“Venom,” I breathe. “A venomous butterfly. What’s wrong with thisplanet?”
“Practically everything,” the dragon growls as he considers the thorn bush again.
He’s still holding onto my wrist. Despite his coldness, his hand is as warm as any. That surprises me more than it should.
For some reason, I had expected him to feel different. Colder, perhaps. Less human. Less real.
Instead, his fingers are strong and callused and very much alive.
The realization sends an unwelcome flutter through my stomach.
I should pull away and get to a safe distance from him, but I don’t.
Partly because he saved me from whatever nightmare insect this planet has decided to evolve. Partly because I am still trying to recover from the sight of that stinger. Mostly because my body appears to have completely betrayed me.
Vyrathion barely seems aware that he's touching me at all.
Or perhaps he is aware and simply doesn't care. That possibility should probably bother me more than it does.
His grip is firm enough that I couldn't escape it if I tried, yet there is something oddly careful about it. He yanked me out of danger without hesitation, but he didn't hurt me. For someone who talks about leaving pieces of people all over the jungle, he is strangely precise whenever he actually lays hands on me.
The contrast is deeply confusing. Everything about him should feel monstrous. Instead, every time he touches me, I find myself noticing ridiculous things. The warmth of his skin. The size of his hands. The effortless strength behind even the smallest movement.
I find myself wondering what the rest of him feels like. The thought arrives so suddenly that I nearly choke on it.
Good grief. A few hours ago, he threatened to kill me. Ten minutes ago, he threw a dinosaur through the jungle. And somehow my brain has decided this is an appropriate moment to wonder whether dragons are warm all over.
I clear my throat and finally pull my wrist free. "Thank you."
Vyrathion glances at me. "For what?"
"The butterfly."
His expression turns faintly puzzled. "You were standing in front of it."
"Well..."
"It was attempting to kill you. Is that it? And I stopped it? You’re thanking me for that?"
"Something like that."
He raises one eyebrow. “It never occurred to me that you mightnotbe grateful to me for allowing you to come along.”
“I am,” I hurry to say. “I’d be dead by now without you.”
“That’s appropriate.” He returns his attention to the immense thorn bush. “In my real form, I would clear this with one flame. In this cursedly weak body, I must walk around it. The indignity! Can you even fathom the depth of it?”
There’s more movement to the side, and I take a step away from it.
Four Plood come waddling over. They raise their palms with offerings. I spot roots, leaves, a dinosaur bone, several rocks of different sizes and an iron object so rusty I can’t tell what it once was.
“I think those are for you,” I say carefully.
Vyrathion turns and sighs. “More of this. Any nuggets? No? Idiots!” He slaps all eight hands away, and the offerings goflying. The Plood cower in fear and awe as they escape, just like the first group.
I bend down to pick up the iron piece. It’s an old spearhead, practically all rust. I grab a rock and scrape the spearhead with it, hoping to reveal the metal underneath. “Wait. Bring them back.”
Vyrathion tilts his head. “Are you trying to order me around, female Morgan?”
