She holds my gaze for a long moment. Then something shifts in her expression—not acceptance, exactly, but something close. Acknowledgment, maybe. That whatever is happening between us, she feels it too.
“Okay.” She slides back under my arm. “We’ll add that to the list of conversations we’re eventually having.”
She helps me up the porch steps. Through the door. Onto the couch, where I sink into the cushions and try not to think about how good her hands feel pressing against my wounds.
“Stay there.” She turns toward the bathroom.
“Don’t bother.” The words come out rougher than I intend. “Dragon metabolism. I’ll heal soon enough.”
She pauses. Looks back at me. “That’s nice. I’m still getting the first aid kit.”
She disappears into the bathroom. Returns with bandages, towels, a basin of water. “EMT training,” she explains at my look.“Two summers during college. Didn’t think I’d be using it on dragon-related injuries.”
She kneels beside the couch. Dips a cloth in the water. Starts cleaning the blood from my shoulder with efficient, careful strokes.
The dragon purrs.
She tends to us. She stays. She didn’t run.
“You didn’t run.” I don’t mean to say it out loud.
She pauses. Meets my eyes. “Neither did you.”
“Running wasn’t an option.”
“Exactly.” She goes back to cleaning. “Grandma’s journals say Fire-Bringers are supposed to be brave. Something about our blood calling us to stand beside dragons instead of fleeing from them.” A small, wry smile. “Guess she was right about that much, at least.”
I watch her work. Her hands are steady despite what she’s witnessed. Her touch is gentle despite my wounds. She’s close enough that I could pull her onto my lap with one motion—close enough that the dragon’s demands become deafening.
Claim her. Mark her. Make her ours forever.
I grip the couch cushion until my knuckles go white.
“You’re staring.” She doesn’t look up.
“Yes.”
“Any particular reason?”
Because you’re magnificent. Because you should have fled and you stayed. Because I’ve waited centuries for someone like you and now that you’re here, I can’t have you.
“You have blood on your cheek.”
She reaches up to wipe at it. Misses completely. I catch her wrist before I can stop myself, turn her hand, use the cloth she’s holding to clean the smear from her skin.
Her pulse hammers against my fingers. Her lips part.
The dragon roars its satisfaction.
I release her. Force my hand back to my side.
“You should rest.” Her voice is unsteady. “The poison—you said dragon metabolism. How long to heal?”
“Few hours. Maybe less.”
“Then rest.” She stands. Steps back. Creates distance I simultaneously hate and need. “I’ll... I’ll make food. You probably need to eat.”
She retreats to the kitchen. I hear cabinets opening, pots clanging, her muttered curses as she tries to figure out the stove.
