Page 18 of Forged in Fire (Dragonblood Dynasty #5)

I ris

The flight changes everything.

I can feel it in the way Riven moves beside me through Ra?nov’s narrow streets, in the careful distance he maintains that somehow feels closer than touching. We walk like tourists instead of fugitives—just another couple exploring the medieval city as it wakes around us.

We stopped on the way to pick up some items Riven had hidden just outside the town limits in case of emergency.

And I guess that’s what this is. Cash in three currencies, clean clothes, basic medical supplies, and a burner phone with local contacts.

Under different circumstances, I might call him paranoid.

Right now, I’m seriously impressed with how organized the man is.

“We’ll be staying in the old district,” he tells me, glancing across the street both ways before crossing. He’d made a call after we picked up his gear, speaking rapid Romanian to someone who seemed to know him.

“Won’t they know to look for you here?” I ask. “Your… friends, I mean.”

He shakes his head. “Unlikely. I set up false trails through half the region.”

“You’re joking.” I stare at him.

“No. Pays to be prepared in my line of business.”

I haven’t fully pinned down exactly what the business is, but I have a good feeling.

“Right,” I say, letting myself get immersed in the bustle around us.

Shopkeepers roll up metal grates with theatrical clanging. Early commuters clutch steaming coffee cups. The smell of fresh bread drifts from a bakery window, making my stomach clench with hunger I’ve been ignoring for hours.

Normal. Peaceful. Everything my life hasn’t been since Kieran was taken.

But underneath the ordinary morning sounds, I catch the subtle signs of a man still operating in survival mode. The way Riven’s eyes monitor every exit, every potential threat. How he positions himself to shield me from the street despite trying to look casual about it.

The way he hasn’t quite stopped protecting me.

What’s that about?

The guesthouse sits tucked between a bookstore and a flower shop, like something from a fairy tale. Three stories of weathered stone that’s probably older than most countries, with window boxes full of purple flowers that smell like honey and rain.

The proprietor—a compact man with a receding hairline and knowing eyes—takes Riven’s cash without comment. Hands over a key attached to a wooden dragon carved with intricate scales.

“ Etajul doi ,” he says in Romanian, then switches to accented English. “Second floor. Quiet neighbors.”

Translation: he doesn’t ask questions, and neither do the other guests.

Our room is small but clean. Two narrow beds separated by a wooden table that’s probably been hosting clandestine conversations for decades.

A small bathroom with a shower, washbasin, and toilet; sparse but clean.

A window looks out over red tile roofs toward the mountains we just crossed in defiance of gravity and common sense.

Safe. At least for now.

“Not bad,” I say, testing one of the beds. The mattress gives under my weight with the kind of comfortable squeak that speaks of actual springs instead of foam. “Better than a rock crevice.”

Riven grunts agreement, but he’s already moving with purpose, setting medical supplies on the table between our beds. When he turns toward the window, I catch sight of the dark stain spreading across his sleeve.

Blood. His blood, from the bullet that was meant for me.

“Let me look at that,” I say, nodding toward his arm.

“I can handle it.”

Of course he can. Because admitting he needs help would probably kill him faster than blood loss.

“I’m sure you can.” I’m already reaching for the supplies, ignoring his stubborn male pride. “But you can’t reach the angle properly, and we both know it needs cleaning.”

For a moment, I think he’ll argue. Keep insisting he’s fine when we can both see the inflammation starting to creep in around the edges of the wound. But then something shifts in his expression—resignation, maybe, or just exhaustion finally catching up.

He shrugs out of his jacket first, movements careful and controlled. Then the shirt beneath, blood-stiffened fabric peeling away from the wound with a wet sound that makes me wince in sympathy.

My God, he’s built like a freaking gladiator.

I tear my eyes away from his chest, focusing on the injury.

Which needs all of my attention. The damage is worse than I expected.

The bullet carved a furrow through the meat of his upper arm, deep enough that I can see the white gleam of bone underneath.

The edges are red and angry, radiating heat that speaks of infection taking hold. I try not to shudder.

“Sit,” I order, pointing at the bed closest to the window.

He sits without argument, which tells me exactly how much pain he’s in. I get the feeling that Riven doesn’t take orders from anyone, but right now, he’s too worn down to fight me on basic medical care.

I settle beside him on the narrow mattress, close enough that our knees brush.

“This is going to hurt,” I warn, uncapping the antiseptic.

“I’ll survive.”

Probably. But watching him clench his jaw as I clean the wound makes something tighten in my chest. He’s in pain because of me. Threw himself between me and a sniper’s rifle without hesitation, like my life was worth more than his own.

I still don’t understand why.

“You’re lucky,” I say, dabbing at the deepest part of the gouge. “Another inch to the right and it would have shattered bone. Do your dragon abilities extend to enhanced healing?”

“A little.” His voice comes out rough. “Not like… yours.”

“Ah,” I say, not pressing further. I already figured out that this is a sensitive topic.

He’s dragon, yet he can’t fly and has limited healing abilities.

Still, I’ve seen him in action, and he’s a formidable opponent.

Compensating, maybe? Or maybe he’s just naturally like this. Stubborn. Impossible. So damn sexy.

Not now, Iris.

I glance up at his face, studying the controlled blankness he wears like armor. But there are cracks in the facade—tension around his eyes, the way his breathing stays too careful and measured.

“You’ve been shot before,” I observe. It’s not a question. The way he holds still, accepts the pain without flinching, speaks of experience with this kind of injury.

“Occupational hazard.”

“How many times?”

“Does it matter?”

It shouldn’t. We’re temporary allies at best, strangers thrown together by circumstances neither of us chose. His history of violence and injury should be irrelevant to our situation.

But I find myself wanting to know.

“Tell me anyway.”

“Seven,” he says quietly, surprising me. “Including this one.”

Seven bullet wounds. Shit. “Where?”

“Thigh. Shoulder. Ribs, twice. Back. Arm—different arm.” He recites the locations like a grocery list, clinical and detached.

The casual way he says it makes my chest constrict. Like getting shot is just another non-event for him. Like his body is just a tool to be repaired when it breaks.

“I hope you’ve got good medical coverage.”

“Excellent,” he mutters.

We stay quiet for a few moments as I focus on what I’m doing. Which isn’t easy when I’m this close to the sheer magnetism of him. Even torn, his arm formidable, densely muscled. Sculpted.

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?”