I can feel every beat.
Wings spread. The sound is like wind through sails. Through caverns. Something massive displacing air. One powerful downstroke and we’re airborne. My stomach drops. The groundfalls away. Wind whips past. I can’t breathe for a moment, can’t process that I’m flying, that I’m pressed against scales and heat and muscle while the world becomes tiny below.
His arm—foreleg?—holds me secure. Not tight enough to hurt but firm enough that I know I won’t fall. The careful strength is somehow worse than violence would be.
Because it’stender.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
My hands find purchase against his chest. Scales beneath my palms. Warm. Solid. Each one distinct. I feel his breathing—deep, powerful movements that make his entire body expand and contract.
The scent wraps around me. Inescapable. Pure beast. Primal male.
My wolf whines.
We fly east. Low enough to stay under cloud cover. High enough that details blur below. Anyone looking up would see little more than a shadow against the clouds. My shoulder throbs. Blood drips through the coat. Wind makes it worse. Makes everything worse.
But I don’t care.
Because pressed against him like this—his heartbeat against my ear, his heat seeping through my clothes, his careful grip that says he won’t let me fall—
It feels safe. It feels right. It feels like something I’ve been missing without knowing it existed.
Wrong. This is wrong!
But my body doesn’t listen. Just keeps responding. Keeps recognizing. Keeps trying to convince me of something I can’t accept.
Minutes pass. Ten. Maybe more. Then descent. Angle changing. Trees rising up to meet us. A clearing. Beyond it—buildings. A town. We land. The impact jolts through me, but his grip stays secure. Keeps me from being thrown.
He sets me down immediately. Releases me the moment my feet touch ground.
The shift reverses. Wings fold into nothing. Scales recede. Muscle compresses. Dragon becomes man in heartbeats.
He’s breathing hard. Sweat on his face despite the cold. Shifting costs energy. Flying costs more. But he’s standing. Steady.
“You’re hurt,” he says.
His voice is rough. Deeper than usual. The dragon still close to the surface.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding through your coat.”
I look down. Blood has soaked completely through. Dripping.
“It’s not that bad.”
He doesn’t argue. Just watches me with concern I don’t want to see. Don’t want to acknowledge.
He’s also stark freaking naked!
Of course he is. He lost his clothes in the shift. It happens to me too. But it didn’t occur to me that I’d be facing this now. And…
Dear God!
He’s… He’s…
My brain stutters trying to process this. I tear my eyes away. Too late. The image burns behind my eyelids. Tall. Lean in the way fighters are lean—nothing wasted, everything functional. Tanned skin pulled tight over muscle that speaks of a lifetime of training. Abs carved deep. Thighs solid as granite. And—
