Page 43 of Dark Dragon’s Mate

Afraid he didn’t care about her? Or worse, afraid he did care about her, but not enough to risk allowing himself to bond to her.

He suddenly realized how much that must hurt her, and he felt like shit. He had to fix this, because Trish hurting was like spikes being driven into his flesh.

He’d been right all along—that ball of ice in his chest had cracked, and there was nothing but pain inside.

“You’re a healer,” he said finally. She didn’t say anything. “And… I knew you could make him feel better. You always make me feel better.”

When you talk to me. When you touch me. That part wouldn’t come out of his mouth, though.

He was fucking this up. He didn’t know how to not fuck it up.

Her hands went still, and he saw her close her eyes against the pain. He could hear her thought: Not enough better for you to stay with me last night.

That finished him.

“Hey,” he said softly, putting one hand on her shoulder and cupping her face with the other, rubbing his thumb across her cheek. “I’m sorry I left you this morning. My dragon…”

He tried to put into words everything he’d felt, but there was too much and the words all clogged in his throat like a logjam in the river after a storm.

“You don’t need to tell me,” she said, dropping her eyes. “I felt it—I dreamed it. He felt a bond, and he rejected it. He thinks it’s a cage. And he left. You left.”

He could feel her heart ripping into little pieces, and he wanted to put them back together and hold them there.

“He’s scared,” Emon said. And then he forced himself to add, “We both are. But we came back.”

She raised her eyes to his. “For what?”

“To tell you we meant what we said last night. That you can stay here. If you want. That we’ll protect you, and keep you safe. And if you want, I’ll try to help you and She-Wolf heal. So you can work together. And maybe not be so… murdery.”

“What about the bond?” Trish said. “Your dragon doesn’t want it. He doesn’t trust me.”

He tipped his head forward, leaning his forehead against hers. “I trust you,” he said.

She shook her head slowly. “You won’t even let me see your wound.”

Trish thought he would leave then. She was pressuring him; she was asking for too much. She knew you couldn’t pressure alpha males but she couldn’t stop—her heart was already gone. She’d bonded with Emon last night, and she could never go back.

But she couldn’t stay here if he didn’t want her. It would break her apart. And if he didn’t even want to try…

Slowly, Emon stepped back. He sat down on the examining stool, and then he grabbed the hem of his t-shirt and lifted it over his head, tossing it aside.

Trish’s heart broke, and she wanted to cry. She knew what this meant. Forget last night. This right here was him stripping himself naked to her for real—showing her the ugliest, most vulnerable part of himself.

Most of his chest was—well, she’d thought her wolf brothers were ripped, but this was a whole new level of hotness. Muscles on muscles, all perfectly defined.

And then he turned sideways, and she had to stifle a gasp.

She’d seen a lot of wounds in her years as a healer, and she was good at keeping her personal feelings out of it. But this almost made her gag.

It was on his left side, the size of both her hands laid flat. Raw, red, oozing—pitted with craters as if chunks had been gouged out. The edges were crusted with black, necrotic flesh.

Ragnor had purposely done this to him. As an experiment, to see how much damage he could do without actually killing him. It was sick.

“Holy fuck,” she murmured. “Has it been like this the whole time?”

“No,” he said. “At first it was worse. Then Kira blasted me with Al-Maddeiri magic during the battle with Ragnor, and it got better.”

This was better? She couldn’t imagine how much pain he must be in. She wanted to just hug him up tight and hold him, but she could tell that wasn’t what he wanted or needed. But she had to do something.