Page 17 of Rook (Dragon Brides #11)

Mate.

Rook was her mate.

She was Rook's mate.

Mates were a thing.

What the fuck?

Sasha really needed to be thinking about the mission ahead of her and not the life-altering revelations that Rook had made two hours ago. That was what a proper warrior would do.

But she was no warrior. She was just an adventure guide who had been sucked into a world she'd never imagined could exist.

And now she was …

Fuck!

Sasha's fingers dug into the brittle rock as she scaled the side of the canyon.

Each handhold felt uncertain, crumbling slightly beneath her grip.

Sweat trickled down her back despite the cool night air, her shirt sticking uncomfortably to her skin.

A rock skittered loose beneath her boot, tumbling down into darkness.

She froze, holding her breath.

No shouts of alarm came from below. No sudden flare of alien fire lit up the night. Just the soft whisper of wind through the pines and the distant call of a night bird.

Her muscles trembled with the effort of holding herself still. She was used to hiking, to guiding tourists through challenging terrain, but rock climbing had never been her specialty. And she'd certainly never done it while sneaking into an alien dragon slaver camp.

Alone.

Sasha should have been glad to be alone. That had always been her preference, hadn't it? Self-reliance was her religion. But right now, she could really use Rook's steady presence, his warmth at her back, his ridiculous confidence that made impossible things seem manageable.

Instead, she had his absence and the echo of his words.

You're my mate.

She pushed the thought away and resumed climbing, one painful inch at a time.

It was obvious he hadn't wanted her to come. Some facial expressions were universal.

After the alarm had gone off, they'd jumped into action. Rook had stared at her as she pulled on her boots and pulled her gun out of her backpack.

"Why do you have that?" he asked.

"We saw the nice kind of bears the other day. Grizzlies, on the other hand …" She wasn't sure a Glock would be enough to damage a grizzly bear, but it was better than nothing.

And against an alien dragon?

Sasha had no idea. They were shaped like humans. She'd seen Rook get hurt like a human. Bullets probably impacted them like they would a human.

She just didn't know if she could shoot someone person-shaped, no matter how heinous their crimes.

The gun was holstered at her side. And now she had another weapon. Rook's fire. Theoretically. She had no idea how to summon it or use it, and Rook didn't have time to teach her.

The alarm he'd set indicated that some number of the slavers had left camp. Maybe they were going to find more victims, maybe they needed supplies, maybe they were just stretching their legs. Whatever the reason, it meant that there were fewer slavers in the camp guarding Sasha's neighbors.

Now was the perfect time to strike.

The plan was as simple as could be. Rook would cause a distraction at the north end of the camp and summon as many of the slavers to him as he could. Then, when she saw his signal, Sasha would sneak in and find the humans.

She was doing her best to ignore the memory of Erik going up in flames. Sasha was immune to Rook's fire, not anyone else’s.

Sasha finally reached the top of the canyon ridge, her hands raw and scraped from the climb. She flattened herself against the rocky ground, crawling forward on her belly until she could peer down into the depression below.

The slaver camp sprawled beneath her like a nightmarish carnival.

Portable lights cast eerie blue-white circles on the packed dirt, illuminating the sleek curves of their ship and the cluster of tents around it.

Shadows moved between structures, tall figures with unnaturally fluid grace.

She counted one, two, three … eight of them total.

Was that fewer than before? She couldn't tell.

The shapes kept moving, merging with shadows, then reappearing elsewhere.

Her heart pounded hard. Eight dragon slavers against one human woman. The math wasn't promising.

A sound caught her attention, something between a sob and a whimper.

Her eyes found its source: a large tent set apart from the others, guarded by two towering figures in those shiny black uniforms. They stood like sentinels, their posture rigid, hands clasped behind their backs.

Even from that distance, she could see the golden gleam of their eyes, scanning the perimeter.

That had to be where they were keeping the captives. Her neighbors. People who'd waved to her in the campground, shared beers around communal fire pits, complained about the shower temperature.

Sasha's hand drifted to her Glock, fingers brushing the grip. The metal was cool against her palm, reassuring in its solid presence. She took a deep breath.

I can handle two, she told herself firmly. I've faced worse.

Though she wasn't sure that was true anymore. Bears didn't throw fireballs.

Then, fire.

A roaring wall of flame erupted at the northern edge of the camp, leaping thirty feet into the air.

The heat from it washed over her face even at that distance, and she instinctively ducked lower against the ground.

An alarm blared through the camp, a high-pitched wailing that set her teeth on edge.

For a terrifying moment, nothing happened. Then two slavers broke away from their positions, running toward the conflagration with fluid, predatory grace. A third followed, moving more cautiously.

The rest remained at their posts, including the guards at the prisoner tent.

Come on, Sasha silently urged. Take the bait.

Anxiety coiled in her stomach. What if Rook's plan wouldn't work? What if she was stuck up there, watching uselessly while he fought alone?

A massive explosion ripped through the air, so violent it shook the ground beneath her. She clapped her hands over her ears, wincing as a shower of debris and sparks rained down on the camp. The remaining slavers shouted to each other in their strange, guttural language, voices sharp with alarm.

One by one, they abandoned their posts, racing toward the growing chaos at the north end. Even the guards at the prisoner tent seemed torn, their heads swiveling between their duty and the battle unfolding in the distance.

Sasha watched with her breath held, muscles tensed and ready to move. She was still waiting for Rook's signal. Her body vibrated with the need to rush in, to help, to do something, but she knew rushing without coordination would only make things worse.

The slavers in front of the human's tent were arguing. Sasha watched as one turned and ran towards the chaos.

One down. One left.

She could handle one.

Then three booms, one right after the other.

Her sign.

Sasha was moving before her brain fully registered the signal. She slid down the loose dirt of the canyon wall, half-climbing, half-falling, her hands grabbing at sparse vegetation to slow her descent. Rocks tumbled beside her, a miniature avalanche that she prayed wouldn't attract attention.

Her boots hit the canyon floor with a jarring impact that shot pain up her shins.

No time to recover. She darted from shadow to shadow, crouching behind stacks of metal crates and the curved walls of alien tents.

The smell of smoke and something chemical hung thick in the air, coating the back of her throat.

Every few seconds, she froze, listening for footsteps or alien voices. The sounds of battle grew louder from the north end, punctuated by what could only be Rook's roars of challenge.

She pulled out her gun with shaking hands.

Steady. You need to be steady.

She crept forward, keeping low, her eyes darting from shadow to shadow. More explosions rocked the camp, and she saw slavers running toward the source, their forms silhouetted against the fiery glow. More than she'd expected. It seemed like they were all converging on the northern perimeter.

With a jolt, she realized why: they all wanted the glory of taking down a dragon lord. Rook wasn't just a threat, he was a prize.

She wasn't going to let that happen.

Sasha rounded the corner of a tent, her mind fixed on the prisoners just yards away, when a solid wall of muscle slammed into her. She stumbled backward, raising her gun on pure instinct as she found herself face-to-face with one of the slavers.

His eyes widened, glowing yellow with shock that matched her own. For a heartbeat, they stared at each other, frozen in mutual surprise. Then his hand rose, fingers splaying as a weak, sputtering flame flickered to life in his palm.

Sasha didn't think. Her finger squeezed the trigger.

The gun kicked in her hand, the report deafening in the close quarters. The slaver's head snapped back, a look of stunned disbelief crossing his features before he crumpled to the ground.

He went down hard.

Bile rose in Sasha's throat, the sudden need to barf. Oh, god. She shot him.

Her hands trembled violently now, the gun suddenly too heavy. She'd never shot anything but paper targets. Never seen that moment when a bullet found flesh, when life drained from eyes.

But she couldn't stop. Not now. Not when she was so close.

She staggered a few feet away, dropped to her knees, and vomited onto the packed dirt. Her stomach heaved, emptying itself in painful spasms. When there was nothing left, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, the sour taste lingering on her tongue.

Get up. Keep going. They need you.

Somehow, she made it to the prisoner tent, now abandoned by its guards. The canvas flap hung partially open, revealing darkness within.

She opened the flap and was immediately assaulted by a muddy shoe.

"Stay the fuck away from us!" Janice screamed.

Sasha raised her hands, which may have looked a bit threatening since she was still holding her gun. "I'm here to rescue you."

Janice gave her an appraising look. "Took you long enough."

Janice was there. And Vanessa, along with a few of the others she'd seen on MISSING posters. There were also five others who'd been taken yesterday. Sasha didn't know all of their names, but she recognized most of the faces.

"Come on," she said. "We need to hurry."

She holstered her gun and pulled a small pocketknife from her boot, sawing through the crude restraints binding their wrists and ankles.

Some of the captives were drugged, their movements sluggish, eyes unfocused.

Others helped Sasha, working in frantic silence to free everyone.

Vanessa, her nurse's training kicking in, checked each person for injuries as they were released.

"Can you walk?" Sasha asked a teenage boy whose ankle was swollen to twice its normal size.

"I'll fucking crawl if I have to," he spat, struggling to his feet.

They moved as a ragged group out of the tent, Sasha in the lead, Janice bringing up the rear.

The camp was eerily deserted, most of the slavers drawn to the battle on the north side.

The sounds from that direction had changed, though.

Fewer explosions now, more shouts and an occasional roar that made the hair on Sasha's arms stand up.

Was Rook winning? Losing? The decrease in chaos made her stomach knot with worry.

"This way," she hissed, pointing toward the tree line. "Stay low and quiet."

They were almost home free. If they made it to the tree line, Sasha was sure they could disappear, and the dragons wouldn't ever find them.

The group moved as quickly as they could, half-running, half-stumbling across the open ground. Twenty yards to go. Fifteen. Ten.

Behind her, Sasha heard a thud and a cry of pain. She whirled to see Janice sprawled on the ground, clutching her ankle, face twisted in agony.

"Keep going!" Sasha shouted to the others, who hesitated only briefly before continuing their desperate dash for the trees.

Sasha ran back to Janice, dropping to her knees beside the older woman.

"You're okay," she said, helping Janice to her feet. "We're almost there."

Then a line of fire appeared right in front of her, the heat hot enough to singe her hands.

"I don't think you're going anywhere."