To Wake a Dragon - Naomi Lucas Page 0,54

me for a time.

Her hut is round, and hides are draped upon every wall, across the floors, and around the firepit. Each from a jungle beast far larger than my human. Her kills bring me pride, but fear as well—any one of these animals could have killed her before she came under my protection.

There are also weapons. Many of them, and I am curious about most of them. There are spears, some with multiple prongs, and others that are stunted. There are daggers made of bones and unidentifiable items carved from rocks or wood. There’s a bow—I know it is a bow from the times the humans of old attempted to use them against me when I neared their homes. I pick it up. With these memories, it is strange to hold it in my grasp.

Once I have scrutinized everything in my view, I pull some hides from the walls and begin collecting the weapons within them. We will bring these with us wherever we go.

My nostrils flare. There is a strange smell in the air.

Milaye moans. Sweat beads her brow, and her face is creased. My eyes narrow. I go to her side and press my cheek to hers.

Heat. Humid, deep heat rises from her flesh. It is not the heat of her arousal. I sniff her skin and a sickly sweetness fills my nose. The strange scent is coming from her. She moans again, and I lean away to study her.

Is she sick? My chest constricts. I find the plate she ate from and bring it to my nose. It is nothing like the smell from her.

If someone has poisoned her, I will obliterate this village and everyone in it. I will tear this jungle apart and all in my path. Terror would return to these lands, and Venys would fear the dark dragon who lost his mate.

I take a taste. I do not taste poison.

Regardless, something is wrong. I take her hand and squeeze it, finding it limp in my grasp. “Milaye?”

No response.

“Milaye?” I say her name louder. Still, no reaction. My stomach churns. “Milaye!” I tangle my hands into her hair and lean over her. “Wake up! Wake up, female!” I gather her in my arms. “Milaye?”

A banging raps on the door, but I do not respond. I press my cheek to my female’s instead.

“What’s wrong?” someone shouts.

Milaye’s breath breezes over my skin, whisperingly light. Moving one of my hands to her chest, I find the beating of her heart. She is alive, but she does not wake. I bring my hand back up to her face. “Milaye? Can you hear me?” I am overcome with dread. “Answer me, human!”

What if? What if she is suffering what I suffered?

My nostrils flare. It cannot be. The poison dragon has long been dead. My human was never bitten. And though we are bonded, it would be impossible for something like poison transferring between us.

Unless…

I jerk away from her.

The banging and yelling from the door grows louder.

My eyes widen in horror. Unless it was in my saliva and my seed.

A crash sounds behind me. I twist to see Zaeyr and Aida with several other females of the tribe stand at the door. I growl in warning for them to stay back, but I am thrown away. Zaeyr leaps on top of me, baring his teeth, and I do not fight him. Stunned, I lie there, as limp as my human.

“Kill me,” I rasp. “Please.”

Zaeyr’s brow furrows.

Milaye’s tribe mates rush to her side, trying to rouse her as I had.

“What did you do to her?” one of them cries.

My lips part, but nothing comes out.

I poisoned her.

Zaeyr rises and I clench my hands. But before I can taunt him back to me, to end my horrid life, he goes to Milaye’s side. I surge up, shoving him away from her.

“Stay away from my female,” I roar.

He growls but remains where he is. A female rushes into the hut—his mate, I recognize—and goes to his side. I turn back to Milaye and the others around her. I growl again in warning and, to my surprise, one of them growls back.

The rest are undressing Milaye and splashing her with water. “What’s wrong with her?” the one who growled demands. “She’s unresponsive.”

“Tell us! Was she bitten by something? Could it be vine drought?” another asks.

“No, she’s not turning green,” one of them responds.

“Jungle serpent venom?”

“There’s no puncture wounds.”

“There’s bruises.” The female who said it narrows her eyes at me.

I push the women away