Page 5 of Owen

He pulled down my sock until my ankle and heel were free. I wished I’d gotten a pedicure sometime in the last, oh, year. Was my heel rough and nasty? He didn’t seem to think so as his hands traveled over my foot. His calloused fingers examined the swollen joint. It had already started to swell within the minute I’d taken the boot off.

“A slight sprain,” he decided. “Your instinct was correct. You need to keep it elevated.”

“Thank you for taking the time to look at it.” I didn’t want to pull it away. It was nice to be taken care of, even if this little way. It was nice to feel his hands on my skin. For someone as big as he was, he had a gentle way about him.

But there was something underneath that gentleness. I sensed it, just the way I sensed the warmth of the fire, the smell of wet soil and leaves in the air, the sound of water still drip, drip, dripping from the trees. He had another side to him. He wasn’t always so gentle.

Or maybe it had been too long since I’d eaten a solid meal.

“So,” I whispered, since he left me a little breathless, “now that you’ve examined my ankle, you can tell me what you’re doing here.”

He blinked, silent.

“You said that if I allowed you to do it, you would tell me what you’re doing here. Remember? It was only a few minutes ago.”

“When you get an idea in your head, you’re like a dog with a bone,” he muttered, shaking his head.

I tried to ignore the way the fire’s light played off his chiseled jaw, his square chin. It was like trying to ignore an elephant sitting on my chest.

How did somebody who looked like that end up on a mountain after a hurricane without a single piece of gear in sight?

“So?” I prompted. “What gives? Why are you up here? I told you. You tell me.”

“Are you an investigative journalist by any chance?”

“No. Do you think I should consider a career change?”

He tried not to laugh, but it escaped him anyway.

A rich, deep laugh that bubbled up from his chest and graced the air. When he smiled, it was like the sun coming up after a long night.

And his hand was still on my ankle, and I wasn’t doing a thing to pull away from his touch.

What was happening to me?

3

She was something else. Something I never could’ve anticipated. I’d expected some half-dead hiker, someone begging for help, someone who would accept assistance and be grateful enough and relieved enough to not think hard on what had brought me their way.

Why did I have to cross paths with her, of all people?

Her ankle still rested on my thigh, and I maintained contact. Smooth skin, lean muscles, a small foot to go along with a small body. She had a great deal of strength and inner fortitude, surviving the storm, taking care of herself up to that point.

Being alone in the middle of so much destruction must have been terrifying, indeed. She must have questioned at least once, whether she would survive. Yet here she was, a survivor, and never once had she mourned her situation.

My dragon wished for nothing more than to wrap her up and carry her to safety, to protect and watch over her because she needed that sort of thing, whether or not she wished to admit it.

“Well?” she asked with a sigh. Her plump mouth pulled down at the corners. “You know, the longer it takes for you to give me a straight answer, the more convinced I am that there’s something fishy about you and the more likely I am to grab that pickaxe again. Just saying.”

Yet, she still had not pulled away from me. She trusted me in spite of the outward signs telling her not to. Did she feel the same stirrings? Impossible. She was just a girl. A girl alone on a mountain in the middle of the night. Little wonder she’d demand answers.

“I’ve been staying with friends, further up the mountain,” I explained, and immediately regretted it.

For her brow furrowed, bringing dark red eyebrows together over the bridge of her nose. “There are people living on the mountain?”

“Yes.” Damn, damn, damn.

“I didn’t think there were residences up there.” She looked up, as if it would be possible to see through the thick trees and into the darkness. As if a glowing light would indicate where I’d come from.

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