Page 50 of Forged in Fire
I clear my throat. “This needs stitches,” I say, examining the wound more closely.
“Butterfly strips will hold it.”
“It’s deeper than you think.” I probe the edges gently, feeling him tense under my touch. “But the strips should work if you don’t do anything stupid.”
“I don’t do stupid.”
I give him a look that suggests otherwise. The man threw himself in front of a bullet for someone he barely knows. If that’s not stupid, I don’t know what is.
But I start applying the butterfly strips anyway, pulling the wound closed with as much care as I can. Each strip reduces the angry gap to something that looks less like it might kill him.
“There.” I sit back to examine my work, proud of the neat line of white bandages. “Try not to get shot again anytime soon.”
“I’ll take that under advisement.” His lip twitches.
The silence that follows feels different than the careful tension we’ve been maintaining since the cave. I’m sitting close enough to see the dark ring around his pale irises, close enough to see the individual hairs stubbling his jawline.
Close enough to remember exactly how his mouth felt against mine.
Heat creeps up my neck at the memory. I totally lost control of my wits back there.
“What are you?” The question slips out before I can stop it. “I mean, exactly. You’re obviously not just human, but you’re not full dragon either.”
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth—the first real one I’ve seen from him. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”
“Me?”
“You didn’t answer before,” he says. “You shift, but your shadows…” He gestures around me as if they’re still there. “That’s not standard dragon magic.”
I consider how to respond to this. He’s right, and I know it. But I’ve never had the answer to that question, and this doesn’t feel like the time to admit that particular ignorance.
“You first,” I say instead.
He leans back against the headboard, studying me with those unreadable eyes. I keep mine locked with them to stop myself from staring at the broad expanse of bare chest below.
“Dragon-touched. Mixed heritage going back generations. I get the fire, enhanced abilities, but no wings. No flight form.”
“And professionally?”
The pause that follows stretches just long enough to make me nervous. When he speaks, his voice is carefully neutral.
“I eliminate problems for people who prefer to remain anonymous.”
It takes a moment for the euphemism to sink in. When it does, something cold settles in my stomach.
“You’re an assassin.”
“Yes.”
Just like that. No justification, no excuses. Just the simple truth delivered without flourish or excuses.
I process this information, trying to reconcile it with the man who just bled for me. “How many people have you killed?”
“Enough.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer you’re getting.”
