Chapter 7
RONYN
Soon after she drifts into unconsciousness, she wakes again in panic mode, breathing too fast, her muscles clenched as if she expects the world to rain down pain.
She sits rigidly on the bed, holding the sheet to her chest, eyes tracking between us and the cave mouth behind, calculating her chances of reaching the exit and escaping.
The moment she realizes her chances are zero, her shoulders slump, but only momentarily.
She’s sharp edges and blank eyes, desperate to use her magic but remembering the ease with which we contained it.
I stay where I am, near the fire, deliberately turned half away. Kelan does the same on the other side of the chamber. Darial lingers closer, but even he keeps his hands loose at his sides, trying to look unthreatening.
“Where are my clothes?” she demands hoarsely.
Darial answers. “Burned. They were soaked in blood and filth.”
Her mouth tightens. “You washed me.”
“Yes.”
She jerks the sheet tighter around herself, fury flaring hot and bright. “You had no right.”
“No,” Kelan agrees calmly. “We didn’t. But you were dying.”
“That doesn’t give you ownership of my body.”
Our fated mate has no idea how wrong she is. We own her body as much as she owns ours. We are bonded by something higher than human understanding, but she will know the truth soon enough.
“We weren’t thinking of ownership,” I say, keeping my voice even. “We were thinking of keeping you alive.”
Her eyes snap to meet mine, wild, green, and bright with tears.
“Then why am I naked in your bed?”
Because we are dragons, and instinct demands we provide you comfort. Because hoarding our mate is our greatest urge. Because the years of waiting have left us too desperate not to indulge at least some of our desires, even as we contain the baser.
Darial steps forward and sets a folded bundle on the edge of the bed without looking at her. “Fresh clothes,” he says. “They’re new.”
She stares at them suspiciously.
“Turn around,” she snaps. “All of you.”
Immediately, all three of us respond to her command.
The sound of fabric rustling behind us is frantic and hurried. She hisses in pain once as the fabric must snag on her injuries. My jaw tightens, but I don’t turn.
When she’s finished, she clears her throat sharply. “I’m done.”
She’s dressed in soft leggings and a loose sweater that hangs to her thighs. The sleeves are too long, the collar too wide, but it’s practical and warm.
She seems smaller now she’s dressed.
And hungry.
I kneel and hold out a bowl without approaching her, the steam drifting slowly. It’s chicken broth, and it should nourish and warm her. Bread slathered with butter will fill the hollowness within her stomach. Water in a skin that smells mildly of leather will quench her thirst.
Her nostrils flare, even as her eyes widen with eagerness.
“You poisoned it?” she says flatly.
“If we wanted you dead, why would we bother with any of this?” I say.
She hesitates as her fear and pride war with her body's desperate craving. Then she takes the bowl from my hands and eats like she hasn’t eaten in days.
There’s no time to enjoy the flavor as she slops the broth over her chin and tears at the bread with her teeth, swallowing too fast. The desperate, unguarded sounds of her eating twist inside my chest.
I turn my face away.
She will never be hungry again.
When she finishes, she drains the water skin dry, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Some of the tension bleeds from her shoulders, replaced by wary exhaustion.
“Who are you?” she asks at last.
Kelan answers this time. “The scar on your neck. It’s a mate claim?”
She shakes her head. “Gregory was no mate of mine.”
He narrows his silver eyes. “He savaged you for no reason.”
“There is always a reason for violence. One that's rarely justified.”
“The scar is old,” I say. “You used your magic to escape him?”
“He’s dead,” she replies. “His friends are not.”
Rage swells, dark and fierce, but I tamp it down. “You don’t have to worry about them anymore.”
“They won’t stop coming for me,” she says, her shoulders drooping. “They want my magic. My body.”
“They cannot have it,” Kelan growls, making her flinch and recoil. I hold out my hand, urging him to keep calm. She’s been through too much to handle our possessiveness and power without explanation and understanding.
She laughs once. “And you’re going to stop them?”
“Of course.”
She shakes her head, letting the sleeves of the blue sweater fall over her hands.
“Who are you?” she asks again.
Darial crouches to her level, careful not to crowd her. “We felt your magic. It tore through the world like a cry of agony.”
Her fingers curl in her lap. “I didn’t want to use it. I don’t know how to control it. But I had no other way of escape.”
“We know,” I say.
She looks at me again, her stare raw and open. “Then don’t tell me what I should do with it.”
After a moment, Darial speaks gently. “You’re hurt. Magic can mend that.”
She shakes her head immediately. “I don’t know how. I’m not—” Her voice cracks. “I’m not trained. I try not to use it… they sense its power and find me and...”
I shift closer carefully, conscious of my size and strength and her fear and uncertainty. “You don’t need expertise, just concentration. Tell it what you want it to do.”
Her hands quiver. “If I lose control again?”
“Then we’ll contain it again,” Kelan says, coming closer.
She studies us, her green eyes flitting from man to man. Who knows what she’s thinking? This situation is strange and unfamiliar for us all. We are strangers who can suppress the only thing that’s kept her alive in this world. She must be terrified of what we could do to her.
“Tell us your name,” I say.
She blinks as though she forgot we don’t know.
“Aura,” she whispers, then slowly closes her eyes. I hold my breath and wait.