Fire In His Chaos: A Post-Apocalyptic Dragon Romance, page 9
TIRED, Luminoura tells me. HUNGRY. TIRED.
Go back to sleep, I say to her. My words are not for you.
HUNGRY, Sallavatri agrees.
I fight back another surge of irritation. I have tried so hard to reach my female that I have woken the sleeping young. More color flares at the edges of my mind. You go back to sleep, too.
I do not want them listening as I claim my mate.
My female makes another musical sound with her mouth, trying to draw my attention. I focus on her, and the young minds fade away. So do the colors that threaten again, and all I see is her. She gazes up at me with dark eyes and lifts her hand up, indicating she wishes to touch my scales again.
Pleased at her bravery despite the reek of her fear-smell, I lean in to nuzzle her. She stiffens at my approach, but does not retreat, and I gently rumble to her, letting her know that she is safe with me. Females of my kind are fierce and attack at the slightest provocation, but this female is gentle. It is her gentleness that calls to me, I think, her calm that makes the discordant colors and sounds bleed away to silence.
For a long time, I remain perfectly still, letting her hand explore my face. I study her as I do, noticing that she wears different body coverings than the last time I saw her, that her stomach does not grumble with hunger constantly. Her face has strange coverings over her bruises, and the part of her face not concealed is the part that displays her scars. For all of her gentleness, my female is a warrior, I decide. She carries her battle wounds proudly.
She says something again, and then taps the end of my nose.
I reach out to her with my mind, trying to press my thoughts against hers, but still encounter nothing. Frustrated, I let out a huff of breath.
She yelps in response, jumping, and takes a step back. Her fear scent flares, and then dissipates as she approaches me again, making more of those sounds in her throat. After a moment, she taps her chest and coughs a sound. Then coughs it again, watching me with expectant eyes.
I like her dark eyes, I decide. It does not matter that they do not swirl with color. I like their stagnant brown. I am so tired of colors. I nuzzle at her small head as carefully as I can, licking at the coverings on the bad side of her face.
My female pushes my nose away, making noises once more. She pauses, and then I hear a sigh of frustration. After a moment, she gestures and then races away. I start to follow, but she makes more sounds and waves her hand so much that I suspect she does not want me to follow at all. So I lash my tail, waiting and watching to see what she does.
If she runs, I will follow her back to her hive once more. My thoughts are so peaceful when she is here. I need to keep that.
I need to keep her.
To my relief, my female returns a moment later with a metal disk. It almost looks like a loose dragon-scale, but she sets it down in front of me, then goes to pry another from one of the round legs of the metal carcasses that line this path. How puzzling. They are filthy, their shine dulled by dirt and time, but she looks pleased at the thought of them and sets a second one in front of me, and then a third. She produces something that looks like a small red egg and holds it up, making more mouth noises.
As I watch, she puts the red egg underneath one of the scales, and then moves them back and forth. Then, she gestures at me, indicating that all three scales are mine to choose from.
I…am not interested in any of them, though. I only want her. So I croon once more and then nuzzle at her soft hair.
She makes a frustrated sound, then taps her chest and coughs at me again.
Perhaps…perhaps my female is not very smart. Perhaps the colors and sounds bother her mind, too. How can I help with that, I wonder, if her mind will not connect with mine? She deliberately shuts me out.
Unless…
I reach out and touch Luminoura’s mind, brushing at her thoughts. She is nursing, her patter of thoughts happy and content, her mind full of images of her dam’s pale teat as she sucks on a nipple.
Her dam has a pale breast…because she is also human. I knew there was something different about Luminoura’s thoughts—Sallavatri’s too. That must be it. I probe at Luminoura’s thoughts, asking her to call up images of her mother. The flitters that fill my head are of a dark-eyed female with thick curls and a wide smile. Of gentle hands without claws. I brush at her thoughts for her father, and find they are a mixture of his battle-form and his two-legged form.
Aaaah. Luminoura’s mother only has one form. Perhaps my female does, too.
But I have two.
I remember that now, my thoughts surging with delight. I have a name—Jur—and a two-legged form as well as a battle-form.
JURIK, Luminoura reminds me. NOT JUR.
She is right. I forget part of myself when I only give half my name. When I only have one form instead of two. Pleased at this realization, I nuzzle my female’s mane again and then retreat a few steps to shift to my two-legged form.
It has been so long that I have forgotten how. My thoughts blank out for a long moment and I stare at my claws, waiting and wondering…and then bones shift. Wings disappear, and scales flex and tighten.
Then I am crouched on the ground, and my body is in its two-legged form, muscles tight with disuse. I groan, stretching, and scratch at my belly with now smaller claws. The world here—this ugly, stinking world—looks different from this height. Fascinating.
My female gasps and runs toward me, and I open my arms for her with pleasure.
Of course. This is what she has been waiting for. I stab at her thoughts with mine, willing them to open…but there is still nothing.
And I let out another growl of frustration.
15
RACHEL
I’m getting nowhere with my dragon suitor.
I don’t know what to do with him. I’ve tried talking, but that gets me nowhere. I’ve patted my chest and said my name so many times, and he just looked at me and tried to lick my bandages.
I worry he’s not very…bright.
So I try another trick. I grab hubcaps from nearby cars after I see a discarded red ball, and then try a version of the shell game. I hide the ball under one of the hubcaps and shift them all around, wincing inwardly at the scrape of metal on asphalt, and then look to the dragon. I gesture at the hubcaps. “Which one has the ball?”
He blinks those swirling golden eyes at me and nudges at my hand, indicating I should stroke his nose again.
Grr. So frustrating.
“Come on,” I say, thumping my chest with my hand again. “Ray-chel. Ray-chel. Talk to me already, won’t you? Azar says you’re a person, but I’m starting to think he’s crazy.” I pat my chest again. “Ray-chel.”
The dragon gets a distant look on his face—either that or Azar’s not the only crazy one—as if he’s hearing something from far away. I pause, waiting, and then the dragon backs up a few feet, his shoulders hunching, his wings tucked tight against his back. I frown, studying him. If he was a cat, I’d say he was about to throw up a hairball, but—
Then the dragon isn’t there. He disappears entirely.
I gasp.
A much smaller, equally golden form uncurls from the asphalt a short distance away, arms stretching out and displaying spikes along the backside. One of the spikes looks broken, and I note that idly before realizing that there’s a guy here.
And this guy looks like Azar.
No, I realize a split second later. This guy looks nothing like Azar at all.
This…this has to be the dragon. It’s the only possible explanation. He’s not a dragon. He has a dragon form, Azar’s irritable memory reminds me. It makes sense now. He’s not a dragon completely. He’s a dragon shifter.
Which is weird, but at this point, I’m no longer tossing weird out the window.
The man—the dragon—finishes stretching and scratches idly at his abdomen, and then his gaze focuses on me.
I stare in surprise. The swirling eyes are the same, but oh god, so much else is different. Thick golden hair, as coarse and bountiful as a lion’s mane, sprouts from his head and cascades down his shoulders and across his back. He’s gold all over, actually, his skin and hair practically the same shade of warm gold. At the edge of his brow, he’s got a frill of short, spiky horns and more spikes on the backs of his arms and legs. He’s tall—taller than Azar and his shoulders are broad, his body a lithe inverted triangular shape that emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders and the slimness of his tight hips. I stare at those broad shoulders for a moment, then let my gaze creep down, past the tight, flat belly and all the way down to the large, semi-hard cock that hangs between his muscular thighs.
I blink at that, then force myself to look at his face. Face. Face. Must look at face.
The eyes that watch me out of the strange man’s face are the dragon’s, even if it seems impossible to associate the enormous creature with the man standing in front of me. He looks…young. Maybe my age, maybe slightly younger. His face is square, his chin blunt and equally squared off with wide cheekbones and a mouth that’s so full and almost pouty that the entire combination makes him look stubborn. He’s got sharp, high cheekbones and his intense eyes are framed by heavy brows that give him a look of fierce concentration.
He’s staring at me, too.
I lick my lips, uncertain, as he strides toward me. As he walks, I notice that his hands—and his feet—are clawed, as if Mother Nature decided to give him thick, scary thorns instead of nails. His full lips part, and I catch a glimpse of sharp fangs, and realize that he might have two legs, but this man is still a dragon.
I take a step back.
His eyes flare and he pauses. Then, a cautious look on his face, he takes another step forward, pauses, and watches me.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m just nervous.” I gesture that he can approach, hoping that he takes the hint despite the communication barrier.
Those strange eyes flare bright gold, and he marches toward me, hands curled into fists at his side, his shoulders tall and straight as any soldier. It’s a proud, cocky walk, one full of authority and confidence, and one that makes his junk swing between his legs in a way that drags my gaze there even when I know it’s best to keep eye contact.
He approaches me, stopping when he gets close enough to reach out and touch me. His nose is strong but narrow, I notice, and his nostrils flare delicately as if he’s taking in my scent.
He looks at me, waiting. I could swear one of those heavy brows goes up, just a little, as if challenging me.
I suddenly feel shy and flustered. Me, who’s never met a man she couldn’t dismiss or ignore…well, other than Brady. It’s easy to tune the opposite sex out when you know they can’t possibly be interested in you. This one is, though, and it’s blatantly obvious in the way he watches me, the way he shifts on the balls of his feet as he gazes at me, as if waiting to pounce.
It’s obvious in the thick erection he’s now sporting as he stands inches away from me.
And me? I’ve never felt…uglier.
I don’t expect to blow anyone away with my beauty. Not with a face full of scars that distort one of my cheeks and makes my smile something out of nightmares. Not with an arm that ends halfway below the elbow. Not with the “good” half of my face covered in bandages to help the bruising heal and the fact that I’m wearing a men’s militia uniform that doesn’t fit right. I’m no beauty.
It doesn’t seem like my dragon friend has noticed that, though. He just keeps staring at me with those burning golden eyes, waiting.
“Hi again,” I whisper.
He rumbles low in his throat, still somehow sounding like a dragon, and then begins to circle me. I remain frozen in place as he stalks around me, and when he moves behind me, he leans in and takes a long whiff of my hair. I feel like prey caught before a predator, just waiting for him to pounce. It’s making my skin prickle with fear…and something else. There’s an anxious flutter low in my belly that I can’t describe, just that it’s there and it’s growing stronger by the moment.
“I wish you’d talk,” I say as he prowls around in front of me again.
His eyes meet mine, and then he moves closer, leaning in to sniff me again, and I squeak in distress as he practically presses his face against my neck.
He makes another rumbling sound, and this one sounds like pleasure. One big hand grabs at my loose braid and he touches it, rubbing the strands between his fingers and then lifting it to sniff.
“Your hair is pretty too,” I offer. “I can braid it for you if you want….though pants should probably come first.”
The dragon-man looks at me again, his eyes narrowing, and he studies my mouth for a moment, before his gaze goes lower, to the neck of my uniform top. The first two buttons are undone since the backpack makes the shirt tug at my neck, and there’s just a hint of skin displayed at the opening of the collar. One big claw moves toward that opening and he flicks a button free—
“Okay, that’s enough,” I yelp, brushing his hand aside with my stump.
It’s a reflexive action—I was right-handed in the Before, and sometimes I still try to do things with my right hand—or arm. He immediately jerks backward, baring his sharp teeth in a hiss and eyes whirling black, and I tuck my bad arm against my chest again. Does he think I was trying to gross him out? It’s just a stump with some scars. There’s nothing gross about it, but I know not everyone thinks like that.
To my surprise, the dragon-man’s eyes fade back to gold and he makes a low, gentle sound in his throat and reaches for me. We’re both jumpy, I realize, and when he extends that hand toward me, it takes everything I have not to retreat backward, but I stay in place.
He reaches for my stump, of all things, and runs the pads of his fingers lightly over the end of it, where the scar tissue is the thickest.
Oh.
I extend my arm toward him, letting him explore it, and he runs his fingers over the thickened scars, studying my arm with utter fascination. No one’s ever touched my stump but me. I never thought I would like it, but it’s…nice. It makes me feel seen.
Those claws follow up to my elbow, where I have my sleeve rolled up and tucked, and he touches my skin lightly, then brushes against the fabric of my shirt, a slight frown on his face.
It occurs to me that he’s not wearing clothing. Does he want some? “I didn’t bring any extra shirts with me, I’m sorry. I can’t give you this one or else I’ll just be all boobs, and even I know not to go back to the fort looking like that.”
His gaze snaps back to my mouth, and he watches me speak. After a moment, his lips part and he moves his mouth, imitating me, but no sound comes out. He moves closer to me, all wild golden man, and puts his fingertips on my lips.
A shiver races through my body at the small touch.
I don’t have a pretty mouth. Maybe I did once, but it’s never been full and pouty like all the women in the magazines, and that was before scars destroyed the corner of it. But in this moment, I feel…pretty. He studies my lips so intently, pursing his plump, darker golden mouth as he thinks.
“You want to hear more words?” I ask, my lips brushing against the pads of his fingertips.
He groans low, and his eyes turn such a hot, liquid shade of gold that my nipples prick. He rubs my lower lip again, frowns at the bandages on the side of my face, and then concentrates on my mouth.
And grunts.
I think he’s telling me to do it again.
I suck in a nervous breath, resisting the urge to brush my tongue against those strange fingertips, and speak once more. “I can’t think of what to say to you. I wish I knew your name. I wish you talked. I wish you had pants on.” And then I feel like a liar, because I’m not sure I actually do wish he had pants on. He’s so gloriously beautiful naked. I’ve never seen a man erect before, and his cock looks far, far bigger than I always imagined it’d be. “But I guess wishing doesn’t change anything, right?”
He watches me talk, his fascinated gaze on my lips.
“I guess I could just sing songs if I run out of things to talk about,” I murmur, enjoying his reaction and his touch. The way he purses his mouth and moves his lips as if smacking them is almost…adorable. Which seems weird, given that he’s a ferocious-looking man with claws. He practically vibrates danger. His actions should not be cute.
And yet somehow, I know I’m safe here. He’s had plenty of opportunities to tear me to pieces, but he’s gently resting his fingertips on my lips and watching my mouth move instead.
Maybe now, like this, I can get him to give me his name? I take his hand in mine, boldly reaching for his wrist, and pull his fingers away from my mouth.
He tilts his head slightly, giving me an incredulous look before his gaze goes back to my fingers on his wrist, and he watches me as I put his hand over my heart and pat lightly.
“I’m Rachel,” I tell him. “Ray-chel.” I pat my chest with his hand. “Ray-chel.” Then I release my grip on his wrist and reach out, placing my fingertips over his chest and waiting.
It occurs to me that I could have touched my own chest. I could have tapped my heart and not had to touch him…I just wanted to.
He gazes down at my hand, then puts his free one over it, pressing my palm until it’s flat on his chest. He closes his eyes for a moment, as if savoring the sensation of my touch, and then looks at me.
I gesture at my chest with my stump, brushing it against the hand he still has splayed just below my clavicle. “Ray-chel.” I tap my fingers on his chest, and then give him an expectant look.
His mouth opens, and a croaking sound comes out.
I giggle. I can’t help it. The odd sound—followed by the flash of consternation on his face—is just too funny.
He watches me, utterly fascinated by my reaction, and his mouth curls in a hint of a smile. He tries again. “Ruh…” I repeat my name again, and this time, he gets pretty close to it. “Ruh…chul.”
“Close enough,” I say, and manage a smile. It sounds like he’s swallowing my name, but all words are hard when you are non-verbal, I imagine. I tap his chest with my fingers, trying not to fixate on just how warm he is under my palm, how he doesn’t feel scaly at all despite the tight scale pattern dappling his skin. He doesn’t feel lizard-y or dragon-y in the slightest, but warm and supple and muscular and far, far too appealing. “Let’s see if we can get your name, then, hmm?” I tap the hand on my chest once more and repeat my own name, then look at him, waiting.
