Pia Saves the Day (Elder Races #6.6)(13)

A part of her thrilled to note he didn’t pull back from her gentle caress, but then he had to go and spoil it.

“Of course you wouldn’t, not if you have any hope of me helping you find your mate,” he said, the cynical tone back in his voice.

She nearly smacked him on the nose, as she snapped, “Of course.”

“Do it,” he told her.

For a moment she could hardly believe her ears. Before he could change his mind, she dug into the front pocket of her jean shorts and pulled out her penknife. Under his sharp, distrustful gaze, she sliced open her palm.

“There’s no spell,” she told him, her voice tight with nerves. “It’s just my blood. Bend your head to me.”

Slowly, still watching her, the dragon bent his head down farther. She laid her bleeding palm lightly against his wound.

Power flowed out from her palm. Dragos sucked in a breath and shuddered. After a long moment, she pulled her hand away and inspected his wound in the failing light.

It had already been half healed, and as she watched, the wound faded into a bone white scar.

Dragos released a long sigh. She asked, “How do you feel?”

“Better. The headache is finally gone.” The dragon met her gaze. “But I still don’t remember you.”

Chapter Five

As he said the words, Dragos watched the light that had brightened her eyes dim. Her eyes were quite beautiful, he realized. Large and expressive, they showed her every emotion. Her shoulders slumped, and her head bowed.

“Okay.” Her voice had turned dull and flat, matching her dejected expression. “At least we tried.”

She turned to walk away.

He frowned. He didn’t like the sight of her walking away from him. The realization seemed to echo in his mind, almost as if he had thought it once before. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“It’s getting cold. I’m not like you. I don’t have your kind of body heat. I’m going to gather wood for a fire.” She didn’t look around at him as she spoke. “I should have done it earlier.”

His frown deepened. While his presence deterred other predators in the immediate area, the ground was rocky and steep, and the gathering dusk would make traversing it dangerous for someone who was so much more fragile than he.

He said abruptly, “I didn’t say you could leave me.”

Her stride hitched, and the angle of the back of her head seemed to express… exasperation? When she replied, her words had turned edged. “And I didn’t ask you.”

At that impudence, he growled a low warning, but she paid no attention and walked into the tree line. How dare she ignore him?

A new realization sidelined his burst of anger. While it was true he didn’t remember her, the lack of pain and the absence of the fiery wall in his mind allowed something to surface—a single word that carried a huge concept.

Wyr.

Certainly she was unlike him, as she wasn’t a predator, but still, she was like him in a fundamental way. They were both Wyr, both two-natured creatures.

Like him, she had an animal form that was somehow tied to her cool, witchy moonlit Power, the Power that had cascaded over his hot pain, easing and healing it.

And, like her, he had a human form.

Instinctively, he reached for his other form. It felt like flexing a familiar, well-toned muscle… and he shifted.

After the change, he regarded his body. In his human form, he was still much larger than she, taller and broader, and more heavily muscled. He was clad in jeans and a T-shirt, and sturdy boots, all of which were grimed with dirt and blood—his blood.

On his left hand, he wore a plain gold ring. As he stared at it curiously, he realized there was something attached to his wrist.

Holding up his hand, he inspected the thing on his wrist in the fading light.

It was a braid of gleaming, pale gold hair.

He sucked in a breath. No matter how suspiciously he might inspect the braid, the only touch of Power he felt on it was his own, and that felt like a protection spell. The braid of hair was just that, a simple braid.

And he had wanted to protect it.

The gold hair looked quite familiar. In fact, it looked like the exact shade of hair on the head of the woman who was even now stubbornly climbing around the steep mountainside in the growing dark.

Galvanized, he leaped after her. She had managed to travel much farther away from the clearing than he had expected. His gaze adjusting to the darker shadows under the trees, he tracked her by scent and instinct.

She crouched beside some deadfall, stacking sticks into the crook of one arm. As he approached, she pointed one stick toward him like a sword without looking up.

“Stay back,” she said. Her voice sounded strange, clogged with emotion. “Leave me alone for a few minutes.”

Distress seemed to bruise the air around her, and he could smell the tiny, telltale salt of tears. Scowling, Dragos folded his arms. He disliked the scent of her tears, and he had no intention of going anywhere just because she told him to.

“You’re wasting your time,” he told her abruptly. “Those little twigs you’re gathering will burn to ash within a half an hour.”

She snapped, “It’ll be better than nothing.”

Brushing past the useless barrier of the stick she brandished and bending over her, he closed his hand carefully around the tense curve of her slender shoulder. She shuddered at his touch, her head tilting sideways as if she might lay her cheek against the back of his hand.