Page 38 of The Dragon King's Pregnant Mate

We continue up the treacherous path, my dragon's blood keeping us both warm as the storm intensifies. Calliope burrows closer, seeking heat, and my heart clenches at the simple trust of the gesture. How long has it been since she willingly pressed herself against me like this? Since she sought comfort in my arms rather than fearing my grip would turn to iron?

"I've got you," I murmur, though the wind probably steals the words. "I won't let you fall."

She makes a soft sound that might be acknowledgment, might be protest. Through our bond, I feel her exhaustion warring with something else—fear? Hope? The connection between us has grown stronger since I found her, but also stranger. Sometimes I catch fragments of emotions that don't feel quite like hers, echoes of something I can't identify.

The path grows narrower, ice coating every surface. Each step must be tested before I put my full weight down, and even my enhanced vision can barely pierce the curtain of white ahead. But I don't dare stop, don't dare set her down in this killing cold. Her body temperature drops steadily despite my efforts to warm her, and that strange pulse of magic within her seems to draw more strength with each passing hour.

"Stay with me," I growl when her head lolls against my shoulder. "Just a little further."

She stirs slightly. "Always so certain…you know where you're going…."

Isn’t that always the way, I think with grim, tired irony. I’m always so certain.

"I'll find us shelter." I tighten my grip as another gust of wind tries to tear her from my arms. "I won't let anything happen to you. Not again."

The words carry more weight than I intend. Through our bond, I feel her register the promise—and the possessiveness beneath it. Her fingers clench in my cloak, though whether in acceptance or resistance, I can't tell.

How do I make her understand? That every protective instinct, every surge of possessive fury, comes from the terror of losing her again? That I would give her all the freedom in the world if I could just trust she would choose to stay?

But I can't force that trust, any more than she can force herself to believe in me again. All I can do is hold her close, shielding her from the storm with my body, and pray that somehow it will be enough.

The wind howls fiercer, and somewhere in the endless white ahead, shelter waits. If we can reach it. If she can hold on. If I can keep from driving her away with the very love that burns like dragon-fire in my blood.

The cave mouth appears through the storm like a wound in the mountainside, barely visible beneath a thick crust of ice. It's deep enough to offer real shelter, the tunnel curving away from the bitter wind. Some ancient creature probably carved it ages ago—the walls bear scratch marks from claws larger than mine, worn smooth by centuries of wind and weather.

Calliope stirs as I carry her inside. "Where…?"

"Safe." I set her down carefully, keeping one arm around her waist when she sways. "At least for now."

The space is larger than it first appeared, the ceiling high enough that I could transform if needed. More importantly, the curve of the tunnel blocks the worst of the wind, though ice still coats every surface. A good defensible position, with only one entrance to guard.

Not that it matters. In her current state, we couldn't fight our way out of a burlap sack.

"You're doing it again," Calliope murmurs, and I realize I've been scanning the cave like a soldier, categorizing threats and escape routes. Old habits.

"Doing what?"

"Planning for war." She shivers despite my dragon-warmth pressed against her side. "Always ready for the next battle."

Because the next battle is always coming. Because everything I love eventually becomes a target, a weakness to be exploited. But I can't say that without sounding exactly like the paranoid tyrant she fled from.

Instead, I focus on practical matters. There's enough debris scattered around—old branches, dried vegetation blown in from outside—to build a small fire. It takes more effort than usual to summon a flame; the altitude and bitter cold sap even my enhanced strength. But soon a cheerful blaze casts dancing shadows on the ice-slick walls.

"Sit." I guide her closer to the fire. "Before you fall."

She doesn't argue, which tells me more about her condition than any words could. As she settles, I notice fresh blood soaking through her sleeve—the spirit guardian's burn has reopened, probably from the endless jostling of our climb. Without asking permission, I kneel beside her and begin unwrapping the makeshift bandage.

The wound looks worse than before, the flesh around it blackened as if touched by deep frost. This close, I can smell the lingering corruption of whatever poison Ulric used, mingled with something else—a sharp sweetness that seems to radiate from her very skin. When my fingers brush the injury, she flinches.

"Sorry." I try to be gentler, though gentleness has never come easily to me. Through our bond, I feel her pain as if it were my own. Feel something else, too, that strange pulse of warmth deep inside her growing stronger. "I don't have any proper medicines. But maybe…"

I let my dragon nature rise closer to the surface, just enough that my palm grows fever-hot, and press it carefully over the wound, hoping my fire can burn away whatever lingering magic taints her blood. She gasps—in pain or relief, I can't tell—and her free hand comes up to grip my wrist.

"Trust me," I murmur, though I have no right to ask that of her. Not after everything. "Please."

She says nothing, but she doesn't pull away either. We stay like that for long moments, my fire seeping into her frozen flesh as shadows lengthen around us. Outside, the storm rages fiercer, as if angry at having lost its prey.

Finally, I lift my hand. The blackness has receded slightly, though the wound still looks angry and raw. It's the best I can do without proper healing supplies. I start to move away, to give her space, but her fingers tighten on my wrist.