Chapter 7 Rurik
SEVEN
RURIK
The war room smells like tension and old maps.
Drayke presides at the head of the table, Selene at his side—claimed, content, nauseatingly in love.
Auren delivers his morning intelligence briefing with his usual warmth, which is to say none at all.
I’m supposed to be listening. Instead, I’m wondering how long it’s been since I’ve done something genuinely stupid.
Too long. That’s the problem.
“—injured wyvern in the northern forest.” Auren taps the map with one precise finger. “Young. Poisoned, based on scout descriptions. Scales rotting from the inside out.”
“Put it down.” Drayke’s voice carries that heavy authority he wears so easily. “A suffering creature draws rogues. We can’t afford the attention.”
Auren nods. “I’ll dispatch—“
“Wait.”
Everyone looks at me. I love that. Hate it, too, but mostly love it.
“Aisling.” I sprawl deeper in my chair, making myself look casual even as my mind races. “The veterinary surgeon. Maybe she’d like to do what she actually trained for.”
Silence. Drayke’s jaw tightens. Auren’s expression could freeze fire.
“Absolutely not.” Drayke again, predictable as sunrise. “She’s not ready for—“
“For what? Treating an animal?” I gesture at the map. “That’s literally her job. Was her job. Before we dragged her into our mess.”
“She was tortured for three weeks. She’s traumatized, unstable—“
“She’s also sitting in a room alphabetizing medical supplies because nobody will let her do anything else.” I lean forward, dropping the lazy act. “Brother, I’ve watched her. She needs purpose. Something to anchor to that isn’t terror and survival.”
What I don’t say: she’s been different since Auren’s examination three days ago. More withdrawn. Whatever she learned about Valdris tracking her through her blood—she’s been folding deeper into herself.
Selene clears her throat. “He’s not wrong.”
Drayke turns to his mate, and I see the war playing out behind his gaze—protective instinct versus cold logic. Selene holds his stare, something passing between them that doesn’t need words.
“Fine.” Drayke exhales hard. “But you go with her. Don’t let her out of your sight.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Auren’s skepticism hasn’t faded. “The creature is dangerous. Wounded animals lash out. If she—“
“I’ll keep her safe.” The words come out sharper than I intend. “That’s what I do.”
No one argues. Probably because they know I’m serious. I’m always serious about protection—I just make sure nobody realizes it.
I push back from the table and head for the door.
“Rurik,” Selene calls out, “hold up.” She catches up with me. “Let’s go talk to the resident vet.”
“Hey, Aisling,” Selene says when we arrive at her room.
Her head snaps up, expression going carefully blank when she sees me, walls rising so fast, I can almost hear them slam into place.
That stings more than it should.
“Aisling.” I lean against the frame, keeping my posture easy, unthreatening. “You were a vet, right?”
Her gaze narrows. “Veterinary surgeon. There’s a difference.”
“Perfect. We need your expertise.” I flash my most charming grin. “There’s a wyvern in the northern forest. Poisoned. Dying. The Brotherhood’s official position is to put it down, but I thought maybe someone with actual healing skills might have a different opinion.”
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Her face reveals nothing.
But I catch the flicker in her stare. Interest. Purpose. The first spark of something that isn’t fear or grief since she arrived.
“Why?”
“Why what?” Selene asks.
“Why do you care about a dying wyvern?” Her voice carries that sharp Cork accent, vowels clipped and precise. “You don’t need my help to mercy-kill an animal.”
Fair question. I consider lying. Decide against it.
“Because you’ve been trapped in this fortress for two weeks, and you’re starting to climb the walls.” I push off the doorframe, taking one step into the room. Just one—respecting her space. “Because you’re a healer, and healers need to heal.”
I could offer protection. Could tell her I’ll keep her safe, stand between her and any threat, wrap her in cotton wool until the danger passes. That’s what Drayke would do. What the dragon in my chest wants to do.
But she’s spent too much time as a prisoner. The last thing she needs is another cage, even one built from good intentions.
Silence stretches. Aisling stares at me with those sharp green eyes, and I have the uncomfortable sensation of being seen. Actually seen, past the jokes and the swagger and the carefully constructed armor I wear.
Most people only see what I show them. She looks deeper.
“Selene.” Aisling doesn’t break my gaze. “What do you think?”
“I think you’ve reorganized my medical kit three times this week.” Selene’s voice carries warmth, a sister’s encouragement. “I think you need fresh air and something to do with your hands besides sort bandages. And Rurik is surprisingly tolerable when he stops trying so hard to be charming.”
“I’m always charming. It’s effortless.”
“Go.” Selene nudges. “Heal something. Remember who you are.”
Aisling rises slowly, unfolding from the floor with careful precision. She moves like someone who expects pain—braced for it, ready to absorb the blow. My chest tightens.
“I’ll need supplies.” Her voice has steadied. Professional now. Surgeon’s calm. “Antitoxins, if you have them. Bandages. Something to sedate a creature that size.”
She moves past me. But I catch the slight softening around her mouth. Not a smile—Aisling doesn’t smile, not yet—but something adjacent.
Progress.
The courtyard is empty when we reach it.
I shift first, giving her time to adjust. The transformation tears through me—bones cracking, muscles expanding, scales erupting from skin. Pain and pleasure tangled so tight, I can’t separate them anymore. When it’s done, I shake out my wings and turn to face her.
Aisling stands frozen at the fortress entrance.
Her face has gone white. Not the careful blankness from before—this is terror, raw and real. Her hands shake at her sides. Her chest heaves with rapid, shallow breaths.
Right. The rogues captured her in dragon form. Carried her to Valdris’s fortress on scaled backs while she screamed and fought and failed to escape.
I should have thought of this.
I settle onto my haunches, making myself smaller. Lower my head until my snout nearly touches the stones. Project calm through every line of my body, though the dragon inside me wants to roar with fury at whoever put that look on her face.
Easy. I push the thought toward her, not knowing if she can hear me, just hoping. Just me. Not going to hurt you. Never going to hurt you.
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t run, either. Just stands there, trembling, fighting some internal battle I can only guess at.
Minutes pass. Maybe hours—time does strange things when you’re watching someone decide whether to trust you.
Finally, she takes a step forward.
Then another. Another. Each one costs her something. I can see it in the rigid set of her shoulders, the white-knuckled fists, the way she forces her legs to carry her toward the monster that looks too much like the ones who stole her.
She stops an arm’s length from my snout. Close enough to touch.
“If you drop me.” Her voice comes out hoarse, cracked. “If you do anything to hurt me—“
I lower my head even further. Press my snout gently against her palm before she can pull away.
The contact sends heat spiraling through my chest. Her skin is cool, slightly damp with nervous sweat. I hold perfectly still, letting her feel my breath, my warmth, the steady beat of my dragon heart.
She doesn’t flinch.
After a long moment, her fingers uncurl. Spread across my scales. The touch is featherlight, tentative—but it’s there.
“Okay.” She exhales shakily. “Okay. How do I...”
I extend one wing, creating a ramp of sorts. She climbs—clumsy, graceless, clearly terrified—and settles at the base of my neck. Her thighs clamp hard against my scales. Her hands find the ridge of spines before her and grip until her knuckles go white again.
I give her a moment. Then two. When her breathing starts to even out, I spread my wings and launch.
The flight is torture.
Not for me. For her.
Every muscle in her body stays rigid as we climb. She doesn’t scream—Aisling isn’t a screamer—but her fear bleeds through in the desperate grip on my spine, the way she presses her face against my neck and refuses to look down.
I fly slow. Smooth. No tricks, no showing off. Just steady wingbeats carrying us north through cloudless sky.
And I talk. Not out loud—she can’t hear me in this form—but through the strange dragon-sense that lets me push impressions toward her. Images, more than words. Feelings.
I show her the mountains in summer, blanketed in wildflowers. The hidden lake where I caught my first fish three centuries ago, when everything still seemed new and possible. The way the fortress looks at dawn, stone walls gilded with golden light.
Safe places. Good memories. Anything to distract her from the terror.
Slowly—so slowly—her grip loosens. Not much. But enough that I can feel her breathing start to deepen, her rigid muscles start to unknot.
We’re halfway to the northern forest when she laughs.
The sound startles us both. A short, surprised bark of amusement at some image I sent—a younger version of me crashing into a lake because I got distracted chasing a butterfly.
Not dignified, I admit. But the laugh is worth it.
She presses her palm flat against my scales. Warmth spreads from the contact point, sinking into my bones. The dragon rumbles approval deep in my chest.
Don’t get attached, I remind myself. She’s damaged. You’re damaged. This ends badly.
But the reminder feels hollow. Because she’s still touching me, still trusting me to carry her through the sky, and the weight of her body against my scales feels more real than anything has in centuries.
The wyvern is dying.