Try. Astarot isn’t ready to give up yet. When they lift the net, he’ll attack. He’s desperate to save us—I can feel the energy building within him—because he knows as well as I do what capture means. And I don’t know whether to cry in relief that he’s willing to try, or beg him to submit. He’s as likely to get killed as he is to escape.
“How the fuck did you find them?” The first rider to reach us snarls the question as he approaches. His gaze touches on Fhord and me before it rests on Astarot. “I figured we’d never get ‘em back.”
“I subdued them,” Fhord responds in a tone full of derision and … boredom.
My back straightens as I waver between desperation and a hope that’s threatening to slip away. I want to believe he’s acting. That he really cares for me. But he’s so fucking convincing. With every word he mutters, I feel like my soul’s being ripped apart. Like this strange connection between us is a living thing, buried in my chest and burning me from the inside out.
If he did betray me, I hope Tindera punishes him. My fingers grow cold as I let my thoughts rest on his dragon. How tough it will be on her. Her bond with Astarot is new and still weak, but she claimed my dragon. Fhord would piss her off as much as he did me. Maybe more.
I’ll hold on to that knowledge like a blanket. Tindera is everything to him, and she’ll be livid. That’ll get me through the torture I’ll be suffering soon.
Butfuck, I don’t know how I’m going to get through what they’ll do to Astarot now.
Fhord nudges Sigurd, dragging my attention back to him.
“Hold the fuck on,” the first guard yells before we’ve taken more than a few steps, urging his horse into our path. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“I’m taking her back to the Nest,” Fhord explains in a voice dripping with disdain. “You’ve got enough men for the dragon.” He tugs on the reins to go around but this guard is stubborn, staying in Sigurd’s path.
“I’m gonna let her ride with you,” he snarls at Fhord, “but you go back with us. Like I said, I don’t trust you.”
“And like I said, I don’t give a fuck what you think. I’m taking her back to the Nest now.”
Astarot’s roar interrupts their dick-measuring contest. They’ve pulled the net from him and this is his only chance to escape before he’s bound again. He shakes off the remaining strands, his thoughts caressing me for a moment, and swats at a nearby guard. I watch as the male flies through the air, droplets of blood splattering on the rock where he lands.
For a moment, I think Astarot’s going to make it. The path ahead of him is clear and he’s able to extend his wings as he begins the short run that will help him launch.
Just for a moment.
The men who arrived came prepared for this.
The arrow that flies through the air pierces Astarot’s side, barely missing his heart. But I can feel his pain. Doubling over in the saddle, my hands grasp for the hole in my side that feels like it must have appeared while I try to hold back the vomit pushing into my throat. I can’t. Leaning to the right, I barely avoid my legs as my stomach empties. Again. And again.
As I struggle to breathe, sharp gasps filling the space in between my heaves, my mind finally wraps around the fact that this is Astarot’s pain. He’s already struggling to take it from me, to keep me from experiencing his agony.Please, I whisper to his thoughts.Please stop trying to protect me from this. I’m okay. You need your strength to live. You must live.
Sorrow. His devastation and grief echo through me, eclipsing the pain. He’d hoped to save us both and has only condemned us to death. Or worse. I can feel the weakness in his limbs, the pressure building in his chest, as his life drips out of him.
“You’ve subdued the dragon,” Fhord bellows, malice and anger in every word. “Now save him. You have no authority to take his life.”
“He would have escaped,” the guard who shot Astarot declares. He’s strident, but I can hear the tremble in his voice. If Astarot dies, he’ll die with him. Even rebellious dragons are too valuable to be killed unless absolutely necessary. Guards can injure and subdue them. But they can never kill them. Sometimes it’s too fine a line to walk. This guard couldn’t do it.
“And now he won’t.” Fhord’s words are a whisper laden with a threat. “Remove the arrow and stitch him up. He may still recover if you act quickly.”
“How in all the gods’ names am I supposed to do that?” Now the guard is afraid, his life tied inexorably to Astarot’s. “I don’t carry medical supplies.”
“You left the Nest with a dragon bolt but no suture? Do you want to die?” I can feel the rumble in Fhord’s chest as his anger takes hold. Young as their mating bond is, Astarot’s death will hurt Tindera.
“I have no suture. And even if I did, I don’t know how to sew up the beast.”
“Fuck.” Fhord swings his leg off Sigurd as he digs into one of his packs. “Hold her,” he yells at one of the guards. “And don’t fucking touch her. She must reach the Nest unscathed.”
Another guard approaches and grabs my arm to pull me down from the saddle. I’m still struggling to control the pain in my side, wincing as he drops me on the ground. “Stay put,” he demands, his hand resting on my shoulder. I concentrate on breathing, fighting to block out the pain like I did during my time in the Nest.
My gaze catches Fhord’s as he finds what he needs and nods to himself. “You have to save him,” I whisper. “Please.”
Hints of what look like regret and sorrow rise in Fhord’s face, darkening his eyes as he turns to me, and filling me with hope. But just for a moment. Scorn takes their place, and I’m thrown back into my terror that it’s all been fake. That he’s never felt anything for me and everything between us was a lie. I pray to all the gods I’m wrong, but the betrayal I felt again and again in the Nest rises inside me to splinter my faith, casting shards at my feet. Becauseeveryonein Vanatia belongs to the Dróttning.
“‘Dragon lives are precious and may not be forfeited without cause, and only on the order of the Dróttning,’” Fhord bites out, assaulting them with the mantra everyone in this land knows by heart. “If I’m able to save him, I will. For the Dróttning.”
