Page 6

Chapter Five

" S o what do I call you?" I ask when he gets back. I'm trying to offer an olive branch, or whatever it is when you've been an ass to the regular who has accompanied you to the hospital, even though he didn't have to.

Part of my question is because I don't know his name. But part of it is me realizing he's a dragon—I mean, I knew he was a dragon this whole time, the eyes give it away—so he's probably got a fancy title. Duke McSootyClaws or something.

They're always dukes in books.

"Oh." He freezes. "Dav, I suppose."

"You suppose?" I slouch, trying to find a position where my arm doesn't throb. I’m not having any luck.

"Alva-draig Tudor." This is the first time I've heard him actually sound miffed.

He looks out of sorts for the first time, too.

His pants are creased and smeared with ash, and his waistcoat is hanging open like a regency rake.

His hair, normally straight out of an Errol Flynn flick, with a severe 1940s part and careful swoops on top, is a sort of frizzy orange flop across his forehead.

He pushes it back irritably. He's rolled up the ragged ends of his sleeves so his shirt looks less like he stuck his hands in fire—which he absolutely did—and more like it's a sartorial choice.

And wow, forearms . Trim, and muscley, and flecked with more of those intriguing gold-dust freckles and spun-copper hair and, yes please and thank you .

It makes something in my middle flippy. Or maybe that’s the pain meds? One or the other. I’m too hot, and too cold, and sticky with pain-sweat, and kind of nauseous, and I want to close my eyes and lean against his shoulder and sleeeep. Ugh.

"Dav it is," I concede. "Middle name for a middle name, then. Colin Fergus Levesque."

I squirm around until I can get my free hand aimed in his general direction and he shakes it awkwardly.

I'm blinking dumbly, I know I am, my eyelid s heavy in a way that sucks because there's no way I a) could actually fall asleep here, and b) should fall asleep here, and c) will probably not be able to sleep later when the shock of being lightly-stabbed in the middle of my first (and hopefully last) industrial fire has worn off.

"A pleasure," Dav says as he sits. His whole face twists up when he realizes what he's said. "Well, not the part where I hurt you—and set fire to the—it's not actually been a pleasure—"

"No, I get what you mean," I say, cutting off his increasingly-desperate word-deluge.

I shimmy, looking for some moment of relief because this is awful. I just want to cry and I’m not going to, I’m not . The fingers of my right hand have started to tingle. Maybe something’s wrong with my arm. I could be paralyzed, or disfigured for life.

Shit .

"Though, draig is not my middle name," he adds softly. His voice sounds like it's coming through a tunnel. "It simply means dragon . We often append that to our given names. Rather like saying, ah, Joe and Not-Human Joe."

"Huh?"

"Dear lord." His voice is now deep in the cave, his face suddenly blocking my eye-line to the scuffed linoleum floor.

One slender hand cradles first the back of my neck, then my cheek, then is laid against my forehead, then is gone.

Gosh, he's warm. A miserable full-body shiver crawls over me.

I wish he'd put his hand back on my nape. "You've gone dead pale. Colin?"

I wiggle my fingers, to prove to myself that I can, and the pain it stirs up is excruciating.

Am I about to vomit?

I might be about to vomit.

That wouldn't be even remotely cool and sexy.

"Stay here," he says, and then he's gone.

Ha, like I have anywhere to go. Or the ability to get there.

The flip in my stomach is starting to feel more like a flop.

"He's coming out of shock," a new voice says over my head. A blanket whumps onto my lap. "Keep him warm. The painkillers have started to wear off."

"Then give him more," Dav says, and this is the first time I've heard him sound confident and leader-ly. "He should be lying down."

I bet he's a duke. Maybe a baron. Do I address him as' Lord' or…? Boy, he sounds authoritative. Why is he never bossy around me? It’s sexy.

"There's no beds," the nurse (the voice must be a nurse) says. "We'll push him up the queue."

"I'll get you some water," Dav says, and the nurse tells him not to. No food, either. He tucks the blanket around me, aggravated, and I swat him away.

"Hurts," I tell him when he yanks. "Knock it off." He steps back, lets out a frustrated sort of hissing noise that I had no idea dragons made, and is absolutely not adorable. "Go for a walk or something."

"I don't—"

"There's a Timmie's in the lobby."

"Their coffee is wretched."

"It's hot."

"It's not yours ."

At some point my eyes closed, because I need to pry them open to squint at Dav.

"Say what?"

"It's not…" he starts, but my head is swimming and I don't catch the rest. "...-lin? Colin?"

"Don't drink it then. It's just an excuse to get you to stop fussing."

"Do you want me to go away?"

His stupid wounded expression hooks into me, tugs at the squishy bit behind my breastbone where my heart is working overtime. A part of me wants to, so badly, say No, please stay, hold me. I'm actually scared. I want my Mum. Instead I say: "I’m fine on my own."

"I don't think you are," Dav says quietly. He crouches down in front of me again, slacks pulling tight across his thighs. Woof. "The nurse said no food or water. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

I open my mouth to say shush and let me sleep , but what comes out is: "My sister used to read to me when I was sick."

Fuck.

I did not mean to say that.

Now he knows I have a sister, and maybe he thinks I'm some sort of lame pansy for reading romances, and I'm not ashamed , but what if he thinks it's something shameful, and how could I ever like someone who thinks having a nice relationship with his sister is shameful and—

I'm panicking , I realize belatedly. This is a panic attack.

I am in the emerg, and my arm is bleeding, and I can't breathe, can't breathe, can't breathe— and I can't say it, because I can't suck in the goddamned air , and Dav's hand is back on my forehead, the soft touch of cloth beside my eyes (I'm not crying!

I'm not!), and it's a friggin' handkerchief , and he murmurs, "I'll be right back," and then he's gone, he's gone , and I reach up, try to grab his wrist, but I am already alone, I don't want to be alone, I don't, I was wrong, I’m not fine, I'm shaking and I can feel the blood oozing from the holes, feel it sliding down my inner elbow, am so focused on it I can practically hear it, and I want his warm hands again, and I am scared and I am a liar and I want, I want, I want—

"Lord above, Colin, breathe ," Dav says. He drops something on the floor, but that’s okay because his hands are back on my face, cupping my chin. "That's it. Big breath in."

Oxygen shudders into my lungs.

"And out."

The exhale sounds thick and gross. Dav doesn't care. A smile blooms on his face, and even though it's tight, there are furrows on either side of his mouth, not quite deep enough to be dimples, but kind-looking and honest.

"In again, Colin, there's a lad."

Right, Dav's rarely-before-witnessed-smile, that's one thing I can see.

A small paperback on the floor, white text against a field of familiar lurid purple.

Two. A candy bar beside it, black wrapper.

Three. Dav's dress shoes framing both, smeared with ash and dried espresso.

Four. The stretch of wool over his knees, a faint stripe of orange in the check I hadn't noticed before. Five.

On to touch: Dav's palms against my cheeks, scratchy on my scruff.

Two, the blanket over my lap, weighing me to the earth so I can't go flying off.

Three, I tap my chucks against the linoleum floor, plasticky and hollow.

Ground. Four, I wriggle in my seat, the thin padding pressing against my skinny-ass hip bones. Grounded.

Sound, now. I can hear Dav's voice, In, out, that's it, Colin, well done.

Muzak in the waiting room, a clarinet rendition of something by Lizzo.

Behind the desk, the administrator on the phone, trying to soothe someone, telling them to "bring her in, honey.

We'll take care of your baby." That's three.

Two for scent—I can smell charred fabric and the acrid stink of over-roasted beans.

And I can taste salt from my own tears pooling at the corners of my mouth.

"That's better," Dav says softly, and he's not speaking from the end of a tunnel anymore.

"So," I say, and my voice sounds trembly. I reach up with my left hand, wrap my shaking fingers around his wrist, pull his hand back far enough to get a good look at the sodden square of lemon-yellow fabric that matches his pre-burning button-down. "An honest-to-god handkerchief, eh?"

Dav blinks at me for a second, a sweep of copper eyelashes over high cheekbones.

Then that smile gets deeper, settles into his face.

I sort of expected his teeth to be pointy, or for him to have fangs, but the only draconic thing about him in this shape is his tongue and his eyes.

I wonder if he can change them to look more sapiens -esque too, if the sunflower color of his irises and the slightly-slit pupils are a personal choice.

If they are, I hope he never changes them.

Dav passes me the handkerchief in question. I appreciate him not saying anything about why I need it. Then he scoops up the book and the candy. I've never seen him order a dessert, so yeah, I'm a nosy jerk and point to the chocolate bar.

"For after," Dav says, and he's being cheeky . "If you're good for the doctor, you can have a sweet."

"Awww, thanks daddy," I say, making sure the sarcasm is audible. "But that'll keep me in here."

Dav frowns. "The chocolate bar?"

"Yup," I say, popping the 'p'. "But I appreciate the gesture."

"Is it the nuts? I've seen you drink almond milk."

"The cocoa," I correct. "A rare but annoying food allergy.

Do you know how many restaurant desserts have chocolate in them?

All of them, is the answer." It feels good to be bantering with him again, feels normal, and natural, and not at all like I just had a freak-out in public in front of like, two dozen people. Some of whom are still staring .

" Chocolate ," he murmurs, chagrined.

"Don't tell me you're one of those people who is going to weep for me because I can't have it. Cause I'll tell you, to me it just tastes like puking after birthday parties."

"Vivid." He wrinkles his nose.

"You eat it for me," I tell him.

Dav pockets it instead. "I'm not fond of sweets."

"It'll melt in there."

He makes an annoyed growl-purr sound, and hands the chocolate to a wrecked-looking mom holding a sobbing infant a few seats down. She seems grateful.

"And what's that?" I ask, pointing at the novel.

He hands it to me and retreats into himself, as if waiting for me to find something wrong with this offering, too. "I had nothing to read to you, so I went to the gift shop."

A scantily clad woman in a white Gothic dress smolders up at me from the cover.

The dress is mysteriously clinging and wet while her flowing blonde tresses are dry.

She's leaning back against a dude with a faint bluish tinge to his dark skin, slit-pupiled eyes the piercing color of a Polynesian sea, rippling biceps patterned with tattoos, and his forearms peppered with cobalt scales.

Both models are showing the same amount of cleavage—which is to say, lots .

Yum.

" The Azure Ariki's Royal Bride. " I read aloud. The flop in my stomach turns back into a flip. "Are you making fun?"

"No?" Dav says. "You said you liked draconic romances."

I did, didn't I?

"That's… thoughtful," I allow. "Thanks."

Oh god, he’s actually nice .

It’s weird.

It’s cute.

Oh, fuck.

"Shall I read?" He holds out his hand, waits for me to relinquish the book.

The gesture is small, polite, like he's not comfortable with touching me now that my panic attack has passed.

He hasn't taken me accepting it once as blanket permission to keep at it, and that's, yeah, that's thoughtful, too. That’s attractive .

I'm exhausted, and still sweating, and aching, and I wish like hell I could get comfortable in this chair. I want to be read to. I give him the book.

Dav leans on the armrest between us, so he's close enough that he won't be interrupting anyone else. I wish he would wrap one of those careful arms around my shoulder.

"Chapter One," he begins gently. I let my eyes slip closed and lean as far into his space as I think I can get away with.

"Yalente's father had been a missionary during the Wars.

He had uprooted them from Zeeland in 1844, and it was 1846 before Yalente again found herself between four walls in a place she could call home. "

Dav is a lovely reader, and when I realize his shoulder is just the right height to rest my aching head on, well, I can blame it on the exhaustion, right? Panic attacks take it right out of me.

"It was a... ah, a small reed house," he reads, voice hitching as I get comfortable.

"And newer than the little stone cottage over which her dying mother had left her mistress at the tender age of fourteen.

Now twenty, Yalente was losing her second home, for the Māori Rangatira had triumphed.

The Pākehā had lost, and were now being evicted from the land they had stolen.

Including Yalente, who began to understand what it meant to have unknowingly and unwittingly been a thief… "