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A ghost of a smile tugs at his split lip. He has his eyes locked onto mine, searching, or seeing something, but which or what I don’t know.

“I know.”

I don’t understand. He risked everything for me, should hate me, resent me, but he doesn’t. He watches, unreadable, as I wring out the cloth and press it to another wound. He hisses and I pull back, but he grabs my hand and pushes it onto the wound. A low rumble slips from his lips, but he keeps pressing.

His hand is cool on mine. Too cool, lacking the warmth of a human hand. It’s as if his body temperature is matching that of the cold stones of our cell. I stare at his hand covering mine. So much bigger than my own. Strong. Covered with tiny overlapping scales, each one a shiny gold at its edge where they lay onto one another.

My heart kicks into a wild gallop, stealing every scrap of air from my lungs, every drop of moisture from my mouth. Taking everything and demanding more. I blink only because my eyes too are dry. So dry they hurt.

“Elara,” he says, his voice rumbling in my core, filling the cell in an impossible way though he didn’t raise in volume, the intensity is such that it echoes in my head if not off the walls.

“I…”

I what?

My throat clenches, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve got nothing to follow that up with. My mind is blank. All I can think about is the feeling of his hand covering mine and the rumble of his voice saying my name.

I want to hear him scream my name for an entirely different reason…

I blink rapidly, then jerk my hand free of his. I can’t meet his eyes so I focus on the rag, carefully dipping and ringing it out. Anything to avoid his gaze. I work my tongue, forcing moisture back into my mouth.

“You’ll die of an infection if I don’t clean these up,” I say, still not looking at him even as I bring the wet cloth to yet another wound. “How did you say your name again?”

I ask mostly for distraction but the Zmaj language is tricky and my tongue always trips over some of their words.

“I am Ryatuv,” he says, still speaking softly.

He flinches again as I try to clean the wound. This is a particularly nasty gash and it’s filled with dirt and grit. I try to be gentle, but the threat of infection is real and I don’t want to risk it. As if it matters. As if they aren’t going to kill us long before any infection would, but still. If nothing else it’s something to do.

“Ryatuv,” I murmur. “That has a nice ring to it.”

“Thank you, hmph,” he grunts as I press harder, trying to get a particularly stubborn bit of debris out of the wound.

“Sorry,” I say, leaning in closer.

Grimacing I use my broken fingernails and dig it out.

“Ahhh,” he says, his hands convulsing into tight fists as he pounds them against the floor.

“Sorry, shit, so sorry…” I say but I don’t stop because this piece of whatever the hell it is has stuck its way deep into the wound.

Finally it pops free. Blood flows freely, cleansing the wound, and I grab the rag and press down, staunching the stream. I look up, meeting his eyes for the first time, expecting to see anger if not rage, but I don’t. His eyes are kind, grateful even. The corners of his lips twitch and for one, insane moment, I lean in before I can stop myself. When I lean in, we’re close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath — or maybe it’s just the heat of my own desperation. His eyes pin me in place, seeing through me, seeingme,in a way no one else ever has.

I jerk back in surprise, mostly at myself. What am I even thinking? He blinks but doesn’t look away, though his lips turn down into a frown. He sighs, heavily, and I don’t know if it’s from pain, relief, or something else. Sadness maybe?

Why would he be sad? Because I didn’t follow through and kiss him? Ridiculous.

“Thank you,” he says.

My head spins. What is he thanking me for? He’s the one who risked himself to come here. Failed rescue attempt or not, it’s still the nicest, bravest thing I’ve ever seen anyone do. And look how that’s turning out for him. Full of holes, covered in bruises, and there is no doubt we’re both going to die soon. The only question is how messy and how painful is it going to be?

I let myself fall back onto my butt, if for no other reason because I need at least that much space between us. Desperation, fear, and who knows what else is a confusingly heady mix. There’s a part of me, probably an incredibly stupid part, that wants to fuck him if for no other reason than if I’m about to die, I’d like to get laid one last time. I’ve heard all the stories about the Zmaj, who hasn’t? And, I mean, why not?

On the other hand, the last thing I want is to have these fucking Urr’ki assholes come in and rip me off of his cock right as I’m about to get off and the way things have been going, that’s exactly what would happen. Because I’m pretty sure the entire universe hates me.

“It’s…” I trail off waving a hand between us to fill the space as I try to figure out how to finish the sentence.

It’d be so much easier if the damn Zmaj would wear shirts. Why don’t they? What is wrong with them? Damn it. Now that I’ve thought about fucking I can’t take my eyes off him. I’m trying to be discreet, but those freaking abs and all those bulging muscles. Talk about getting a girl’s motor running.