,” he said, as if declaring so would make it happen. “Come on,” he said, taking my hand, walking me back to the tent we’d shared since peace had begun.

  I probably should have pulled away, but it didn’t matter now. His proposal had brought everything to a head. Maybe we could have gone on pretending for a few more weeks, months. Hell, I was willing to bet some people did it for years. But now it was over. I didn’t want to pretend anymore.

  We arrived at our squat, red hutch. It felt almost foreign as Marc held open the squeaky wooden door.

  Inside it was pitch-black. Which, okay, of course it should be. It had to be after midnight. But it wasn’t only that. The tent was like a cave.

  I watched as Marc lit a single lantern on the desk next to our narrow cot. It was always dark in here. We kept the light-blocking shades down. Marc insisted it was too bright when I lit more than a lantern.

  “Talk to me,” he said, easing down onto his elbows. He patted the place next to him.

  I stood, motionless. Afraid of what I had to say next.

  “I think I should stay with Rodger and Marius for a while.” They’d been my roommates before all of this.

  “Petra.” He stood quickly, the lantern banging onto its side before he righted it again. “We’re not in a good place. I get it. But sometimes, you have to take a chance.”

  His arms closed around me and I reached for him too. I held him tight, my face buried against his strong chest. He smelled spicy and warm. God, I loved the way he smelled. I loved him. But I didn’t love him enough. And I couldn’t keep doing this. I sniffed, forcing myself back, willing him to understand. “That’s not the answer.”

  I was all for commitment, persevering, fighting to make things right. But when all we had was the fight …

  He looked as lost as I felt.

  “Stay,” he said.

  I nodded, holding him close.

  He eased us down onto the cot within the stifling silence of our tent. He held me as if he could protect us both
from what needed to happen.

  We fell asleep that way, tangled together, with the bed made and our boots on.

  I wished with all I had that I could love Marc the way he deserved. But that night, even as I slept, I dreamed of Galen.

  My mind took me back to the room where I’d left him. He stood by the bed, wearing a black T-shirt that stretched tight over his powerful arms and chest. Black fatigue pants hitched over his waist and hugged his thighs. I knew exactly where hair dusted his lower abdomen. I’d memorized the place where the muscle on his hip curved down toward his cock. I had run my tongue down it and tasted the salty skin there.

  I wanted to do it again.

  Fire licked through my veins.

  Galen showed none of the injuries that had almost killed him tonight. No, he was sinfully potent, with that same jaw set too wide and a face that was all angles.

  Galen was too rugged, too intensely built to be considered textbook handsome. No, he was more than that. He was brutally and unapologetically male.

  The single lantern cast the left side of his face in flickering light—generous lips, sculpted cheekbones, and the intense look of a soldier who knew exactly what he wanted.

  It was precisely how I’d remembered him.

  And it was dangerous as hell.

  The corner of his mouth tilted into a grin. “I knew you’d come back.”

  I did too. On a certain level, this was unavoidable. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

  I wanted to be embarrassed by the admission. I should have been. But all I felt was an intense desire to touch him. Only I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think beyond the pure lust spreading from my core.

  He closed the distance between us. This time, I didn’t back away. He caught the nape of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair as he drew me close. I bumped up against the hard planes of his chest, my legs tangling with his. His hot breath scalded my cheek. “Tell me you want this.”

  Slick, warm pleasure pooled in my veins. I notched up my chin. “I’m not running.”

  He huffed at that, a small push of breath that promised all of the things we’d had once and lost.

  The emptiness of it burned. My fingers curled into my palms, the nails digging into skin.