Thea Harrison - Dragon Bound

Come to think of it he looked pretty damn sexy chained to that floor. Especially if this were her castle. She would send her servants in to wash him (all male heterosexual servants, and they would of course clean up this disgusting cell, scatter candles around, put a mattress under him with silk sheets, oh, and maybe leave a bottle of wine and a couple of glasses), and afterward she would come down and tease him to madness by mounting him and rubbing her scantily clad body all over that sizzling hot torso.

Except there was no castle. She had no servants. His wrists were bleeding, which looked painful and was no fun at all, and everywhere she went it stank like Goblin. Oh yeah, and their lives were in danger.

“Still not right in the head,” she muttered.

He sent her a gleam of that machete smile over his shoulder. “You are going to explain what you mean by that very soon now.”

She felt a blush warm her cheeks. “Not likely.”

He removed the manacle, sat up and stretched, then slid forward and started working on his ankles. He was matter-of-fact about it, but she had to cover her mouth to muffle her squeal. She sat up straight and clapped excitedly. His smile deepened. Soon he had his ankles freed, and he took a moment to pick the lock on the manacle on his left wrist and fling it into a corner.

Then they both looked at the other black metal manacles and chains with the repulsive magic. They were two simple shackles, one hobbling his arms together, the other at his ankles, which kept him from being able to walk in his normal long stride.

“Somehow I don’t think this is going to be as easy,” he said. He was right. No matter how he worked he wasn’t able to pick any of the four locks. “I think these won’t come off without the matching key. I bet that’s part of their magic.”

Her excitement plummeted. “What do you think they do besides feel slimy?”

“Well, the Goblins didn’t know I got shot by the Elves, did they?” he said. “Or if they did know, they wouldn’t have wanted to trust it since it is going to wear off at some point. These feel like they do the same thing the Elven poison does—limit my strength and prevent me from changing. Otherwise there would have been no hope of those”—he jerked his chin at the other set of chains—“keeping me prisoner.”

“So now what do we do?” She threw up her hands. She could feel somewhere inside there was a crack that was getting wider. It was just a matter of time before she fell into it, like the beetle, only she wasn’t so sure she would be able to crawl her way back out again.

“You’re going back into your cell.” He crouched over her and put a hand over her mouth when she started to protest. He snapped, “Did you or did you not promise no arguing?”

“Fuck you. You’re not the boss of me,” she mumbled against his palm. She wrapped both hands around his wrist, careful of the bruised torn skin. “You keep forgetting that.”

“Let me see if I’ve got this straight,” he said, gold eyes glinting. “You promised not to argue when you don’t want to argue. Is that it?”

Was he amused? Mad? She couldn’t tell. She said, “Of course.”

He barked out a laugh, put his hands under her arms and lifted her to her feet. He held on to her until she steadied. “Okay, girly girl. You’re going in the cell, I’m locking the door behind you and all the fuck-yous in the world aren’t going to change that. It’s the safest place for you. If for some reason they get back before I do, they’ll never think you got out. They’ll think that I did all this.” He gestured around the cell.

“I don’t want to separate.”

“Tough,” he said. “I’m going hunting and you don’t want to be there.”

He hefted the battle-axe in one hand like it was made of Styrofoam and placed the other at her back. Despite his callous tone, he was careful as he led her down the corridor. Between her injuries and his shackles, they went at a slow pace.

She stepped inside and turned back. She couldn’t look up at him. She focused instead on the floor as her lips trembled. “But what if they come back?”

A heavy silence lay between them.

Long fingers slid under her chin and coaxed her face up. She bit her lips as she looked up at his sober expression. “I won’t leave you alone for long. I’ll be quick as I can.” A fat tear splashed onto his hand and he looked as if it had seared him. He swore under his breath. Then he bent his head and brushed her mouth with his. “I swear to you, Pia, they will not hurt you again. You have to trust me.”

She nodded and jerked her head away, swiping at her face with the back of her hand. “Go.”

He stood there looking at her. For a moment he seemed like he was about to speak, but she turned her back on him. She thought she felt his fingers brush the back of her neck, and then he was gone.

All the vitality that had been surrounding and sustaining her drained away in his absence. She looked around the dingy, horrible cell and felt so lonesome she could have lain down and died.

She sat in the middle of the floor and made herself into a small package, with upraised knees and forehead resting on her forearms. How did she do that trick before, when she went blank as soon as the Goblins took her? She hadn’t meant to. It had to have been some kind of defense response to too much horror when those monstrous hands had touched her.

Now the minutes trickled by with agonizing slowness and she had no insulation from it. She wanted to check out, to disassociate and go somewhere else in her head, but she couldn’t figure out how to do it again. It took everything she had not to give in to panic and walk out that cell door.

She remembered every turn they took. She knew she could get to that outside door again. Which was no doubt guarded by a couple of those skanky bat-faced freaks. She muffled a groan and squeezed herself into a tighter package.

How did I get here again? It’s like I had a grocery list of all the things I shouldn’t do, and I went right on down it, checking off things as I got to them. I’ve been very thorough about it. Live very quietly, her mom had said. Leave everything behind on a moment’s notice. Don’t get too attached to people. And don’t tell anyone anything about your real self. Simple, simple stuff.

I’ve got to give myself one thing. Mom never did tell me not to steal from a dragon. No doubt she thought it was too flaming obvious to mention. It should have been added to that Jim Croce song. You don’t spit into the wind. You don’t pull the mask off of the ole Lone Ranger, and you don’t steal from Cuelebre.

Think I might have destroyed any hope of living anonymously? Numskull.

A small sound sent her into a panic.

A key scraped in the lock.

Her body shrieked in protest as she pushed to her feet and backed against a wall. She pulled the switchblade out of her pocket and pressed the spring. The blade snicked open. She hid it along the length of her thigh, staring with a dry mouth as the door opened.

Dragos slipped in, his massive fighter’s body moving with liquid grace on quiet cat’s feet. He carried a leather pack on one shoulder. The black metal shackles were gone. Leather harness straps crossed his chest. The hilt of the battle-axe and what looked like a sword were strapped to his back. Knives in sheaths were laced on his forearms, and the sheath of another short sword was buckled at his waist and tied at his thigh. His chiseled features were calm. Holy cow, he made Conan the Barbarian look like a wimp.

Relief almost brought her to her knees. Black stars danced in front of her. In an instant he was in front of her, hands on her shoulders, bracing her back against the wall.

“Damn it, you look like you’re going to pass out,” he said.