Page 73 of Feral Omega

To tend to her wounds.

A den.

Need a den.

Catch the faint scent of moisture.

Damp stone.

Warmth.

Safety.

A cave up ahead.

Ducking low, I follow the scent.

Find the dark hollow in the thorns.

Squeeze inside, ducking, crouching.

Careful not to hit her on the walls.

Not to hit her head on rock.

Lower her onto the dirt floor.

Omega is motionless, eyes closed.

Chest barely rising with each shallow breath.

So pale.

So still.

I lean closer.

The steady rasp of my own breathing is so loud.

The panting of a beast.

Dragon with a treasure to guard.

Demon in hell with a captive angel.

Alive. She's alive.

Need to see her wounds.

Trembling fingers fumble with the fastenings of her jacket.

Can't.

Too hard.

Takes too long.

Tear it open.

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