Dragons are feral. Everyone knows that. It’s why the mind-bonding system exists in the first place. I don’t know much about it, only that it’s necessary.
Without control, without someone to rein him in, Grim could kill everyone here. And a lot more people before anyone manages to stop him.
And if he somehow makes it off the island? If he reaches the Mainland? Mr. Greenberg’s words echo in my mind.
Except Grim isn’t infected with Hemorrhagic Fever. He’s just shifted. But the result could be the same. Devastation. Death on a massive scale.
Grim’s dragon has cornered another male behind a dumpster. He’s toying with him, batting at him with one massive claw like a cat with a mouse. The male is screaming, begging for mercy.
There’s a definite sound of a car engine and a vehicle rounds the corner, driving down the street toward the clinic. Just an ordinary sedan. Someone going about their day, completely unaware of the nightmare they’re about to drive into.
Grim’s dragon lifts his head. His glowing eyes lock onto the approaching vehicle.
Crap!
“Grim!” I scream his name without thinking. “Grim, no! Stop!”
I’m elbowing the bald shifter, fighting him with renewed desperation. My elbow connects with his ribs. His jaw. He grunts but doesn’t let go.
“Shut up!” he hisses in my ear. “Do you want to die? You’ll draw his attention, and then we’re dead.”
“Grim!” I scream again, louder. “Don’t! Please don’t!”
His dragon takes a step toward the car. Then another. His wings spread wide.
If he flies off, it’s over. There will be mayhem before they stop him.
The car slams on its brakes and starts reversing, tires squealing.
Grim’s dragon opens his wings fully and lets out a screech that makes my eardrums throb. It’s the sound of rage and fury and mindless destruction.
The car is reversing fast, but not fast enough.
“Grim!” I scream again. I drive my elbow back as hard as I can into the bald shifter’s stomach. The air rushes out of him in a whoosh.
His grip loosens.
I wrench myself free and stumble forward, nearly tripping over broken glass.
“You’re crazy!” the bald shifter shouts at me. “You have a death wish!” he shouts after me as I run toward the parking lot. Toward the dragon.
“Grim!” I shout. “Stop, please. It’s me. It’s Wren.”
Grim’s head swivels, and his eyes find me. They’re filled with intelligence and rage.
I freeze; my heart is pounding so loud inside me it drowns out everything else.
Every instinct inside me is screaming at me to turn and to run. To do it now.
But I don’t move.
Everyone knows not to turn your back on a predator. Running triggers the hunt instinct. As kids, we used to hike in bear territory. My dad drummed it into my brother and me to never run. Play dead if you have to, but do not run.
Stand your ground.
So I stand.
He takes a step toward me. Then another. Each footfall shakes the ground beneath my feet.
