Page 27 of Dark Dragon’s Mate

Emon’s dragon stared at her, mesmerized. She stared back, her eyes shining gold in the darkness.

Dazzling, mysterious wolf eyes.

Then those eyes shifted to Tristan, trying weakly to get to his feet, neck still bleeding. She lunged.

DON’T KILL!

This time he blasted her with his mind and his magic, and she was literally knocked backwards, ass over teakettle, landing stunned twenty feet away.

He desperately wanted to run to her side, make sure she was okay, but Tristan was bleeding out. If he died, Trish would never forgive herself.

Cursing, he Changed back to human and went to Tristan instead, kneeling beside him and putting a hand on his flank to hold him down. “Don’t get up, idiot,” he said. “And stop struggling—it makes you bleed faster.”

The wolf relaxed slowly. Emon examined his wounds. The Nightmare Wolf had torn him up good, and the bleeding was not slowing down. Fuck.

Emon was no healer, but he did know a spell that would hold the bleeding back temporarily—sort of a magical bandage. It would have to do.

He put his hands over the neck wounds, muttering the words of the spell, putting all his will into it. His luck held. The bleeding slowed to a manageable level, and then Tristan’s body shuddered and Changed under his hands.

“Thanks,” he whispered.

“Shut up, asshole,” Emon said. “It’s your throat, and talking makes it worse.”

Tristan nodded fractionally, wincing at the pain, and then said, “Check on Trish.”

“What part of ‘shut up, asshole’ did you not understand?”

But he got up and went over to the wolf. She was just starting to move, growling faintly. Emon put a hand around her muzzle, holding it closed. “Change back.” He said it softly, but there was still alpha juice behind it. “Don’t make me Compel you.”

Those golden eyes gazed into his, the growl going quiet.

Then her body heaved and shimmered, Changing with a crack of bones, and Trish was lying curled up on the ground. She was wounded too, gouges from claws and some bite marks, but none were really serious.

Tristan had been trying not to hurt her.

She looked groggily up at him. “Emon? What happened?” Then he saw her nostrils flare as the heavy, coppery scent of blood hit her.

“Tristan,” she whispered, a look of horror coming over her face. “What did I do?”

She tried to get to her feet and stumbled, knees buckling. He put his arm around her to hold her up. She was shivering.

Without thinking, he conjured warm clothes for her. It was a Draken trick—they could do it for themselves and anyone they were touching.

Trish barely seemed to notice. She just staggered over and fell to her knees beside her friend, reaching automatically for his pulse, muttering “I’m sorry,” over and over.

The heartbroken tone in her voice almost broke his heart too.

Emon knelt down next to her. “He’s okay for now. I did a spell to slow the bleeding. But we need to get both of you back to the castle.”

Tristan whispered hoarsely, “I don’t suppose you can do some of that wardrobe magic on me before we go?”

“Gladly,” Emon said. “I don’t need to see any more of your little wrinkled wolf dick than I already have. But stop talking, for fuck’s sake.”

Tristan smiled faintly.

Emon dressed him while Trish re-checked his wounds, still apologizing.

Tristan put a hand on her arm. “Don’t,” he whispered.