Fire In His Embrace: A Post-Apocalyptic Dragon Romance (Fireblood Dragon Book 3)

by Ruby Dixon

  I search her thoughts, looking for blame or anger. There is none. I did not harm you, then?

  Her eyes widen in surprise, as if such a thing didn’t occur to her. “Never! I admit I was a little freaked out when you snapped and dragged me through the city, bleeding everywhere and refusing to talk to me. If we could skip a replay of that, that’d be great.” She reaches over and pats my forearm. “But don’t worry. You didn’t hurt me. If you did, I would have abandoned your ass,” she says tartly. There is amusement in her tone. “Nor would I have spent hours on end stitching you up in the hopes that it’d make a difference.” Her expression grows soft and worry flows through her thoughts. “Your wings…”

  They are gone. I know this. It was a necessary sacrifice to keep you safe. I am pained at their loss, but I have my mate at my side and she is whole. I cannot dwell on what I have lost. Emma is teaching me every day that I must look to what I do have and not dwell on what I do not. It does not matter.

  She looks upset at my words. “It matters to me. You hurt yourself trying to save me. And now I worry you won’t be able to fly again.” Her mouth firms, and she gives me a determined look. “Maybe they’ll heal up enough that you can still fly. We just have to give it time.”

  I do not know if I believe her. Right now, my back feels like a mass of fire. We shall see.

  “Do you remember anything about that? If wings have been damaged in the past, if they can be repaired enough to let you fly again?” Her gaze is entreating as she stares at me. “It’s possible, right?”

  I hate to disappoint her. I do not remember. Right now my thoughts are only of you.

  Her face flushes and I feel the embarrassment radiating from her. “You need to take it easy. I don’t want you pulling at those stitches.”

  Did I pull at the stitches when I mounted you?

  She gasps. “Zohr!”

  I am surprised—and pleased—at the reaction I get. I can feel her thoughts and she is both shocked at my words and feels a bolt of lust. I immediately see a flash of memories from her, of my mouth on her cunt and my hand pinning hers down. Of turning her over and then lifting her hips and the tight surge she felt when I pushed into her—

  I groan. Her memories are raw and strong and I want all of them. Or…we could make new ones. I think of how she came to me in the pit and straddled me, claiming me for her own. I never thought such a thing possible, and I am fascinated by it—and by her. She is like no other female and I am glad she is mine. Shall we mate?

  Her thoughts immediately turn disapproving. “Your back is raw and red. You need to lie on your stomach and stay there for a while. I don’t want you hurting yourself more.”

  My back does ache, but I am more displeased that she does not like the thought of more mating. I want to touch you, I tell her with a growl. Even now, need for her is a slow-building, hungry ache. I want to claim you and remember it.

  “I want that, too,” she tells me tartly. “But I also want you to stop bleeding and ruining my hard work.”

  So fierce. I am amused. I will do what she wants…for now.

  I am weaker and more tired than I realize. I fall asleep again as she bathes my wounds, and doze throughout the day. I wake up a few times and she pushes water into my hands, insisting I drink. I do, and listen to her thoughts for a few minutes. It is comforting to hear the sound of another mind connected to my own, especially one as practical as hers. She sits, sewing a torn shirt together and hums to herself. Her thoughts are busy and full of things that need to be done. There are traps to set to catch food, more supplies she needs to get, and more medicine for my back. She waits—impatiently—for the red dragons to stop flying overhead so she can get to work, and her thoughts drift between her tasks and back to me. She frets over my wounds, I can tell. It is both an odd sensation and a pleasant one. I should be protecting her, taking care of her, and yet she is the one that has control.

  I like that she worries over me, though.

  I drift into sleep again, and when I wake up, it is dark. The air drifting through the broken windows in the strange human nest no longer carries the scent of distant female dragons. Once, I might have been fascinated at their mating rage, but now I think only of my Emma and the way her face colors when I suggest mating to her. She is fascinating. I want to learn all of her responses. My Emma works nearby, setting up strings of empty cans across doorways and tripwires. Booby traps, she calls them. They are for our protection.

  Who taught you to make these things? I ask her.

  Jack. I’ll tell you about him sometime. Her thoughts grow more distant and I realize she is outside the building, digging in the dirt. Do you like vegetables?

  The mental image she sends me is not a pleasant one. Do you mean…plants?

  Yup. Someone’s got an old garden here and there are a few carrots and a rubbery little zucchini or two, but I can make them into something tasty. If you’re not a veggie-saur I’ll eat them. Her thoughts fill with pleasure at the thought.

  You may have all of them, I tell her. And what is a veggie-saur? Her thoughts seem strange, and when they flash through my mind, I am confused. Is that…a dragon with no arms and no wings? Your people have dragons?

  Actually I was thinking of a T-Rex, but he’s a carnosaur. A veggie-saur is more like a brontosaurus, and our planet doesn’t have dragons, no. Those are dinosaurs and they died out millions of years ago. But they were big reptiles.

  Did they have two-legged forms, as well?

  No. Hm. Are you guys dinosaurs? I mean, back on your planet, what was the wildlife like? Do you remember?

  I think for a moment. It was very tasty.

  She is startled and then amused. Yeah, I guess it would be. You’re hungry, aren’t you? I’m bringing back dinner. Just be patient. I don’t know if it’s going to be enough to fill that dragon belly of yours, but we’ll see.

  What are we eating? I am curious. She is providing for me?

  Roadrunner soup. Yum yum. They’re kind of like skinny chickens. You’ll like it. She sounds pleased.

  I will like anything you provide for me, I assure her sleepily.

  She sends me a wave of affection. You rest up. I’ll be a bit longer and I’ll wake you when it’s time to eat. You need to regain your strength, Zohr. You lost a lot of blood.

  I want to protest to her that I am strong. That I do not need to rest. But her thoughts are sweet and calm and I find myself relaxing into them.

  Perhaps just a small rest.

  18

  EMMA

  It rains the next day and night, cooling everything off and leaving behind a damp cloud of moisture that hangs in the still air. I gaze out the broken window of the apartment, watching fat droplets fall from the sky and cover the wet, broken streets in puddles. The overgrown grass making its way through the cracks in the pavement soaks it up, and I have no doubt that in a few more days, it’ll be twice as tall.

  I don’t mind the rain. After several days of heat, I’m happy with the temperature change, even if it does make my hair puff up and curl like a big, dark nest. It’s less great for my scavenging around the city after dark, because it makes it that much harder when there’s no moonlight and everything’s soaking wet.

  Nothing to do but get it done, as Jack used to say.

  Get what done? comes the sleepy voice in my head.

  I turn and look over at the bed in the center of the floor. Zohr is awake, his golden eyes sleepy and his magnificent hair tousled. He gets to his feet slowly and then sways.

  “Nope,” I tell him firmly, moving to his side. “You need to stay in bed.”

  Bah. I am strong. I am a drakoni warrior—

  “That may be, but you’re also suffering from blood loss and you had a hellish fever for the last few days, so you’re going to do as I say.” I put my hands on his arm, trying to support his weight without touching his back.

  I do not want to sleep if you are going out. I want to help you.

  “You can help me the most by
not dying,” I tell him playfully. “Because that would really chap my ass if you did.” I gesture that he should lie down, but he sits instead and crosses his legs under him. All right, then. Sitting’s not so bad. I hand him a plastic cup filled with fresh water and move to the tiny grill I have set up near the window so the smoke can pour outside, and stoke the coals to reheat the stew. Funny how when Zohr was captured we had so much to talk about. Now that we’re together and trapped in this small room alone there’s a weird lull between us, as if we don’t know what to say.

  I have plenty to say. I am merely listening to your thoughts.

  “Quit peeking,” I tell him, still a little disturbed that he can pluck everything out of my head.

  We are connected in spirit. It is something you will need to get used to. He stretches one arm and winces, and I get a sense that his back is tight, his stitches causing a dull ache.

  “Yeah, well, I would like to keep some of my thoughts private. This is all really new for me.” I wish I had asked Sasha more about it. Not that it would change anything, but at least I’d be better prepared.

  Zohr simply blinks at me. It would change nothing between us.

  He’s really not helping the situation. I just give my head a little shake and go back to stirring the cold stew. Of course, that small movement makes my bushy hair fall into my face. Maybe it’s time to cut it.

  Why?

  I glance over my shoulder at him. “Why cut it?” When he agrees, I shrug. “It’s annoying and it gets in the way. Sometimes I’m not near a place where I can have a bath and so it gets dirty and I get tired of braiding it.”

  I like it. It carries your scent thickly. I like all of your hair.

  I can feel myself blushing. I’m going to ignore where that’s leading, especially since I’m starting to pick up sexy thoughts from him. He needs to rest, not mate. I don’t care how frisky he might think he is.

  But he only asks, What is a braid?

  “Oh, you know, a plait. You weave your hair together to get it out of your face.” I send him a mental image.

  I like that. Will you braid mine? To keep it out of the way?

  I look over at him in surprise. “If you like.”

  I would like. And then I shall braid yours for you so it is not a bother. He sends a wave of pleased thoughts to me.

  How can you refuse after that? “All right. Let me find a comb.” I move to my new “bug-out” bag I’ve created. Jack taught me that you carry a bag of supplies with you at any time, and my last one was left behind with Azar’s people. I’ve been working on making a new one. The current incarnation is in a pink and purple Barbie backpack that I found upstairs, but it’s got some good stuff like needles, fishing line, more duct tape, knives, spices, and some other useful stuff.

  It’s funny, because one of the things that’s actually pretty common in the After is hair products. You don’t think about what’ll be common in an apocalypse. Or rather, you assume you’ll be finding survival shit all over the place. Nope. If there’s a gun or a Swiss Army knife to be found, someone’s already grabbed it. Instead, there are tons of hair product and nail polish and girly stuff that no one gives a shit about when they’re trying to survive. They make me sad to see, because I wish we were still back in that society when you could wear glittery hair clips and paint your toenails pink and not have to worry about where your next meal is coming from or if a dragon’s going to set fire to the building you’re hiding in. The apartment we’ve been hiding in had a very well-stocked bathroom full of girly toiletries, which I promptly raided. Aerosol hairspray always has its uses, but I also grabbed the detangling spray and a wide-toothed comb. Not only for my own hair, but detangling spray has oils in it and those can be used to spritz onto a rusty lock that needs picking.

  Of course, it’ll come in handy right now. I take the comb, hair bands, and the detangling spray and approach Zohr. “How’s your back?” I ask him as I move to stand behind him.

  It feels tight, it hurts, and it itches. When can I change to battle-form?

  “Not for a while,” I tell him firmly, examining his wounds. The skin around the stitches is puffed up a bit and scabbed, but it looks better than it did. Still looks pretty raw though. “Sorry. I think you’re stuck being human with me for a bit.”

  I am tired of being forced to be in my two-legged form. His thoughts are cranky.

  I can’t help but smile. “Be thankful you’re alive enough to be tired of it. We’re lucky, you and I. I wasn’t entirely sure we’d make it out of Azar’s nest in one piece.”

  I would not allow them to harm you.

  There’s such confidence, such protectiveness in his thoughts that my throat feels as if it’s closing up. No, I guess he wouldn’t. Not if he’s willing to shred his wings and nearly destroy himself just to protect me. I soften toward him a bit more after that. “I’ve never had a chance to say thank you,” I murmur as I grab a handful of his thick hair and begin to spray detangler on it. “And I really should. Thank you, Zohr, for saving me.”

  Do not thank me. You are my mate. Without you, I am nothing. You are the only one that anchors my mind and keeps me from falling back into madness. He reaches behind him and caresses my calf, as if needing to touch me. We are together.

  “I guess we are,” I whisper. It’s still a foreign concept for me. I’ve been a loner for so long that it’s my default setting. I don’t know how to be a team. I give his hair a few more spritzes and then begin to gently work the comb through his locks.

  Dragon hair isn’t quite like my hair. It’s very stiff, almost bristly, and it’s clear from the knotted tangles that he’s not brushed it in a long, long time—or maybe ever. I do my best not to pull, and patiently work through each snarl as best I can, because each section that I finish lies wavy and glossy and gleaming and so, so golden. I’m fascinated by it, and more than a little jealous.

  I like your hair better, he tells me, and there’s a sleepy pleasure in his thoughts. It is very soft and smells like you.

  “It’s thick and bushy,” I admit. “That’s about all I’ve got going for me. I inherited my daddy’s hair and not my mama’s. Hers was very silky and a light brown. Daddy was the Puerto Rican in the family. Mama was just white.”

  Those are…different?

  I chuckle. “Just a little. Not enough to make a fuss over. Daddy was darker than Mama. Spoke both Spanish and English. Mama joked that he was a lot smarter than her for being bilingual. We never picked up more than a few sayings, unfortunately. I wish we had.” I think of my parents wistfully, of my laughing, smiling father with his thick curls and my shy, quiet mother. “They died in the Rift.”

  But your sibling, he lived?

  I snort. “Unfortunately, yeah. At the time, I was just a kid, so I was grateful that I had Boyd. But after a while…well.” I shrug. “My daddy had a saying, that Boyd was como las tetas del toro. That means he was like tits on a bull.”

  I…do not understand.

  “Means he was useless,” I say, smiling at the thought. “He wasn’t wrong, either. Boyd was a big fan of the easy way out, even if it meant stepping over people.”

  I am glad he is dead. His thoughts are irritated on my behalf. You have not told me many good things about him.

  I try to think of good things about Boyd as I comb. “When my brother wanted to be, he could be really charming and fun. I just think he didn’t know when to draw the line and not use people.” I sigh. “But I remember when we were kids, he was a good older brother. I think the After just got to him, like it gets to everyone. No one’s how they were Before. Not even you.”

  This is true. His mind grows thoughtful. What were you like, Before?

  I consider for a moment, and the thoughts are old, pleasant ones. “Very girly. Very into princesses and pink and horses and doing my hair. Oh, did I want a horse of my own. Not just any horse, a unicorn.” I shake my head at the thought. “I hated bugs and loved pretty dresses and wanted to be a dancer when I grew up.” />
  And now?

  “And now I’ve eaten bugs when I was hungry enough, shaved my head bald when my hair was too dirty, and I laugh at how sheltered that old me was.” I can’t decide if my old life makes me sad or makes me angry. “I’m a lot tougher. I’ve had to fight for everything and I’ve lived on my own for a long, long time. Jack taught me how to take care of myself.”

  You have thought of Jack before. Who was he? There’s an oddly possessive note in Zohr’s thoughts. Not a mate?

  Oh, Jack. “Not a mate,” I agree, and try to send him an image of my old mentor. Jack was a small man, no more than five foot three or so, and wizened with age. He could have been fifty or could have been eighty. His hair was stark white and his face was nothing but cheekbones and wrinkles, but he was the strongest, most capable person I’d ever met. He never stopped moving, never stopped working, and never had time for anyone’s bullshit. “After me and Boyd were kicked out of Fort Tulsa, we scavenged on our own for a time, but it was rough. We didn’t know how to take care of ourselves and we were starving. We came upon some guy’s scavenger stash in an old cabin and raided it. Thought we were so smart. We ran off with his stuff and he tracked us down and told us he was going to blow a hole through our heads with his shotgun if we stole anything else from him.” I smile at the strange memory, and his angry surge of reaction. “It sounds violent, I know, but the moment Jack saw us he realized we were starving, and he couldn’t leave two kids on their own. He hunted for us that night, and I made a nuisance of myself following him because I insisted he show me how to do it. I didn’t want to be hungry ever again, you know. After that, we sort of ended up sticking together. Jack showed me so much. Boyd stuck around for about a year, maybe less, and then ran off because he missed the forts and hated how strict Jack was.”

  But you liked it.

  “I did,” I say softly. His hair is smooth, and now when I drag the comb through it, nothing snags. I separate it into three thick sections and begin to braid. “I missed structure. I was still a kid in so many ways, and with Boyd, there was no structure, no knowing how you were going to eat or where you’d hide in the next round of dragon attacks. Jack saved me. He gave me power over my situation. He showed me that I didn’t have to be a victim. That I could take care of myself. He taught me how to hunt and how to fish, what stuff is useful to scavenge and what isn’t. He taught me how to shoot a gun and throw a knife so it’ll actually penetrate the target. He showed me everything and he taught me that I can sit and whine or I can take care of business.”