Diamond in the Rough - Vivienne Savage Page 0,33

He flexed his claws and tested the joint of his right wing, rotating the extremity in the socket a few times without extending it to its full span. While stiff, the flesh didn’t pull or tug.

“Your companion prepares for the journey ahead of you. As for how you came to us, we brought you here when your own endurance failed you.”

Xavier ducked his head and sighed a long breath that sent curls of dark smoke from his nostrils. He’d failed her. Again. Time after time, he’d failed to perform as needed for her.

“Fear not, young dragon. You saved many lives. You may be strong, but you are not inexhaustible. Your soul is weary.”

“I don’t have time for weariness.”

“Perhaps not, but I sense you have pushed yourself to near death many times. What good will you be to her if you perish now?”

Xavier hated that the woman was right. He couldn’t afford to die and leave her unprotected. But he didn’t mind pushing himself beyond exhaustion and to the point of death, and he’d do it over and over again as long as it meant Rosalia didn’t have to.

The love he felt for her was as much a curse as it was a gift.

The woman smiled up at him then turned to the man on her left. They spoke for a time in their native tongue, then the man said something to the others and the group dispersed, leaving only the older fellow.

“Are you able to transform?” the kindly old gent asked.

“Possibly.”

The thought hadn’t crossed his mind yet. As his default state of being tended to be his weredragon body, it was easiest for him to assume that form when injured.

Apparently, the gassing of his lair hadn’t been enough to trigger the survival instinct of his body to drop into a coma. Or maybe he’d merely passed out before he had the chance. The magical properties of dragon’s bane were insidious but mostly unknown, as his kind had never studied it in-depth and acquisition of it proved difficult.

“Would you like to try?” the man asked, lifting a robe up to Xavier in offering.

“I suppose I must.”

Moving hurt. Joints screamed, and an ache radiated from within the marrow of every bone. Despite that, he pulled himself together and sat on his haunches. He shook out his head a bit, and glanced down to see the old man smiling.

“I would like to know the name of my caretaker so I may thank you properly.”

“Ah, pardon my manners. I am Jorah of the Red Iris Clan.” He dipped his head respectfully. “You are the first dragon in some years that I have had the honor of working on.”

“An honor?”

Xavier blinked. He thought his kind were hated by the Moritta for his grandfather’s actions, and he couldn’t blame them for it. Deplorable and self-serving actions by a greedy ancient wyrm had plunged the entire world into danger beyond comprehension.

He wondered if anything could ever make up for it, even if he knew guilt by association of bloodline was a ridiculous notion. He owed nothing simply for being related to the bastard.

“Yes.” Jorah held up the robe again and nodded.

As much as he dreaded the transformation, it couldn’t be put off forever. Xavier braced himself for the pain of shifting—a rare occurrence but expected when his joints had already been pushed to their limits—and let the change come over him.

Each muscle fiber may as well have been stripped from his bones. Agony pounded through tendons into his joints with the rage of a blistering inferno, and he bit back a scream even as the pain almost drove him to double over and vomit.

“Here.”

Linen landed around his shoulders.

A moment passed before he realized that the older man had placed the robe on him and fastened it.

“You’ll live, I think, and be stronger for it. Head into the house of healing for supper. A good meal will do more than any amount of rest.”

“Thank you.”

The hand on his back imparted a fatherly warmth he hadn’t experienced in some time, and the feeling lingered with him long after he parted from Jorah’s company and entered the adjacent building. As a dragon, he’d been too large for them to carry inside. Fragrant air greeted him once he escaped the arid desert, the interior aromatic from herbs, ointment, burning incense, and drying flowers.

Several cots stretched down the length of the room, some occupied by people he could scarcely tell were ill. Then there was Ahrak, his huge body reclining on a