Page 12 of Rook (Dragon Brides #11)

A sob of relief nearly broke free. Adrenaline sweated out of every pore as she ran. She'd be an idiot not to follow Rook. If he asked her to leap off a cliff right now, she might just do it—her judgment was that shot.

They kept low, dodging a toppled trash can and sliding through the smoke-choked shadow between the bathhouse and her van.

Rook moved like he'd been bred for this, all purpose and control, while her limbs felt like overcooked spaghetti.

Her van crouched on the far edge of the lot, its battered brown sides splattered with ash and god-knows-what smudged on the windows.

Its familiar ugliness was the only thing that made sense anymore.

Red and blue lights spun across the ruined lot. The police, late as always, were wading into mayhem long after everything good was already on fire.

She jerked at Rook's sleeve, nearly missing when she spotted a box truck pulling out fast. It skidded over crushed cooler lids and half-melted tents, white and dented with one busted headlight and a long, wet streak of blood arced across the passenger door.

Her stomach dropped so hard she tasted bile. "They're taking people," she whispered, her voice like sandpaper. "Look."

Rook didn't speak, but his eyes flashed with something that definitely wasn't human. He gave one sharp nod.

No time for panic. No time for nonsense. Sasha ran for her van, keys already a fist of metal digging into her palm.

She skidded into the driver's seat, sweat making her shirt stick uncomfortably to her back, and Rook was beside her in an instant.

He was too big for the cramped passenger side, his knees jammed against her grocery bag full of dirty clothes, his shoulders hunched so he wouldn't crack his head on the ceiling.

"Buckle up," she snapped, voice sharp with terror and a weird, giddy hope. "This is about to get bumpy." As if seatbelts would matter if the slavers decided to light them up.

The van's engine coughed like an old man with smoker's lungs but caught. Sasha muttered a quick prayer to every benevolent roadside god she'd ever scorned. "Not now, baby, I need you one more time."

By some miracle of unreliable machinery, the van lurched forward.

Sasha jammed it into gear, swinging wide around a toppled picnic table.

Her windshield was smeared with smoke and what might be bird poop from three days ago.

She stole a split-second glance at her rearview mirror.

Sirens flickered, chaos boiling beneath the hang of pine and fir.

Chasing monsters into the night. That was new.

She could taste adrenaline, metallic and hot in her mouth, mixing with the burn of old coffee and the sour-sweet tang of melted plastic drifting in through the cracked window. Rook's body heat made the already stuffy van feel like a sauna. Her T-shirt was glued to her lower back with sweat.

As soon as they cleared the lot and shot onto the two-lane road, tires squealing on loose gravel, it hit her all at once. She was alive. She should be dead but wasn't. Heady, wild relief warred with fresh panic.

That fire. Impossible, beautiful fire. She'd walked straight through it and hadn't so much as singed a hair. How?

She caught Rook's eye, trying to read danger or guilt or maybe an answer in his face. But he watched the road ahead, jaw clenched tight enough to crack walnuts, his hands knotted in his lap.

She swallowed hard. "Why didn't the fire touch me?" Her voice cracked like thin ice.

He didn't answer, at least not right away. The van rattled and groaned as they took a corner fast enough to nearly throw her through the window. The box truck's taillights flickered ahead, weaving through the darkness just past the twitchy edge of her headlights.

Sasha's insides twisted. Fine. If he wouldn't talk, she would. Talking kept her from screaming.

"I watched Erik burn," she blurted out, words tumbling like rocks down a hill. "And then that fire was thrown at me, it was coming straight for me. I should be a pile of ash. But I'm not. I …"

She bit her tongue hard enough to taste blood. Don't break, not now.

The van barreled up the winding road, the forest crowding close, her headlights stuttering between trunks and brush. Every so often, she almost lost the truck, but she pressed on, hands white-knuckled on the wheel.

Rook finally spoke, his voice so low she almost missed it beneath the engine's wheezing. "You are … marked."

Marked? Her chest squeezed. Like a dog, or a tree, or a …

She pushed out a shaky laugh that sounded more like a hiccup. "You want to maybe get a little less cryptic and a little more specific? Because when people from outer space burn down my backyard, I like my answers in full sentences."

His jaw flexed, a muscle jumping beneath his skin. "My fire cannot harm you," he said. "You are immune."

A beat passed, heavy as wet canvas. She flinched at the words, amazed and confused and scared down to her toes.

Her voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper. "Immune? Why?"

He stared at the dashboard like it had personally offended him. "It's … rare."

Great. Fan-freaking-tastic. "Rare how? Like, lucky-me rare, or you're-about-to-sacrifice-me-in-a-dragon-ritual rare?"

A faint tremor ran through him, anger or pain or maybe something worse. He didn't answer, just pressed his hand to the dashboard. Smoke curled from his skin, briefly lighting the van's interior. The smell of burning plastic made her nose wrinkle.

Her left butt cheek had gone numb from sitting tense for so long. "You're not allowed to keep secrets if we're about to die, you know."

Rook's gaze finally landed on her, all hungry intensity and simmering heat. For one dangerous second, she wished he'd just say whatever it was, no matter how impossible. Even the crazy truth was better than the silence gnawing at her nerves.

She took the next corner sharper than she should, barely missing an old mailbox. "Don't you dare throw one of those fireballs in here," she said, aiming for cool but landing on desperate. "This thing's duct tape can handle a lot, but not alien pyrotechnics."

A ghost of a smile flickered on Rook's lips, the tension in him easing by a hair.

"No fire," he agreed.

Back to business. The box truck ahead swerved hard, its rear door bucking open an inch. It was just enough for Sasha to see two wide, terrified eyes peeking out before a rough hand yanked them back.

She almost choked. "People. They're still alive." Her mind raced through an inventory of her van's contents. Road flares. First aid kit. A heavy Maglite with batteries that might be dead. Nothing that would help against space dragons.

She pressed the gas, the van roaring its complaint. "Hang on," she barked to Rook, her fingers slick with sweat as she yanked the wheel around another curve.

Action soothed her terror, gave her something to do besides feel every splinter in her soul. She focused on the road, the hunter, not the hunted. The headlights bounced, slicing through deep green and black, and she gritted her teeth, repeating silent pep talks with every slam of the suspension.

This wasn't supposed to be her life. She was the one who showed tourists how not to die when a bear got curious. Not alien slavers. Not dragon fire. Not this.

You're not running, you're fighting. Keep the wheel between you and the monsters.

A dry laugh threatened to escape. She swallowed it, jaw clenched.

"If we survive this," she said, "and you still insist on dodging basic questions, I'm leaving you in the woods with the next group of Instagram hikers. The ones who wear flip-flops on ten-mile hikes."

Beside her, Rook shifted, the van's door creaking under his bulk. He looked at her like she was the only thing not currently on fire. "I will explain," he said finally, the words like torn fabric, "later."

"Convenient," she snapped. "You save my life, they torch my ex like a piece of kindling, and now we're chasing bad guys in my rolling trash heap. And you still get to keep secrets?"

Rook's fingers hovered above hers on the gearshift. His heat soaked through, dangerously intimate. She needed to pee. Of all the stupid times for her bladder to chime in.

"Trust me," he said, softer now. "Please."

She almost shattered at that. All her walls, painfully built and loved and battered, wanted to tumble down. His plea took her by surprise. She didn't know what to do with it.

The van bounced over a pothole, nearly launching them through the roof. Sasha cursed, feeling a sharp pain shoot up her spine where she'd already bruised it during the fight back at camp.

"Don't die now, baby. If the aliens and the cops don't get us, your transmission might."

Another swerving flash of taillights caught her eye. The box truck was picking up speed, trying to shake them on the twisting descent toward the old service road. Sasha's gut coiled with dread. If they disappeared onto the fire road, she'd lose their trail. No, not happening.

She punched the gas and slammed into a lower gear, the familiar whine of overtaxed mechanics grinding beneath her. The van shuddered, threatened to give out, but she bullied it forward, bumping hard over a rut, her heart thundering so fiercely she felt dizzy.

A tremor worked through her as she mustered every scrap of courage she'd ever claimed.

She risked a glance at Rook. His face looked all cut angles and shadow in the low light.

He was battered, maybe even bleeding, but still a force of will.

She could feel him watching her, measuring, weighing, wanting to speak.

Or wanting to bolt.

The truck's taillights vanished around a bend. Sasha jammed her foot down hard, reckless now. She refused to lose them.

He was silent, wrestling whatever truths warred inside him. His hand trembled once on his thigh, then stilled. The van jolted again, and her hand slipped off the gear stick, brushing his thigh. They both froze. Heat ripped up her arm, the taste of danger sweet and devastating.

Sasha exhaled a shaky breath, trying to steady herself before she came undone. She watched the road, winding faster, biting at the edge of what the ancient van could handle.

They sped past a roadside cross, then a sudden scatter of rocks, headlights flaring across the battered blue mailbox she'd always joked would spell her doom. Not tonight.

But her van was sputtering and heaving, and the higher they climbed, the less sure she was they'd make it anywhere.