Chapter 3
BELLA
My ribs slam against his shoulder with every step, and I swear if he drops me on this jagged rubble, I’ll come back as a ghost and haunt his scaly ass forever.
Rope bites into my wrists, the gag chafes the corners of my mouth, and all I can do is glare at the back of his neck like it’ll burst into flames if I concentrate hard enough.
He doesn’t even grunt. Doesn’t say a word.
Just carries me like I’m luggage he regrets packing.
His scales scrape against my skin where my bare arm presses him, slick with grime and still tacky with my own half-healed blood.
The bastard doesn’t so much as flinch when shards of glass crunch under his boots.
Every sound echoes—glass snapping, steel bending under his weight, the hiss of his breath through those non-human teeth.
And me? I’m fuming. My medic’s pride is shredded worse than my shoulder.
IHC medics don’t get captured, don’t get humiliated, don’t get carted around like sacks of potatoes.
We patch, we save, we keep people from falling apart.
Now I’m the one bound and gagged, and this scaled son of a bitch hasn’t even told me why.
My mind runs recon while my body hangs helpless.
Every collapsed street we pass, every half-standing tower—routes, choke points, escape plans.
If he sets me down for even half a second, I’ll run, ribs and ropes be damned.
Except… the terrain’s murder. One wrong slip, and rebar will gut me like a fish.
I hate admitting it, even to myself, but if he let go now, I might not even make it ten feet.
And worse—far worse than the ropes, or the silence, or the humiliation—is the quiet of the city.
Lurax isn’t just dead; it’s something worse.
It feels like grief itself settled over the bones of these buildings and decided to nest here.
Something stalks these streets besides him.
I don’t know what, but the hairs on the back of my neck don’t lie.
He ducks into the yawning mouth of a collapsed department store, glass teeth jutting from its ruined entrance.
My head jostles hard enough I see stars.
We go down, deeper, into the basement, lit only by slivers of dying daylight.
It smells like mold, wet cardboard, and old perfume bottles that shattered years ago but refuse to stop reeking.
He sets me down not gently, not cruelly, just… like I weigh nothing. My boots hit dust, ankles bending awkwardly. He crouches, claws flashing as he pulls the gag loose.
“Spit at me again,” he rumbles, voice like boulders grinding together, “and you don’t eat.”
My jaw aches, but the first thing I do is bare my teeth in a snarl. “You feed all your guests this way, or am I just special?”
He doesn’t answer. He just produces a canister—emergency rations. Popping it open, he scoops a chunk out with his claw and holds it to my mouth.
“Fuck you,” I mutter, lips curling. But my stomach betrays me, growling so loud the whole basement probably hears. I snap the food out of his hand, chewing like it’s gravel. The taste is worse.
“You cook as good as you kidnap?” I ask, words sharp between bites.
He just stares, impassive. My pulse skips. I hate how unreadable he is. So I jab harder. “So what’s the plan, big guy? March me through rubble ‘til you find your secret harem? Let me guess, I’m number fourteen? Fifteen?”
His composure cracks. His whole body stiffens, his jaw jerks back like I slapped him. “What?”
I swallow my bite wrong and start coughing, half choking, half laughing. “Don’t tell me the scary lizard man’s scandalized. You’re telling me you drag women into basements for fun and it’s not about a harem?”
“I have no harem!” he snaps, scandalized as promised, and I can’t help it—I laugh, full and real. It bursts out of me like air after drowning.
His silver-flecked eyes narrow, and he looks… embarrassed. Flustered, even. Which just makes me laugh harder. “Oh, fuck, you’re serious. That’s priceless. Alright, fine, no harem. You gonna tell me what the hell you are doing, then?”
He stiffens again, quieter this time. “The suburbs. Near Lurax. My parents are there.”
The laughter dies in my throat. My stomach sinks, heavy. I saw those suburbs from the dropship, nothing but fire and rubble. He doesn’t know.
I wipe my mouth with my shoulder, sighing through my nose. “Buddy, I hate to break it to you, but… Lurax is toast. Suburbs are ash. If your folks were there when it hit, they’re gone.”
His head jerks toward me so fast the shadows leap. His eyes flash, silver bright in the dim. “Don’t—” His voice is low, trembling with fury. “Don’t say that.”
“Look, I’m sorry, but it’s the truth,” I say, maybe sharper than I should. “You’re chasing ghosts. That place is fucking gone.”
And then he explodes.
One clawed hand lashes out, seizing my throat, hauling me into the air like I weigh nothing. My toes scrape the dusty floor, ropes cutting deeper into my wrists as I kick. His grip is iron, hot and rough, and his breath snarls across my face.
“Take it back,” he growls. His voice shakes—not weak, but breaking.
I meet his gaze. Silver streaks lace through his black eyes, and what I see there isn’t just rage. It’s something rawer. Older. Broken. And against every instinct, against the panic clawing up my throat, I feel it—something pulses between us. Heat. Wrong and right all at once.
“What the fuck are you doing to me?” I gasp, legs thrashing. “Telepathic—attack? Is that it?”
His eyes widen, like my words startled him. For a beat, we just stare, locked in something I don’t have a name for. Then his grip falters, and he drops me.
I crumple to the floor, hacking and clutching my bruised throat. My eyes water, my lungs burn. By the time I blink through it, he’s gone—vanished into the dark edges of the basement, scales rasping against ruined concrete.
And then I hear it.
Sobs. Low, muffled, ragged. The sound of someone cracking open in a place where no one’s supposed to hear.
I press my forehead to the dusty floor, bound wrists useless, chest heaving.
I should feel triumph. Fear. Anything but this. But instead, to my horror, I hurt for him. I ache for him.
And I hate myself for it.