Chapter 22
Rosomon
The space behind this waterfall is amazing and forms a tiny secret room. Light from the torches filters through the curtain of falling water, making the waterfall seem like it’s dancing.
Zogar is always stubborn, but I’m furious at how he ordered me to get out of the water like I was a child—or a servant.
He hurt my feelings when he abruptly left me to continue his gold gathering task. If his stiff rod was any indication, he was thinking about sex as much as I was. He pretends that he only needs sex to rebuild his powers, but I can tell how much he enjoys it.
The rock shelf behind the waterfall would be an exciting and intimate place for us to perform the marital act. Or perhaps we could do it in the water. Is that even possible? I’m excited to find out.
Perhaps I should give him some slack. He’s accustomed to getting his way, and it might take some time for him to adjust to treating me as his equal as he vowed.
I swim back through the waterfall, easily pushing through its down current and letting the water fall straight over my head.
Zogar’s no longer on the shore, barking demands.
In fact, I can’t see him at all, but ripples radiate from the edge.
Hoping he’s swimming toward me, I dip my face under the water.
Zogar is thrashing, sinking like a stone.
Is he injured? Can’t he swim?
The thought of my strong husband lacking even one physical skill is incongruous, but I don’t have time to ask questions.
I race across the small pool, fill my lungs with air and dive down. Standing at the pool’s bottom, Zogar’s eyes are full of terror. He reaches for me, his arms clamoring to take hold. But if I let him trap me, we’ll both drown.
Staying just out of reach, I wave my arms to stay in place, trying to reassure him with my eyes. At least he’s close to the pool’s edge, and the rock cliff has lots of potential hold to assist in climbing.
Gliding past him, I grab some pieces of rock that jut out from the wall, then place my feet on others. He turns toward me, then toward the wall. One of his arms stops flailing long enough to grasp a rock. Hanging from one arm, he’s still caught up in utter panic.
Taking a risk, I reach out and touch his other hand, pressing my thumb against the thick pad of muscle at the base of his. Almost instantly, his movements quiet, but he’s losing his grip. It’s clearly a challenge for him to hang on.
Looking into his eyes, I nod reassuringly, as I raise his other hand to grasp a stone. Then, I glance toward his feet, hoping he’ll get the idea.
His toes find purchase, and he presses himself against the wall, his head turned toward me. In a thousand years, I could have never imagined that Zogar’s eyes could contain this much terror.
My lungs are running out of air, and I tip my head up toward the surface, encouraging him. He starts to climb, but it’s clear that it requires a lot of effort, and he too is running out of air. We’re not more than ten feet from the surface. There’s no chance I will let him drown.
Pushing off the wall for momentum, I shoot up to resurface and quickly refill my lungs.
Then I plunge back down. Sinking just below him, I brace my feet on the bottom and push my shoulder against his backside.
Usually, everything weighs less underwater—which is why the klericks put bags of rocks on the little girls suspected of heresy—but Zogar feels as if he’s constructed from rocks.
But, with my help, he’s able to climb. The moment his head resurfaces, I feel the change in his body.
Releasing him, I shoot up to grab onto the edge beside him, gasping for air, myself.
His upper arms are folded on the rock’s surface, his head, facing away from me, resting atop them.
His back heaves as he sucks in shuddering gulps of air.
I stroke his shoulder. “You did it. You’re okay.”
His muscles tense under my fingers, almost as if he doesn’t welcome my touch.
“I’m getting out,” I say softly. “Do you need any help?”
He shakes his head, still unwilling, or unable to face me. Bracing one foot on a rough bit of stone, I use my arms to push out of the water and sit on the edge.
Zogar’s hair is a wild tangle around him, his thick purple tendrils nearly black as they coil over his shoulders and onto the rock around his head.
I long to run my fingers through it. To test its texture while wet, but he’s like an injured wild animal, and the slightest contact might cause him to flee.
“You can’t swim.” I decide to state the obvious.
His shoulders rise and fall as he takes a deep breath. At least he’s no longer heaving.
“I’m sorry,” I say softly. “Had I known—”
He lifts his head. “I should have told you.” He pulls himself up, crawling forward with his forearms, as if he’s afraid changing his arms’ position would cause him to fall back into the water.
But then he changes tactics. Finding footholds underwater, he pushes up, and the majority of his body flops onto the rock, only the lower portions of his legs now extend over the pool.
I stretch out beside him, softly stroking his back. “Why didn’t you tell me? I wouldn’t have urged you to swim.”
He turns onto his side toward me. His eyes are full of shame, and my heart breaks. This man is not used to having any weaknesses, never mind showing one.
“If I’d drowned—” His voice breaks, and his eyes fill with fear again. “You would have been trapped here.”
I stroke my hand along the rigid trail from his neck to his shoulder. “You’re safe now. We’re both safe.”
“Dragons and water don’t mix,” he says.
I slide my hand onto his chest, feeling the thump of his heart below his skin’s damp surface.
“Because it extinguishes your fire?”
He shakes his head. “Because of our bones.”
“I don’t understand.” My thumb brushes over his nipple, and he sucks in a sharp breath.
“When we’re in dragon form, our bones are light. They’re porous to allow flight, but to compensate, in human form, dragon shifter bones are extremely dense.”
I nod. And then realize something else. Earlier, his reluctance to cross the river wasn’t fear that I’d fall in. “I made you cross that river…”
The pain in his eyes expands. “If you had fallen off one of those rocks, I wouldn’t have been able to save you.”
“I wish you’d told me.” I stroke his chest. “Nothing could ever lower my high regard for you.” I instantly dislike the formal and unemotional tenor of my words.
They didn’t capture how much I respect and admire my husband—how much I’ve come to value him.
And how deeply I empathize with his reluctance to tell me he couldn’t swim.
How it made him feel helpless to protect me.
What would I have done had he drowned? Pain pinches the back of my throat.
He pushes back a few strands of wet hair from my cheek. “Shall we move off this cold stone?”
I nod. Together, we stand. Taking my hand, he leads me toward the bed, and my heart thumps even harder, but the mood has shifted. With all that’s happened, I want to talk to him, to hold him, far more than I want to have sex. Although, if sex is what he wants, I won’t object.
We reach the side of the bed. “Shall we just sit for a while?” I say. “Perhaps we can talk?”
He smiles softly, as if this is what he was thinking too.
Then he slides onto the bed, shifting himself until he’s leaning back against the large cushions at its head.
Following, I crawl over the mattress, but before I reach him, he lifts me to sit between his outstretched legs, wrapping his arms around me.
Our bodies warm each other’s, and as I snuggle against his chest, his rod rests heavily against my lower back. It’s not fully hard, but solid, and I fight to ignore it.
I long to look into his eyes, but perhaps this position is better.
Perhaps, if we aren’t looking into each other’s eyes, he’ll open up more easily.
And, positioned like this, there’s less chance we’ll stop talking and start doing something else altogether.
His rod shifts against my bottom as if hearing my thoughts.
“What did you want to discuss?” he asks softly.
Where do I start? I should break the ice with a neutral question, something unemotional.
“How did everything in this cave remain so clean, without any decay, after so many years.” It’s been centuries, but we’re on a bed with linens so fresh they might have just dried under the sun in a field of lavender.
“The magic I used to hide my hoard.” Zogar gestures to the side. “It also maintained this space—just as I left it.”
I nod, wishing I understood more about magic. But since both Zogar and Saxon can wield magic, perhaps someday I’ll learn more.
“Was today the first time you’ve ever been in water?” I broach a more sensitive subject.
“No.” His one-word answer doesn’t carry anger, exactly—at least not aimed at me—but it carries something very heavy.
“When did you last try swimming?” My fingers trace the forearm strapped across my belly, and the large muscles flex under my touch.
“I’ve never tried to swim,” he says. “No dragon shifter would be foolish enough to do that.” He draws a long breath. “But when I was barely ten and four, I almost drowned.”
“Oh, Zogar.” Sliding my hand along his arm, I turn to look up into his eyes, but he keeps his gaze averted. “What happened?”
“My family was attacked.” His body tightens. “By a scourge of wyvern.”
“Are wyvern and dragons enemies?” When he told me that the creatures I saw were wyvern, I did detect scorn in his tone.
“I wouldn’t choose the word enemies—” He shifts slightly. “Enemies implies parity between us. But yes, our species have a difficult history.”
I want to know more about that. I want to know more about dragon shifters, generally. But not as urgently as I want to learn more about Zogar—specifically. “What was your family like?” I ask. “Your parents? Did you have siblings?” At the mention of his family, I’m suddenly starved to learn it all.