Leah's Hero - Miranda Martin Page 0,47
scars and the makeshift cast I put on his arm. The way the scars pull with the motion of his wing must hurt. Those scars are twisted, angry, very rough. A butcher job if ever I saw one.
He may be broken, but he’s still powerful and beautiful. The scars add flavor, give him an air of having been through it and come out the other side. He’s a survivor. I’ve spent my life helping those who’ve had the worst day of their lives. Pilots who were caught in the flaming wreckage of their planes. Training accidents that left the person mauled, burned, or torn in ways that no one’s body should ever be put through.
I know scars. I know pain. In caring for others, I’ve always been able to hide my own. He’s different though. I don’t feel for him the way I have for so many others. It’s not empathy. It’s deeper. Richer. Filled with colors that I didn’t know existed in the world.
He has saved me so many times, but even that isn’t enough to satisfy the way I feel. The depth of this is so much more. I touch his chest, trailing my fingers across the bulging pectoral muscles down to the top of his rock-hard abs.
Every Zmaj I’ve met looks like they should be on the cover of a romance novel or a body-builder poster. Bulging muscles on full display since they don’t wear shirts. He’s always cool to the touch, in a pleasing way. The color on the edges of his scales shifts. It’s subtle, and if I weren’t studying him so closely, I’d probably have missed it, but seeing it, I can’t unsee it. Interesting.
“Okay?” he asks, breaking into my careful study.
“Huh? Yes,” I nod probably with too much enthusiasm as I try to cover over how flustered I am. “Yes.”
“Good,” he says. He cups his hand under my chin and gently pulls my eyes up to meet his. “Care.”
He pats his chest and repeats the word. I’m translating it but I’m certain I get what he means. He cares. About me. Oh…
The mix of crazy emotions paralyzes me. Can’t breathe. Can’t think. Smile? No? Frown? Nod? Grin like a fool? Yeah, that’s the one, I’ll do that.
Oh, what am I doing? I stop the stupid grin, grabbing control of myself and make it a simple smile.
“Thank you,” I say, earnestness making my voice heavy, but I’m in control here. I am a big girl, got this all day long. I motion, placing a hand on my chest then placing it on his. “Me too.”
Emotions race across his face. He’d be a terrible poker player except I can’t read them clearly because there seem to be so many that his face is a storm of conflicting possibilities. Which possibility is reality though?
I pull my hand back, uncertain and afraid to push. No, the next move is his. I made my move and he turned me down. Ball is firmly in his court. His tail shifts, curling around his leg and touching mine. A shiver races up my leg, and I bite my lip to keep myself under control. I’d never, in all my days, have thought a tail could be sexy, but damn he pulls it off.
He clears his throat as the air between us vibrates with the tension between the two of us. Please take me. No, wait, what is wrong with me? He turns and resumes walking. The tension eases as we progress forward. It’s there, but not at the forefront of everything at least. That’s better, I think.
Thunder rumbles and then the rain becomes an instantaneous downpour. Water runs in tiny wannabe rivers past our feet, racing down the incline. It’s coming down so hard I can barely see Urukol walking beside me.
I hold out my hand then realize I’m on the side with his broken arm. I touch his arm as I step behind him and switch sides. When his hand closes on mine, gratitude swells in my chest. It’s safe, he’ll protect me.
Heads down, we walk against the driving rain. It’s so cold I’m shivering, but the wind keeps blowing harder. Each rain drop hits harder and harder as the wind picks up. I’m leaning into the wind to keep myself upright. He lets go of my hand to move his arm behind the small of my back, helping me to stay up.
My feet become my entire world. One foot forward, then the next. Hours pass, or it feels