Rhazan pulls me against his chest, a vice grip on my ankles as he cradles my backside with his other hand. The security of his grip brings a modicum of comfort, slowing my downward spiral just a hair. He releases the gag and I suck down a gasp.
“Please, lemmego.” The words come tumbling from my mouth.
“Wrap your arms around me,” he says, and his tail unravels from my wrists.
I do just that, my animal brain not knowing what else to do than follow orders from the man holding me so steadily.
The room clears out and he rushes toward his office.
“Hold on a little longer,” he murmurs.
I’m gasping for air though I know there’s plenty. I just can’t seem to catch it. Can’t stop my heart from slamming against my ribs. I bury my face in his neck and squeeze my eyes shut, wishing—begging—for this not to happen.
Rhazan speaks a series of incantations as we enter his office and the room seals with a golden red light. He brings me tothe cot and tries to set me down, but my lizard brain can’t let go—letting go will make this worse.
“What’s going on?”
I want to tell him I’m having a panic attack, but if I open my mouth I’ll scream. The force of holding it all in makes me tremble.
Rhazan crawls onto his bed and curls around me. His wings fold over us until it’s dark. The glowing scars littering his skin cast us in a gentle light that makes my breath come a little easier.
A rumbling hum starts in the depths of his chest. The song is melodic, sad, and slow. It vibrates into my body at the same frequency of my trembling, calming it to a mild shiver. I latch on to the sound, on to him, digging my nails into his tough skin to get him closer.
He hugs me in tighter and hums louder.
I breathe. Deep and long.
Again.
In for six.
Hold.
Out for six.
My body eases against his and my muscles release all at once. I puddle into his chest and fold in on myself. His lips move across my brow in what might be a kiss. He exhales heavily and his smoky breath ripples into our cocoon.
“What was that, Jiahui?”
“T-tell me what that song was, f-first,” I say, my voice trying to fail me.
His fingers, no longer taloned or sharp, caress down my side to my foot, then back up to my hip.
“It’s of my own making.”
A lingering tremble rocks my body.
“Beautiful.”
“Thank you,” he whispers into my hair.
“You l-like music?”
“I do. It was my only friend for a long time.”
“When was that?”
He takes a deep breath, and another curl of smoke pours from his nostrils into our space. “A long time ago, I was imprisoned. Singing was the only outlet I had—the only way I could express my pain and sustain myself.”
