by Ruby Dixon
Terrified, all I can do is huddle and pray I survive this. When I thought I was going to rescue Zohr, I thought…I don’t know what I thought. His thoughts were so human for so long, but they’re completely and utterly wild now. Is it my fault? Did something else set him off?
All I know is that I’ve underestimated what a dragon’s rage can truly be like, because the mind connected to my own isn’t human. Not in the slightest.
I don’t know who this stranger is anymore.
And I’m terrified that I’ve traded one bad situation for another.
14
ZOHR
She is frightened of me. Through the haze, I can feel her terror. I cannot stop, though. My wings are useless, so I push through the narrow crevices and debris-filled streets of the abandoned human hive. There is metal everywhere, the stink of it in my nose, and the more familiar scent of char. There is blood, too, and that scent makes me lose what little control I have. It does not matter that it is my own.
It only matters that I destroy whoever gets in my path, whoever thinks to take her from me.
My Emma. They will never, ever touch her again.
So even though my body is screaming with pain and I cannot think straight, I push on. Through the darkness. Through the maze of strange square structures. Through the pain. Through everything. If I stop, they will take Emma from me. They will hurt her.
Just the thought makes me start to growl with anger, makes my mind blister with rage.
No one will harm my mate.
No. One.
On I go, pushing through the agony. I do not care that the scents of the known enemies are fading; there are new, unfamiliar scents. I do not care that the night gives way to the dawn. I do not care that Emma shivers and reeks of fear. I am saving her. I am protecting.
This is what I am made to do. I am her mate. It is my duty to protect her above all others. Protect the lifebearers. Protect the mother of my young.
Protect.
Protect.
Protect.
Protect Emma.
Protect Zohr.
No, that is not correct. I do not need protecting. I am the one who must protect. Confused, I pause in my relentless steps, and as I do, I realize that I am exhausted. The rage stirs in the back of my mind, pushing me onward, and I move forward again. Must get Emma away from the others. Must protect.
Protect.
Protect Zohr. The confusing thought sinks in again.
Zohr.
Zohr. Zohr. Zohr.
My name. It is my name.
Why is it my name?
A hand touches my scales, squeezing. Zohr.
My name again. But not my hand. In the swirling madness, I look down.
It is my mate. My Emma. My human female. I carry her in my claws, pressed against my blood-spattered scales. She gazes up at me, reeking of fear, her face stark and colorless. “Zohr. Come back to me. Zohr.”
It is my name in her thoughts I am hearing.
“You have to change,” she tells me.
Her words make no sense. I have to change? Change what? I grow angry that she makes no sense, and snarl at the world around me. Does she not realize I am protecting her? That I want nothing more than her safety? That I am saving her?
Why is she making strange demands?
I ignore her. I will soothe her frustrations later, when we are safe. For now, I must continue to get us away from those humans with fire-spitters. They cannot hurt me, but her…she is vulnerable. I think of the Salorian and the way his thoughts pressed on my mind. I do not remember much about them, but I remember…they are bad. He is bad. Touching my thoughts to his is a mistake. It feels…familiar. Almost forbidden. Like I am supposed to do it even if I do not remember such things. He pushes at me, trying to worm his way into my thoughts, but I cannot let him.
Emma needs me.
Eventually the pushing fades, but I still keep dragging myself forward. My limbs ache from stumbling over metal carcasses—cars, I think—and what is left of my wings is white-hot agony. I feel weak with exhaustion, but I cannot stop.
Must protect Emma.
Must keep going.
Zohr.
Again, her voice pushes through, and I raise her to my eye, sniffing her hair and whuffing her gently to make sure she is well. That the blood I smell is not hers.
She touches her hands to my snout, and there is water on her face. I am baffled by such a thing and I pause in my steps.
“You have to stop and change.” She pats one small hand on the side of my snout. “Are you listening to me? Stop and change. Please listen. Please. Please. Tell me you’re hearing me.”
She sounds so desperate and afraid that even though I promised her I wouldn’t touch my mind to hers—not right now, not with the Salorian trying to worm in—I give her a mental caress. My mate.
“Zohr,” she exclaims, her voice turning urgent. “Yes! Focus on me. Can you?” Her hand strokes my snout again, along my scales. It tickles, makes me aroused. I should turn to my two-legged form and claim her, brand her with my scent…but I am hazy with pain.
I want to say her name, but I cannot speak in this form. Emma, I send to her, and am surprised at the weakness of my own thoughts.
I’m right here, she sends back, her mind fierce and determined. Her fear is slipping away and her gaze is intent as she stares at me, her small face looking me in the eye. Focus on me. Are you focused on me? I’ve been trying to get your attention for hours.
Must…protect.
I’m safe. I promise you I’m safe right now. Her soft hands stroke my muzzle. But you’re bleeding everywhere, Zohr. Your wings…
Had to keep you safe, I tell her. I have lost them—and the ability to fly. My freedom, gone. But I cannot be sad. I have my mate and she is safe in my arms. Nothing else matters.
You need to change, she emphasizes to me again. This time, I catch a flicker in her mind of what she means. She wants me to change forms.
To my two-legged form?
Yes. What happens to your wings if you do? she asks.
They disappear, I tell her. They hide away. I am so tired, Emma. Why am I so tired?
You’re losing blood. There’s worry in her thoughts, along with such beautiful calm. Her smooth, quiet words ease me, make me feel better. They chase away the wild, thunderous madness that has been eating away at my mind. I can help you, but right now you’re too big for me, Zohr. Please change. I need to stop the bleeding.
But I worry that she will not be safe if I change. I am in battle-form now, where I can defend and protect her. I clutch her close to my chest again, protectively cradling her against my scales.
You want to protect me? she asks, seizing on my thoughts. You’re leaving a trail of blood for anyone to follow. If you want to protect me, change so you can stop bleeding everywhere. They’ll be able to find us wherever we go with this trail. Please, Zohr. Focus on me. Listen to me.
A trail? She is not wrong. Blood fills my nostrils, overwhelming even her perfume. Her worry is correct—the scent is powerful enough to bring any predator—or any dragon seeking a female. Her scent has changed to match mine, so she is considered claimed, but it still bothers me. I do not like the thought of making her unsafe. What if it had yet to change? Another male would come through, rip my throat out, and claim her for himself.
Just the thought threatens to make my fury bubble over again.
“Zohr,” Emma says aloud in that sweet, patient voice of hers. “Talk to me. Or if you can’t talk, change. Let me help you.”
I gaze at her. My mate’s eyes are deep and wise and beautiful. I lose myself in her lovely face for what seems like forever, only to realize that my mind is fuzzing. I am so tired.
“I’ve got this,” she murmurs, stroking my nose again with her soft, soft hands. “Trust me, all right?”
I do trust her. You are the only one I trust.
I know. Now trust me a bit more and change to human form so I can help you and we can hide. Her
eyes are deep pools of the warmest, most caring shade of brown I have ever seen. I lose myself in them once more, and it is only the gentle tap of her fingers that reminds me of what she wants.
Trust her. Change to my more vulnerable form. Yes, I will. I set her down carefully onto the ground and make sure she is comfortable before I give in. The shift to two-legged form—human form—is instantaneous, but this time, with it comes an intense wave of pain that moves up my back and shoots through my limbs.
I groan and collapse.
15
EMMA
I never thought I’d be so relieved to see Zohr pass out.
The last few hours have been straight-up hell. He’s completely snapped. No matter how many times I called his name, he wouldn’t answer. It’s like he’s lost inside his own thoughts and can’t pull himself free. Constantly growling and snarling and wild-eyed, I feared he’d squeeze too hard and kill me. Or drop me. Or anything, really. He’s bigger than a city bus and he could crush me easily. But he’s never once hurt me, and eventually my fear fell away to tears of frustration. How do I get through to someone that’s mindless? Even with a mental connection, there’s no way to reach him.
In the pre-dawn hours, he starts to stagger through the streets, and that’s when I realize just how much blood he’s losing. My fear over my own safety changes to fear for him. He’s risking his life to save me, and I can’t let him die. When he pauses with exhaustion, I’m finally able to connect to him.
When he changes to his human form, his eyes roll back in his head and he slumps to the ground. I panic as he topples forward, and it’s only when I see the messy ribbons of flesh that make up his back that I realize he’s not much better off in this form. I was hoping that transforming would make his bleeding stop, but maybe not so much. I hastily rip off my shirt—from two to zero tonight—and dab at his wounds, trying to stop the bleeding.
I need to get him somewhere safe. I don’t know if Azar’s men are following us, and I don’t know how long Zohr will be in his right mind, but I need to do something. I’m not the kind to sit around and wring my hands. Jack taught me how to take care of myself, and now I can use what I’ve learned to help someone else.
But first, safety.
I press the fabric of my shirt onto Zohr’s wounds as gently as I can, doing my best to stave off the worst of the bleeding. It looks like it’s slowing, which is good. I slip my jeans off and then put my boots back on. Another thing that Jack taught me? How to move a heavy object. I’m never going to be the strongest person in the room, and he helped me realize early on that it didn’t matter. I just need to be the smartest. I lay my jeans down horizontally and roll Zohr onto his back, on the waist and thighs of my jeans. I have to ignore his groan of pain, even though it kills me. I don’t have a choice. I’m sorry, Zohr, I send to him even as I knot each leg to make a handle and then use them to drag him along down the street.
To my frustration, the fabric starts to tear—Zohr’s heavier than I’d hoped. I glance around, scanning the streets of the Scavenge Lands. I don’t know where we’re at after hours of Zohr’s wild racing and mad stomping. We could be in Oklahoma for all I know. The buildings are thinning out, which tells me we’re out of the worst cluster of downtown, and in the distance, past trees and broken buildings, I can see regular little triangular roofs. Toward the suburbs, maybe. Those don’t interest me as much as the buildings around us. I scan them, hoping for something useful. Old restaurants and salons in a nearby strip mall don’t hold my interest—I’ve learned from experience that those won’t have much of anything good in them. A bit farther down, there’s a pharmacy that looks like it’s been completely raided. I head toward it, and as I do, I see the remnants of an old hardware store sign off in the distance.
Jackpot.
I drag poor Zohr over to a sheltered spot between two long-crashed cars and nestle him there, out of the way of anyone’s view. I don’t like leaving him alone, but I’m not going to get him very far if my jeans rip. I jog to the hardware store and race through the broken shelves and scattered contents. Some of the good stuff’s been taken, but there’s still enough for me to be happy with. I grab a hammer off an endcap to use as a weapon, tuck it into my belt, and then head to the garden department.
Five minutes later, I’m racing back down the broken, grass-covered streets of the city with a rusty wheelbarrow. It takes some maneuvering to figure out how to get Zohr onto it, but I eventually manage it by tipping the wheelbarrow on its side, rolling him in and then slowly righting it. It’s not the most comfortable ride for him, but we can move faster, despite his big legs dangling over the sides.
I kind of have to laugh at the mental image we present as I wheel him down the road, looking for a suitable hideout. I’m in a bra and panties and combat boots, wheeling an unconscious man down a deserted street. Life in the After is definitely never boring.
I find a row of apartment buildings not far from the strip mall and wheel my dragon toward them. For a second time, I park him safely into a hidden spot and then go to check the closest apartment and make sure that it’s safe to inhabit. I don’t want to wander in on a place covered in black mold, cockroaches, or infested with snakes—or worse, other armed squatters. Luckily, the place I check out is empty of people, and I wheel Zohr’s unconscious body inside and then barricade the door.
It’s hot as fuck inside the apartment, so I spend a few moments cracking windows and trying to get a breeze flowing. Some days, I remember what air conditioning was like and could almost cry with the loss. Most times I don’t notice that it’s gone—I’m too used to the heat now—but when you walk inside a place with stale air, it hits you like a wall. I do what I can to make the place comfortable, and hope that the day isn’t too hot.
I poke around in shelves and dig through the rooms of the wrecked apartment, looking for salvageable things. This place isn’t as picked over as most. Everything central is usually pretty scavenged, so we must be farther out than I thought. There’s clothing in one of the closets, a few dust-covered blankets on a bed that can be shaken off, and a pantry that’s seen better days. Still, there are a few cans of food, and I feel like I hit the jackpot when I turn one of the taps on the sink and it dribbles out fresh water.
Thank god for that.
I collect the water in a pan, grab the cleanest shirt I can find off of its hanger, and then move to Zohr’s side. I set my stuff down, spread out a clean sheet over the floor, and then gently roll him out of the wheelbarrow and onto his stomach. Everything is a slow and arduous process because he’s so big and ungainly, but I manage to do it without making him groan too much. He doesn’t rouse from his faint, which tells me he’s under pretty far. That’s good, I guess, but it worries me that I won’t be able to rouse him later.
I can’t stress about that. Right now, I need to tend to him.
With the water, I gently bathe his wounds and clean them with an old bottle of mouthwash I found in the bathroom. I hope its disinfectant properties are still good after seven years, but who knows. It can’t hurt. His back is sliced up badly, though, and it quickly becomes obvious to me that stitches are going to be needed.
“Fuck you, Azar, and your shitty vest,” I mutter as I dig through the apartment for needles and fishing line.
It takes me three apartments and two hours of searching to find what I need, but when I return, Zohr’s still asleep. I try to send him comforting thoughts as I work on stitching his back, but it doesn’t matter. He’s completely out of it. I make my stitches as small as I can, moving up the lower portion of his back. I can see exactly where the spikes buried themselves as he transformed, because they get deeper the closer to his shoulders I go.
I have to pause and get fresh water and clean my hands off. I’m tired, sweaty, and hungry, but I can’t stop. I don’t know how fast—or slow—dragons heal, and I want to make sure his wounds are taken care of as best I can. Jack cut his leg open once and I had to sew it up, and I thought that was awful work, but
it’s nothing compared to the multiple stab-like wounds poor Zohr has. I take a small break, choke down one of my granola bars, and then get back to work.
When I get to his shoulders, I have to pause. His skin and muscle are more torn up here, and I spend extra effort cleaning the wounds a second time to try and stave off infection. As I go over him, gently moving torn portions of skin back into place, I notice something odd. His shoulder blades are shaped differently than my own. They seem wider, flatter. I knew his shoulders were large in human form, but this seems…odd.
On a hunch, I use my needle to push aside skin and peer into a wound. I see something that looks like tendon in a place that shouldn’t have tendon. Oh shit. I swallow hard, rinse my hands, and then dig into one wound, gagging the entire time. I’m glad he’s unconscious, because this can’t feel good.
My hunch is right, though. I pry his jagged wound apart and pull on the strange object, and as it unfurls in my hand, I realize what I’m looking at.
His wing. It tucks under muscle when he turns to human form, and that’s why I’ve never seen it. But it still exists, in a more delicate and far smaller shape than I expected…and it’s nearly torn to pieces. With gentle fingers, I try to straighten what I can. The cuts are terrible—I remember looking back as he carried me and seeing nothing but bloody ribbons as he stormed through the city in our escape—but they’re clean, straight cuts.
I…wonder if I can stitch these together for him.
I swallow hard at the thought. I’m terrified of making a mistake and crippling him further. I don’t know how dragon wings work….but I know if I don’t try, he’ll never fly again. His wings aren’t even wings anymore. But maybe…maybe they can heal, even a little, with stitches. If they at least heal straight…