Page 10 of Hunted By the Dragon Alien

“Sit,” he commanded as Ulo hovered nearby. Sevas didn’t argue, though her legs didn’t give her much of a choice. He lowered her to the floor gently, his grip firm but careful, like he was handling a weapon that might still strike back.

Bruil stepped forward, raising a brow but saying nothing. His yellow eyes scanned Sevas with what might have been grudging approval. Ulo, on the other hand, clearly wanted reassurance from Sevas that she was okay. His worry was plain on his broad, rocky face.

Takkian crouched beside her, eyes narrowed as he took in her condition. A sharp cut streaked across her temple, darkeningher hair with blood that had only just begun to clot. Her cheek was already swelling where the impact of a blow had left an angry, blooming bruise. Her translucent shift was torn near her shoulder, revealing a patch of raw flesh crusted with sand. A few shallow scrapes traced the length of her arms and legs, painting trails of red against her tan skin. But what caught his attention most was the dark patch of blood seeping through the fabric over her left side, just beneath her rib cage. It wasn’t pooling enough to suggest something deep, but it was enough to make his jaw tighten.

“You’re hurt,” he growled. He had feelings about this, about her, none of which he cared to name. His claws flexed, then retracted again, hovering just above the wound as if unsure whether to touch her or not.

“I’m fine,” Sevas bit out, though her voice wavered. She winced as she spoke, the faint furrow of her brow betraying the pain she was clearly trying to swallow. She shifted slightly, attempting to sit up straighter, but her arm trembled under the effort. Takkian’s hands shot out to steady her again.

“Stay still,” he warned through clenched teeth. “If you keep moving, you’re going tofekkingtear something.”

Takkian stood abruptly. His wings snapped against his back as he moved to the corner of the cell where the water spigot jutted crudely from the wall. The spigot dripped steadily onto the grate below, its rhythmic plink almost drowned out by the drum of his own pulse. It wasn’t concern, he told himself, as he grabbed a scrap of cloth hanging near it and turned the knob to increase the flow of water. Just necessity. A practical matter. She needed to be cleaned up—nothing more.

He shoved the cloth under the cold stream, then squeezed as much excess water as he could before shutting off the water and returning to Sevas. She was where he’d left her, sitting on the floor with her legs half-folded beneath her. Her head restedagainst the wall. Her eyes drifting shut for fleeting moments before snapping open again.

Ulo kneeled nearby. His massive hands gripped his knees as he hovered anxiously, his eyes darting between Takkian and Sevas like he didn’t know what to do.

She patted Ulo’s forearm and gave him a tired smile. “I’m okay, Ulo. Really.” Stubborn, even now.

Takkian crouched in front of Sevas again, holding the damp cloth aloft for a moment as he surveyed her injuries. The sight of her battered form stirred something unwelcome, something he’d been trying to smother since the moment she’d stepped into their cell. It was a heat in his chest that infuriated him—an ache for her pain he had no right to feel.

“Hold still.” He reached out, wincing inwardly at how small her frame seemed beneath the mess of blood and bruises.

“I’mfine,” Sevas rasped again, though the hitch in her breath told him otherwise. Her eyes flitted open just long enough to meet his. That spark was still there, dim but defiant, refusing to go out even as exhaustion pulled at the edges of her. It hit him harder than it should have—how someone so worn down could still have the nerve to challenge him, even now.

“You’renotfine,” Takkian snapped as he pressed the cool cloth gently to the cut on her temple. Her breath hitched again, this time from the sting of the damp cloth meeting raw skin. He ignored it, tilting her head just enough to reach the wound. “Finedoesn’t bleed this much.”

“I’m still breathing, aren’t I?” she shot back, and there it was—that same fire, burning right through the exhaustion. Her voice was weak, but her words carried weight. She flinched as the cloth brushed over the worst part of the cut, her frown deepening, but she didn’t pull away.

Takkian didn’t answer. He worked methodically, focus locked on the task as though wiping away the blood could keephim from thinking about the truth of this place. About how this was just the start of what they’d throw at her. About how he didn’t know if that spark in her eyes—the one that stirred something dangerous in his chest—would survive many more matches.

The cloth dragged against her cheek, smearing away grit and dry blood. Her skin was warmer than it should’ve been, feverish under his rough touch. He clenched his jaw so tightly his teeth threatened to crack. The cut on her temple clotted slowly, a sluggish effort from a body that had likely spent more energy than it should have in thatfekkingarena.

“Keep talking like that and you won’t be breathing for long.” His tone was quieter now. He shifted his focus to the darker stain pooling over her rib cage, the blood stark against the already mangled fabric. His clawed fingers brushed the shredded edge of the vest and shift. “This…needs to come off. The blood’s soaked through.”

Sevas stiffened. Her shoulders drew back despite the exhaustion weighing her down. Her voice came low, almost a growl. “I can handle it.”

“You can barely sit up,” Takkian countered without hesitation. “Let me help you, or you’ll get an infection just to prove you can suffer alone.” Takkian didn’t wait for her to argue further. The stubborn tilt of her chin told him she would, but the tremor in her arms and the way her breaths came shallow and uneven sealed his decision. His claws tore a hole through the fabric covering her ribs, exposing the wound beneath, but not bearing her breasts. The gash wasn’t as bad as he originally thought. Just a scrape, likely from a fall, and some bruised ribs. Her smooth, taut skin rippled as his fingers touched around the wound.

He swallowed thickly, suddenly a little light-headed and disoriented. She smelled of the arena, and sweat, but also ofsomething delicious and pure and utterlyher. He wanted to lean forward and press his lips to every scratch, every bruise, just to let her know that he wished his touch could heal her.

But that wasn’t going to happen and flights of fantasy were pointless in this place. He pressed the damp cloth against the wound, aware of her sharp intake of breath. “Hold still,” he muttered. When the cloth was more red than white, he rinsed it out before returning to the task, keeping his movements firm and gentle. He didn’t stop until the blood and dirt were cleaned from each cut. Bruil was right—she reminded him of himself in his first match: raw, angry, and reckless, but alive. But she also reminded him of the part of him that slept beneath the beast. A male who was capable of kindness and softness. A male who hungered.

Her breaths had slowed to an uneven rhythm that hinted at the fatigue dragging her under. Her lashes fluttered as if fighting to stay awake, but her body betrayed her. She was slipping. Her head lolled and her eyes dimmed, clouded by exhaustion’s grip.

Takkian rinsed the cloth one last time and placed it aside, then took a longer strip of cloth—a clean one from a small stash that he kept under his mattress—and wrapped it around her wound, securing it in place. Slowly, carefully, he slid his scaled arms beneath her—one curling under her knees and the other cradling her shoulders. Her body was limp and loose from sleep.

Her head rested against his chest. The golden strands of her hair were the brightest things to touch his scaled skin in memory. The warmth of her breath against his collarbone made the blood rush there. The contact stirred something disorienting and foreign deep in his chest, but he shoved it down, burying it under the cold practicality this place required. Attachments didn’t last here. They brought nothing but weakness, and weakness led to death. Still, his grip on her remained firm,steady—as if some small part of him refused to let her slip through his hands.

Bruil cleared his throat, shaking his head. “You’re not doing yourself any favors,” the older fighter said. His yellow eyes gleamed faintly. “Getting soft for a female. Dangerous game you’re playing. But then, she is a Terian.”

“What does that mean?” Takkian asked.

Bruil shrugged. “Our kind is fond of them, is all. From the old days.”

Takkian had no idea what that meant, so he ignored it as he carried Sevas to his bunk. Her weight was negligible in his arms, yet the responsibility was heavy. Here he was, carrying this stunning female, who felt like the most precious and valuable thing he’d ever touched, tohisbed. Where she would rest alone. Part of him—no,allof him—wanted to climb in beside her, wrap her in his arms and protect her as she rested. He imagined snarling at anyone who dared come near her, like some feral beast snapping away predators. It was absurd. She’d likely hit him if he tried such a thing. As he reached the top bunk, he shifted her carefully, maneuvering her limp form onto the thin mattress.

Sevas stirred faintly. A soft sound escaped her lips—something between a sigh and a murmur, too quiet to understand. Her face relaxed against the coarse fabric of the mattress. Despite her injuries, despite the exhaustion carved into every line of her frame, she looked…resolute. Even in sleep, her jaw held the faintest clench, as though she refused to let herself give in completely. That stubbornness, that will—ah, he liked it.

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