Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 86059 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86059 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
That’s…terrifying.
I scarcely breathe as the head lowers and looms over me. He eyes me, running his snout up and down my body, and I see blood dotting his golden scales. Brady’s blood, the same blood I’m covered in, I think.
The dragon noses me again, gently flicking the tip of his tongue over the beaten side of my face, as if acknowledging my wounds.
It’s almost like he’s not going to hurt me.
I don’t understand it. Dragons are killers. They’ve destroyed the Earth and obliterated our civilization. The only humans that remain are scrabbling out a living in small pockets of society, and nothing’s like it was before. Dragons scorched the land and killed everyone I knew.
Dragons ripped my face open and cost me half my arm. So why is this one being so…calm? Everyone knows that dragons are ferocious, that they kill and flame without a second thought. They destroy just because they like to. There’s no reasoning with them. They’re pure and utter monsters.
And yet, this one nudges me again with his nose, and it almost seems…polite.
His eyes meet mine and to my surprise, they’re almost entirely gold. It seems odd to me, because I could have sworn the last time I saw him, his eyes were black as pits, standing out against the bright color of his scales. The dragons that act as sentinels back at the fort have passive, gray eyes. To see all this gold is surprising. There’s black edged in there, too, a hint of a swirl that laces through all the gold, his eyes reminding me a bit of endless plumes of smoke the way that the colors weave through them.
Maybe…maybe dragons with gold eyes are nice guys?
“Are you going to eat me?” I whisper as the claws flex underneath my body. If I’m bait, it’d make sense that he’d eat me.
The dragon makes a low, rumbling noise in his throat that makes my heart pound, but he doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t do anything, just watches me.
His nose remains so close to me that his breath wafts over my shift dress, a warm, constant puffing of air as we stare at each other. I decide I need to be the first one to break the silence, because we can’t remain like this forever.
“Hi,” I try, keeping my voice soft and gentle. “Can you put me down?”
There’s no response. Of course there’s not. Maybe dragons aren’t any smarter than, say, a cat. I’ve heard rumors that they’re wily and clever, but up close it’s hard to tell. I wouldn’t expect a cat to talk to me, so talking to a dragon—a rampaging monster—probably has zero effect.
So I try something else. I reach out my hand.
The moment I do, I’m terrified I just made a mistake. If he bites it off, I’ll have no hands left and in the After, that’s a death sentence even if I manage to get away from him.
But the dragon only lowers his head to my hand, meeting me halfway, and then pushes his muzzle against my palm.
Oh.
I gently touch the scales, mindful of how he reacts to my touch. The moment he starts to look irritated—like a finicky cat—I’m pulling back. For now, though, he leans into my caress, and I feel the hard scales under my work-roughened palm. He’s incredibly warm, and it’s like touching bricks heated by fire as I explore his muzzle. The scales are hard and flat, and his nostrils are so big I could probably lose a hand in there.
He seems to like my touch, I think. I’m fascinated as he closes his eyes and presses against my hand again, as if encouraging more.
I stroke the muzzle once more, studying him. His lips hide all but the tips of dangerously long fangs, and his breath smells like hints of ash and smoke and something else I can’t quite determine. A spicy scent, I decide after a while. Not unpleasant, just different. I continue to pet his muzzle, wondering how this can possibly feel good given that my hand is so small against his face. I feel a bit like a Barbie doll held in a child’s arms.
My fingers brush across something wet and when I lift my hand, I see blood. It reminds me that this dragon—who even now presses against my hand—just killed someone. I should be terrified, but I feel detached instead. Maybe Brady hit my head too many times and I can’t process things properly. Who knows?
“You came just in the nick of time,” I tell the dragon, skimming my fingers along one large nostril.
The large eyes open, and they seem even more golden than before. I could swear he knows I’m talking to him, and it makes me wonder.
“Or was it in the nick of time?” I ask, even as I pet his face. “Did you hear him hitting me? Did you know what he was going to do? If so, should I be thanking you?” I’m not sorry Brady’s dead. I just wish I had been the one to do it. Fuck that guy.