Page 52 of To Love a Dark Lord

But that wasn’t her focus. She turned to Mordred and took his arm. It would be like trying to move a tank. “C’mon—we need to go.”

He didn’t respond, but nodded, walking toward the dragon on unsteady legs. The dragon was meanwhile amusing itself by setting more of the camp on fire, screeching and roaring as it blasted wave after wave of fire after Zoe and Galahad. The two were retreating, but she didn’t know for how long. And she didn’t know if her dragon could stand up against Caliburn.

She tried her best to help Mordred up onto the back of her dragon, but it really was all his doing. He weighed easily three times what she did, and that was without his armor. But he made it, slumping forward on the back of the beast as she clambered up with him.

“Go!” she shouted.

The dragon didn’t hesitate to obey, jumping into the air and taking them off into the snowy night sky with a fiery whoomf of giant wings. It knew where to go because she did. It was strange, having herself linked to a creature. She had sensed her connection to the horse, but it was smaller—muted. A dragon was entirely something else. If she paid too much attention, she could feel its wings like she could feel her own.

She extinguished her flames, quickly summoning herself some clothing so she didn’t have to fly back in the nude. She really didn’t feel like freezing to death a few hundred feet up.

She placed her hand on Mordred’s back. She could see the gash in the armor where the sword had pierced through him. He was bleeding. Badly.

“Stay with me, Mordred—you can’t die. Not now. Not like this.”

“I do not…intend to.”

“And if you’re going to faint, faint forward—if you fall off, I—” She winced. “Don’t fall off.”

“Noted.” He lowered his head, still hidden beneath his helm.

Undoing the buckle of his chest armor, she slipped her hand underneath and put pressure on the wound. At least from one side, anyway.

Shutting her eyes, she rested her forehead against him.

He couldn’t die.

He just couldn’t.

Ancients, if you’re here—if you’re listening to me—if you care…please. I love him. I love him, and I can’t let him go.

Save him.

EIGHTEEN

Gwen was so glad that Mordred at least made it back to the keep, and to the ground, before he passed out. He kept his word. He did not fall off her dragon.

He did, however, make it four steps toward his home before he collapsed. Luckily, his iron guards were more than strong enough to heft him to his feet and drag him inside. She followed close behind, mind reeling through different options, interspersed with sheer and total terror. The kind of cold, seeping fear that transcended panic.

Tim was standing by the door and took one look at them before running off into the keep. For what, she had no clue. She had other things to focus on. They brought Mordred to his room, where servants were already prepping the bed to deal with the amount of blood that was going to be coming from him.

Gwen stood at the foot of his bed and watched as the servants stripped off Mordred’s armor, then his shirt, peeling the muslin fabric out of the wound. At least he was already unconscious, he couldn’t feel it. It didn’t stop Gwen’s stomach from churning in sympathy with how badly it must have hurt.

They started to press thick pads of cheesecloth to the wounds, rolling him on his side to treat where the sword both entered and exited his body.

He was sweating, his forehead creased in agony, even in his unconscious state.

Mordred was dying. Mordred was dying, and she had no clue what to do.

Desperately, she wished Doc was there.

Or Galahad, before he went and helped cause this mess.

Or fuck, even Grinn.

Someone. Anyone who would know how to fix this. Or, at least, shit, she could try.

“Out of my way!”

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