Pia Saves the Day (Elder Races #6.6)(12)

“Now, tell me about this ‘horrible misunderstanding,’” he ordered.

At a loss, she glanced around the clearing. How could she explain what had happened in such a way that the dragon could accept it? So much depended on concepts and relationships built over centuries.

He was Lord of the Wyr demesne, the head of a multibillion-dollar corporation, and a husband, mate and father, and yet earlier, the dragon didn’t even know his own name.

Taking in a deep breath, she said in a cautious, low voice, “It wasn’t any kind of attack. I swear it. You’ll know that for yourself, as soon as you remember more.”

“If it wasn’t an attack, then what was it?”

“An accident,” she whispered. She wiped her cheeks with both hands. “A terrible, terrible accident. You were helping with building a project, and you were all working together.”

It was impossible to tell if he believed her. The dragon’s face remained expressionless. “How did this accident occur?”

The evening before, she had asked the very same thing of Aryal, but she had only half comprehended the answer.

Now, she said, “I don’t know all the details of what happened, but what I do know is that you were setting off a series of small, controlled explosions in a large section of bedrock that bordered a lake.”

“Why?” He watched her closely.

“The site is where a large building is going to be constructed, so the area needs to be level in certain places. But there was a buried fault line in the rock nobody knew was there. It looked solid when it was inspected, but it wasn’t. You—along with a couple of other men—you all thought you were safe where you were standing, around one edge of the bluff.”

She paused, but he said nothing, his steady breathing stirring her hair. Lacing her fingers together, she twisted her hands and continued, “When the explosion went off, the force of it blew through the fault line, and blasted out where you were standing. They call that kind of accident ‘flyrock’ in construction and quarry blasting—it’s material projected outside a declared danger zone. At least that’s how it was explained to me. When the fault line was breached, a whole section of the area collapsed. You were all buried underneath it. One man died. The rest of you were badly injured.”

After a moment, he said, “Your mate was at this building site.”

The question took her by surprise, and she had to swallow before she could reply. “Yes,” she whispered. “He’s disappeared.”

“You think I know where he is.”

She shook her head. “No, but I believe you can help me find him.”

“And you claim you’ve healed me before.” The very lack of expression with which he said that indicated the depth of his skepticism.

“That must sound pretty outlandish to you.” She tried to smile. “I guess it is pretty outlandish. It’s been an outlandish kind of a year.”

If he had such a hard time believing she might want to heal him, just wait until he found out about Peanut. She could imagine how well that conversation would go down.

“I don’t remember you,” he said.

Her head drooped. Of course, she knew that, but the clinical, dispassionate way in which he said it was every bit as devastating as the actual reality. All the passion she felt for him, this tremendous, consuming storm of love…

None of it was returned. None of the need, or his own love for her, manifested in anything he said or did. Here he was, as strong as ever, living and breathing in front of her, and she felt as if someone immeasurably precious to her had died.

“I wish, so very much, that I could find some way to convince you to let me heal you,” she said unsteadily. “I wish it for your sake, so that you can feel better, and maybe—just maybe—your memories might return to you. But most of all, I wish it for my sake, because I miss my mate with all my heart, and I would do anything or give anything to get him back again.”

“The wound is already healing.” He added deliberately, “I don’t need you either.”

Maybe he was only speaking the truth as he knew it, but that seemed unnecessarily cruel, and it took everything she had not to lash out at him because of it.

Her voice hardened. “Maybe you don’t need me, or maybe you only think you don’t. You still don’t remember what happened to you last week, or the week before, or the week before that. You don’t know which of your old enemies might be close by, or what new enemies you might have made. You’re vulnerable, Dragos, in a way you’ve never been vulnerable before, and I’m the only ally you’ve got who’s offering you any kind of help.”

Silence fell between them, and it was just long enough for her to castigate herself again for pushing him too hard when she had promised herself she wouldn’t.

He stirred, shifting his long, bulky body, and by his very restlessness, she knew she had scored a hit.

“What is this healing you would attempt?” Dragos tilted his head to watch her more closely. “Do you really think it would help my memories return? I will not tolerate any kind of spell.”

The surge of hope she felt was almost as unbearable as everything else had been in the last twenty-four hours. “I can’t tell you how much I hope it will help you get your memory back, but the truth is, I don’t know,” she told him. Unable to resist any longer, she laid a hand on his muzzle and stroked him. “I can promise you this—I would never hurt you.”