Page 14 of Orc’s Redemption (Red Planet Dragons of Tajss #35)
14
ELARA
M y fingers tremble as I dip a scrap of cloth into the cup of tepid water. The cold of the black stone floor seeps into my knees, amplifying the discomfort until it’s nearly pain. You’d think it would numb me — but no. It only makes everything sharper, crueler. Ryatuv grunts, moaning softly, his eyes half-closed.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, an empty platitude if I’ve ever uttered one in my life.
None of this is okay. They beat him mercilessly. Granted, he refused to stop fighting, but still. No matter how I struggled and screamed they wouldn’t stop. Two of them held me, including Z’leni. Z’leni had leaned close, his voice a ghost against my ear, telling me to wait. I didn’t listen. Couldn’t. Watching them beat Ryatuv had torn something inside me apart.
That led to the bruise on the side of my cheek where the other Urr’ki also restraining me had slapped me with the back of his hand. He hit so hard my head spun and I couldn’t see straight for a minute at least.
Right as my vision stopped swimming, one of the guards managed to land a blow at the back of Ryatuv’s skull and he dropped to the ground. He’d gone down hard, still and silent, sprawled like a broken doll. I had screamed, certain that he was dead, until the guards bound his wrists and dragged him to his feet. He groaned loudly, rousing, but they had him then.
They dragged us back to the cells but instead of separating us they shoved us both into mine. They’d had to half-carry, half-drag him. He walked like he was drunk. The amount of punishment he’s taken since his capture should have killed him but he keeps going. An unstoppable force, but why?
He said he came for me. The words loop in my mind, making my heart pound and my mouth go dry. It makes no sense — none — but some stubborn part of me clings to them like a lifeline.
I feel a connection to him, but what does that really mean? Sure, it feels like some kind of déjà vu, as if I should know him, or think I do, but I don’t. Seeing him around the compound is a long ways from knowing him the way it feels like I do.
I dip the rag, a torn scrap of my shirt, into the water and wring it out. Red and filth squeeze into the cup. The water is so filthy that it’s barely working to clean the blood crusting his wounds, but it’s all I have. His golden-hued scales are dulled by the grime and blood. His body is battered from the beating they gave him and the rough bandage sealing the piercing wound is crusty with more dried blood. Yet even in this rough state he is formidable. His muscles are tight with restrained pain but his breathing is slow and measured.
“This is all I can do,” I murmur, pressing the damp cloth to a deep gash along his collarbone. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even make a sound.
“You should not waste water,” he says in his admonishment.
His voice is rough, gravelly, but steady. I press a little harder than necessary.
“I’ll decide what’s a waste.”
His amber eyes flick to mine, searching. He doesn’t argue further, but he does let out a long, slow exhale as I work. The silence between us stretches, thick with unspoken words and unacknowledged fears. I don’t know why he came for me or why he fought for me, but now he’s paying the price. Guilt swells forcing bile up my throat until I choke on it.
“I didn’t ask you to come,” I say, though my voice lacks the bite I intended.
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, seeing me, 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.
“It is not nothing,” he says, filling in the blanks for me.
He grunts and groans as he forces himself to a sitting position. He gets his back against the wall then draws one knee up, hooking an arm around it, then closes his eyes, breathing heavily. I scoot back the small distance to rest my back against the opposite wall.
We sit in silence for a time, the only sounds the distant dripping of water and his breathing, heavy but regular. I wonder if perhaps he fell asleep and am thinking about trying to do so myself when he opens his eyes.
“Are you okay?”
A ghost of a smile passes over his mouth and his eyelids languidly close, pause, then open every bit as slowly. He shakes his head.
“I cannot say that this was part of my plan,” he says, shaking his head but he grimaces in pain and stops the motion.
“Really?” I ask. “You mean you didn’t plan to get captured and have the living shit beaten out of you by a bunch of Urr’ki?”
He chuckles.
“No,” he says. “I had a different vision in my head, but it will be fine.”
“Fine?” I ask, leaning forward because there isn’t a hint of sarcasm in his voice. A glimmer of hope flickers in my chest. I grasp onto it with all that I am. “Are there more of you? Is help coming?”
He frowns and my stomach drops before he shakes his head.
“If there is, I don’t know,” he says, voice low. “I came alone. Against orders.”
I feel sick. He came alone? What was he thinking? He must have a death wish or something. It takes a moment to process his words beyond no one else coming but then the trailing off and the implications become clear.
“What do you mean ordered not to? By who?”
“My Al’fa,” he says, his voice dropping so low it’s almost a growl.
“You disobeyed the Al’fa? The big guy, with the bone breastplate? Seriously?”
I’m in shock. I’ve lived with the Cavern Zmaj long enough to know that isn’t something that happens. The Al’fa says it, they do it. I’ve never once seen them question him or even hesitate. Not once, even if the order seemed like the dumbest thing of all time. My friends and I would joke that the Cavern Zmaj would all jump into a pit of lava if the Al’fa told them to and not question it.
“I did,” he says, his eyes burning into me with an intensity that no one should be able to do.
“Why?” I ask, my throat spasming to try and stop the word because I know and the answer is as scary as all the rest of this.
“For you,” he says.
My heart skips painfully. A peep sound embarrassingly slips out. I blink, move my mouth, but there are no words. Nothing fits this.
He doesn’t know me. He can’t know me. Why? What does he want? Me. Idiot. He wants me. Well that’s not creepy. Or it should be, but…
But it’s not. It’s heartwarming. And on some level it feels… right. Fitting into some pattern that I can’t see, but I know, in my heart, it’s the way it’s supposed to be. None of which makes a damn bit of sense.
How did I get to all this matters of the heart? Can I please go back to just wanting a good fuck before I die? That’s so much simpler. This… this is too much. Because if I’m falling into this dangerous gravity around Ryatuv, what the hell am I supposed to do about Z’leni?
“I… you… I… you shouldn’t have,” I finally manage to say something at least relatively coherent.
He shrugs. Well that’s helpful. A shrug? What the hell is wrong with you? Stupid alien dragon asshole sitting there looking all sexy. Wounded, hurt, needing my care, needing me to handle him.
“Too late for regrets now,” he says, smiling. “I haven’t had the chance to tell you something though.”
“Something? What?” I ask, hope rising again.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, his smile growing even wider.
My eyes widen and my mouth drops open. Instantly self-conscious, my hands fly to my hair, trying to straighten the tangled mess. I haven’t bathed in who knows how long and I can smell myself which I’ve been doing my best to ignore. I’m covered in dirt, my own bruises, and my food rations have been low enough that I’ve lost weight. All in all I look like hell and I know it.
“No, I don’t,” I protest as my fingers encounter a tangle so tightly knotted that I’ll probably have to cut it out.
He moves much faster than anyone as badly wounded as I know he is should be able to. He’s on his knees, right in front of me, grabbing onto both my arms and gently pulling my hands down. Then his hands cup my face and he leans in close. So close his cool breath passes over my skin. He smells earthy, a heady musk scent that makes my head spin.
“Elara,” he says and my heart skips again as he breathes my name. “Do not, ever, argue with me.” I blink resistance rising from the very core of who I am but then I see his smile. “About how I see you.”
He adds the last and it blasts away my instinctive resistance to his statement.
“You can’t order me,” I whisper.
“No,” he agrees. “But you can’t tell me what I think or what I see, either, human. And you are… gorgeous.”
His lips brush mine, a jolt of electricity snapping through me so hard I gasp — and then the heavy knock slams into the cell door, ripping the moment away like a cruel hand.