Page 11 of Rook
Sasha steeled herself, shoved the door open with a wince at the squeal of the hinges, and stepped inside. Dust motes danced in the sliver of moonlight. The cabin was empty except for a scarred wooden table, a pair of ancient benches, and a battered sink. No rodents scattered. The air smelled of old wood and the sharp, sweet scent of pine.
“There.” She gestured, ushering Rook to the nearest bench. He moved as if his injuries were weighing him down, steps heavy and careful. The moment he sat, the invisible thread holding him together seemed to snap. His shoulders hunched, his head dropping forward.
Sasha rushed to his side and crouched, her hands flying to his face. His skin was feverish, slick with sweat. “Hey. I need you to stay awake, okay? Eyes open.”
His eyes fluttered open, pupils wide in the gloom. He stared at her. “Your eyes are green.”
It was just a fact. But his voice held a dreamy quality, as if the pain had dulled all his edges except for this one tiny detail.
Sasha very sternly told her heart not to flip over. The man was hanging on to consciousness by a thread. If he passed out, she did not know what she would do. Even if she could get a signal, she doubted a hospital could treat him.
Hello, 911? Yes, I have a magical alien dragon lord passed out in the old sex-cabin in the woods. No, I didn’t give him such a good lovin’ that he passed out. You see, there are also magical alien dragon slavers after us.
Oh, you think I need to be committed? Yeah, me too.
She forced herself into motion, yanking open the cupboard beneath the sink. A battered first aid kit was stuffed inside. She twisted the sink’s tap. A shudder in the pipes, a cough, then cold, clear water gushed out. Sasha nearly moaned in relief. She found a battery-operated lantern in a drawer, and its dim, golden light made the cabin feel fractionally safer.
When she returned to Rook, he was hunched over, his ribcage shuddering. Sweat beaded on his brow. He tried to sit up straighter, his eyes a bit less glassy but still on the edge.
“I’m guessing dragons don’t have magical healing powers,” she said, needing to get him talking. Her hands snapped open the plastic latches on the kit. “Is there anything I should avoid? Silver? I don’t have a pile of gold to sit you on to make you feel better.”
“Why would that make me feel better?” he groaned.
He was talking. That was good. She knelt beside him. “Don’t dragons have hoards of gold?”
“Not this dragon.” He shifted and let out a sound of pain, one hand pressed to his wounded shoulder. The movement twisted his shirt, exposing the angry, blistered gash beneath.
Sasha placed her hand on his knee, grounding herself. “Stay still. Let me.”
“There is a healing salve in a pouch on my belt. It will ease the pain.”
All she had were antiseptic wipes and a flimsy bandage. Healing salve sounded wonderful.
She reached for it, practically wrapping her arms around his body. His torso was impossibly hard beneath her forearm, heat rolling off him in waves. His scent, a mix of burnt fabric, woodsmoke, and something undeniably male, filled her head. For a second, the world telescoped down to the closeness of them, her chest pressed to his side, the soft whoosh of his breath in her ear.
They froze. She felt the rise and fall of his chest, the hitch when he realized how near she was. Their gazes locked. Rook’s eyes flicked to her mouth, hunger and restraint warring in their green-gold depths.
Sasha licked her lips, nerves and want spinning together. She fumbled for the pouch and edged back, her heart hammering. The cool air felt sharp after the heat of him.
He was injured. He was in her care. But he was also a dragon lord from outer space.
She unscrewed the cap of the salve. The stuff inside was a pale, glistening green, with a scent like crushed pine needles and eucalyptus. She dipped her fingers in. It was cool and slippery, like aloe.
She nudged his shirt off his shoulder. The burn stretched over his upper arm, threaded with angry red lines. Her stomach lurched. She touched the salve gently to the wound. Rook jerked, muscles tensing, then relaxed with a rush of relief. A deep, guttural groan escaped him, a sound so low and rough it bordered on sexual.
The sound shot through her, pooling deep in her gut. Her skin prickled. Every brush of her hand suddenly felt like it might catch fire.
“Sorry,” she mumbled.
He shook his head, jaw tight, but his look was pure heat.
She finished applying the salve with slow, careful strokes. “There,” she said, her voice softer now. “You’ll be good as new in no time.”
Their gazes found each other again, hers swimming with nerves, his heavy-lidded and bright with something sharp and greedy.
Did she lean in first? Did Rook?
Who gave a damn?
