wake the dragon, do you?
The dragon waited coiled, a fang pressing into the black of his lip and threatening to draw blood. But he only folded his arms and flattened his large ears into his red-streaked mane, patience for once coming to him. He had waited this long, he told himself for the umpteenth time, no matter how close it was now. He let his emotion broil as he stood at the edge of the coyote clan as the spring sun baked his sable pelt.
A scent reached him on the breeze, a scent of flowers and life and beauty and her. His nostrils flared, and his pointed muzzle came up as crimson eyes widened. He flashed back as her aroma wafted to him; he was sitting on a windowsill, grinning like the child he’d never been, asking her to come join him in play. The coymutts gathered below had taunted him plenty of times, but he didn’t let it show; he wanted her to experience the outside world. Such a pretty bird shouldn’t stay caged.
But the scent of his blood reminded him of their last moment, a knife shaking in his hand as he carved her true being into her thigh. Had he been crying? He couldn’t remember. He didn’t like to think that he’d be so weak in that moment. He was strong, just as he’d shown the other hybrids.
André watched her warily as she came forward, a dress white as innocence covering her beautiful form. The months had not detracted from her beauty; her curves and her blue eyes remained as bewitching as ever as she looked at him in surprise. She spoke his name, and spoke more words, and he wanted to be taken into her arms and forget the hard road here, forget the knife, forget the pain.
No, a voice hissed darkly in his skull, its sinuous grip constricting his brain. That is what she’d want. She doesn’t deserve that; she is a faithless slut.
His pupils constricted like that of a frightened animal, but it was pain he was recoiling from rather than a true predator. He’d been hurt by his mother, whose liaison with a wolf had killed his father, and he’d been hurt by the girl before him. He would not be hurt again, and he would not be merciful. No one feared a warrior who pulled his punches at the last moment. No one feared a runt.
André lifted his lips at her, revealing sharp yellow-white teeth, as the plotte pointed out the obvious. Hurt, he echoed in a strained snarl, his claws digging into his palms as he faced her resolutely. You act like you fucking care. Hurt. You should have realized that a long time ago.
He hurt, he hurt, he hurt.
table by raze; image from wikipedia commons
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