I turn my head—too fast, the room spins—and find him.
K sits beside my pallet, one hand resting near mine on the blanket. Not touching. Just… close. His face is drawn, eyes shadowed with exhaustion and something darker.
Guilt, maybe. Or fear.
It’s not the first time he’s watched over me as I’ve slept. When I woke after the crash, I found him monitoring me with that same focused intensity. Like if he looked away for even a second, I might disappear.
But this is different.
We’redifferent.
Everything is different now.
“You’re awake.” Relief floods his expression. “How do you feel?”
I take inventory. Fuzzy head. Dry mouth. Body aching like I’ve been through a tumble dryer. But alive.
“Like I got drugged and kidnapped by paramilitary operatives,” I rasp. “So… not great.”
His jaw tightens. “They will not touch you again.”
The certainty in his voice sends a shiver through me. Not fear. Something else.
Because I saw what he did to them.
What he is.
The memory crashes back—wings spreading wide enough to block out stars, fire pouring from his throat in waves, men screaming as they scattered.
K isn’t human.
He’s a dragon.
And somehow, impossibly, that makes perfect sense.
“We need to talk,” K says quietly.
“Yeah.” I push myself up to sitting, ignoring the way my head swims. “We really do.”
He studies my face like he’s trying to read my thoughts. “You are angry. With me. For—” He stops. Swallows hard. “For what I said. Before.”
Lyria.
The name sits between us like a live grenade.
Part of me wants to throw it back at him. Demand answers. Make him explain why he was thinking of another woman at a time when I should have been the only one on his mind.
But the larger part—the part that saw him transform, saw him tear through armed operatives like they were nothing, felt him cradle my unconscious body with impossible tenderness—
That part knows anger is pointless.
“I’m hurt,” I say honestly. “And confused. But mostly I’m just—” I gesture vaguely at the ceiling. “Processing. Because a lot happened in a very short time.”
“Yes.” He drops his gaze to his hands. “I owe you an explanation. Several, perhaps.”
“Yeah. Starting with—” I pause, choosing words carefully. “Starting with how you rescued me from that strike team.”
His head snaps up. “You remember?”
