Page 70 of Orc's Pretend Mate

“Dragoste, I am sorry,” Vapas says.

I hold up my free hand that isn’t busy keeping my head from falling off to stop him. I start to shake my head, but immediately realize what a terrible idea that is as I groan.

“No,” I say through gritted teeth. “No sorry. No time. Take us to Rosalind. Now.” When no one moves to my command I grit my teeth harder, “Please?”

The two Zmaj look at one another and then they are shrugging.

“Come,” the more rational one says. “Stay between us.”

He motions at the other Zmaj who moves to bring up the rear behind us and we are finally moving. Vapas stays at my side, holding my free hand, murmuring unnecessary apologies, but I am grateful for them nonetheless. They distract me from the mounting worry.

How is Rosalind going to get the Zmaj to agree to help the Urr’ki?

43

PHOEBE

My head is pounding but there is no time to waste. The situation in the Urr’ki city is deteriorating fast. Rosalind needs to get the Zmaj to send help, now.

Vapas remains close at my side as we’re lead through the Zmaj compound. Eyes, human and Zmaj, stare as we pass through. I feel them boring into my back long after we’ve gone by.

The looks make me angry. Maybe it’s me but they seem to be filled with anger, resentment, and disbelief. Vapas is a good man. More than that, he’smyman. If they don’t like it, then fuck them. I slip my arm around his waist in defiance of all of them.

The Zmaj lead us across the packed dirt floor of the arena. Dozens of Zmaj are training which comes to a halt as we pass through. I straighten my back and hold my head higher. They can judge, but I am walking with pride next to my dragoste.

No matter my defiance, entering the tunnel that cuts off their judging eyes is a relief. Vapas squeezes me and looks at me with adoration and love that eases the sting of them. I give him a smile and it’s genuine. For him it always will be.

Rosalind’s office has an anterior room and a human woman sits behind an oversized desk next to the leather curtain that serves as a door to the office itself. She looks up as our group enters, surprise on her face.

“Phoebe?” she asks, surprising me by knowing my name.

“Yeah?”

She looks from one of us to the next, her eyes lingering on my swelling eye as she purses her lips.

“I’ll tell Rosalind,” she says without further comment.

The four of us stand in uncomfortable silence. Vapas is so tense he’s vibrating and how can I blame him? He’s still not convinced he didn’t just march to his own death. It’s not as if the welcome he received was full of warmth.

It’s less than a minute, or so it seems, before the girl comes back through the makeshift door and holds it to one side.

“She’ll see you now,” she says.

I follow the Zmaj into her office and we form into a loose line in front of her desk, but when I see her, I stumble to a stop and gasp.

“Oh!”

Rosalind is sitting, which is the first time I’ve ever seen her not on her feet and being all imposing, but that’s not what gives me pause. She has a baby in her arms. A big baby, but a baby nonetheless. It’s not just in her arms. It’s suckling at her breast, swaddled in a blanket and she is looking down, cooing to the tiny-ish thing.

Rosalind looks up and smiles. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her smile before. Everything is disconcerting to the point that I only now notice the hooded Zmaj who stands behind her chair on her left.

He reaches over her shoulder with both hands. She pulls the child off her breast and there is a popping sound as the seal of its lips break. The baby cries, a soft mewling sound, as she hands it to the Zmaj.

Rosalind covers herself then rises to her feet to face the four of us. And just that fast, she goes from beautiful, soft mother to the hardened steel that is the Lady General. The transformation is in every fiber of her. The lines on her face harden, the posture, even the air around her vibrates to her control.

“Tell me,” she orders, her eyes locked onto mine.

No preamble, no friendly greetings, no chit-chat. And I tell her. Everything from the moment of our capture to our harrowing escape. It pours out in a rush and without hesitation.

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