ZOHR

The next morning, as agreed, we ready for Emma to remove my stitches.

She is clearly not happy about this. While she does not smell of fear, I can see the wariness on her face as I sit down on the floor in front of her and present my back. She gets a tiny pair of scissors and a metal thing she calls “tweezers” and studies my wounds. “If you’re bleeding a lot or if I have any doubts,” she warns me, trailing off.

Of course. We will do what we think is best. 

But I am impatient to get it done. Already the small stitches itch and chafe against my flesh. I am eager for them to be gone, to be able to transform.

To feel free.

It is almost as if I have traded one sort of prison for another. It is unfair of me to think like that—I know my Emma has done the best she can and she has tended to me well. But I hunger to transform to my battle-form. I do not feel whole trapped as I am. I want to see what my wings look like, what they feel like.

“Here we go. Tell me if this hurts,” Emma murmurs and presses her scissors against my skin. I feel something slight, like a prick, and then the itching in that spot stops. She wipes at my skin. “There’s a little bit of blood, but you’ve actually healed up really well. I’m impressed.” And surprised, judging from her thoughts.

Good. That means there is no reason not to remove all of the stitches. It is difficult to remain still as she continues to the next one, and from a glimpse through her eyes, I know there are a lot of them. I am humbled at how long she worked to sew my back up, to ensure that I healed as well as possible. She is a good mate to me and…I am impatient to be done. I want to be free of this already. 

I force myself to sit quietly as she works. She murmurs soft encouragement to me, telling me how well I have healed. I know this. I can sense that my wounds have mended, but I curb my impatience. She does this because she cares and does not wish for me to suffer. It is not her fault that I tore my wings to shreds in my haste to protect her. I do not want her to feel I am angry at her. I am simply ready to shift forms and feel my powerful limbs return. I do not know how she can be “human” all the time with no battle-form to transform to. I would go mad.

Well…madder.

When Emma smooths her hand down my back one last time and gives a little sigh, I realize she is finished. Done? I ask, just to make sure.

“You’re going to have some interesting scars, but yes, I think so.” 

I turn to look at her and I cannot stop the grin from spreading across my face. And you will not run away and hide when I change to battle-form?

She gives an indignant little snort that belies her anxious thoughts. “Hide? No. I just worry about your wings, though. I stitched them, too, and I don’t know how that’s going to work with your transformation.” Concern shows on her face. “What if they tear to pieces again because I tried to save them?”

I caress her cheek, comforting her. The same thought has gone through my mind, but there is nothing to be done. The time for worrying over such things has passed.

Says you.

I pull her against me and wrap my arms around her, because I am pleased. I stroke her hair and nuzzle her. She is trying hard, and I feel the need to touch her and let her know I understand this. That I realize how difficult this is for her to put away her unease and help me. To be brave even when she does not wish to be.

Emma stiffens in surprise in my arms, as if she was truly not expecting to be touched, and then relaxes. I catch pleasure in her thoughts, and surprise. She thinks for a moment and comes to the realization she has not been held in a very, very long time.

In that moment, I vow that my mate will be held, a lot. She deserves to know that she is loved, and to know it often. She deserves caresses and affection.

Come, I tell her. Let us go outside so I can shift forms. 

Her reluctance gives way to amusement. I guess you can’t do it in here. Then she visualizes me changing inside and the apartment we are staying in crumbling around us. I have to chuckle at such a thing. Even I am not so crazed as to destroy our home, no matter how temporary.

I take her by the hand and lead her outside, scenting the air automatically, my protective instincts at work. There is no faint smell of strangers, though. No other humans, no metal dragons, nothing that would say that others are lurking nearby. Good. I do not care how badly I wish to transform, I will not risk my mate or her safety. 

“All clear?” she asks, glancing up at me.

All clear, I agree. Step back. I caress her cheek lightly with my claws and then move forward. I brim with anticipation—no, need—at the thought of shifting. It has felt like far too long. With one last touch to Emma’s mind, I close my eyes…and release.

Ahhhh.

It feels so good to be in my scales again. Pinprick flares of not-quite-pain move along my wings, and then I stretch my limbs, embracing the sensation of being in my battle-form. I open my eyes and spread my wings, determined to check the extent of the damage.

Nearby, Emma stands, her hand to her mouth, worry on her face. Are they okay?

They do not hurt, I tell her, stretching them. That is not entirely true. They ache, but it is the ache of an old tooth or a long-unused muscle. They also do not stretch very well, and I flex harder, knowing that the sinew and tendon should extend farther, that the full sail of them should grab at the breeze. Instead, they feel…thick. Heavy.

Clumsy.

I cannot fly. I know this even as I try to stretch them again. There is a lightness to the wing when you fly, and my wings feel tight and bulky. I twist them forward, trying to see. Scar tissue striates up once-delicate membranes, dense and ungainly. These will not carry me.

I knew this. I knew this would happen, and yet even now, I feel the crash of disappointment. I had hoped…and yet this is another thing Azar has taken from me. The dim rage starts to build inside my mind again, growing thick. Thick, like my destroyed wings—

My mate flicks a worried look at me and then moves forward, her fingers still pressed to her mouth. Can I see?

I lower one for her, and she moves her hand lightly over it. Strangely enough, despite the thick membranes, I can feel her touch. It is something, at least. “Do they hurt?” she asks.

They are tight. I cannot unfurl them properly, I tell her, and demonstrate. I extend the wings, stretching as far as I can and they only come half uncurled. If I push any further, they will tear. It does not matter.

She looks thoughtful. Her hand skims my wing again. “I remember back when my brother was younger, he hurt his leg playing little league softball. I don’t remember what the injury was.” She seems frustrated for a moment, and I can sense her irritation at her own poor memory as it flashes through her mind. “But I remember he went to physical therapy and he told me they did a lot of stretching.”

Stretching?

Emma nods and strokes her hand down my wing again. “Maybe we could try something like that. And I could get some lotion from a pharmacy somewhere and we can lotion your wings and stretch them to try and make the tissue more supple.” She cocks her head. “I wonder if we could find a book on physical therapy? We need to find a library or a bookstore. Or both. And then another pharmacy.” She nods to herself, and I can feel a sense of determination in her thoughts. “How does the rest of you feel?”

I flex my claws. It is hard to push past the disappointment of my wings, but I force myself to focus. Other than the fact that my wings are useless, I feel good. My back is strong, my limbs strong, my tail strong. I am strong all over. I lean down and nuzzle my mate, who seems so much smaller and far more delicate now. I am fine.

She looks up at me with worried, dark eyes. And your mind? You’re not going to…you know, lose it?” Her gaze moves over me. “I can tell you’re not feeling…a hundred percent in your mind. I just worry.”

If you were not here, I would struggle, I admit. Even now, I feel the pangs of frustrated anger, and it would be far too easy to sink into them. For her, though, I do my best to ignore. She is the only reason my mind is as clear as it is, and so I focus on her. On her determination. Do you truly think we can mend my wings?

“All we can do is try, right?” She hesitates, then reaches up to touch my golden muzzle. I sense a flash of fear in her, and I hold very still, lips closed so she does not worry over the size of my fangs, and let her explore me. “You’re a lot bigger like this, and more intimidating than I remember.” She tells herself that I will not hurt her, but there is still a hint of fear at the edges of her mind, fear that she tries to hide from me.

I touch her mind gently. I would never harm you, my mate. And if you think we can fix my wings, I trust you.

“It won’t be fun,” Emma tells me. “And it’ll probably hurt. I don’t even know if it’ll work, but all we can do is try.”

Tell me what I must do and I will do it.

Her mind fills with images, even as she chuckles. “Actually, I think it’s things that I have to do, not you.” She sends a flurry of mental pictures, of her spreading a thick lotion on my wings, of pushing against the membranes and “stretching” them on the ground while I lie still. “We’ll do what we can.”

You would do this for me? I am humbled at how giving she is.

She looks surprised. “Of course, Zohr. It’s my fault you’re in this situation. How can I not?”

I nudge her with my nose. I want to caress her throat, but she is too small and I am too large, so I settle for pushing against her shoulder and her hair with my snout. Why do you blame yourself? I blame Azar.

“But if it weren’t for the fact that you felt the need to save me—”

I will always save you. You are my mate. There is no other option for me. There is no Zohr without Emma, not any longer. We are bound together in spirit. I will come for you and protect you, always. They will never harm you again.

Instead of being reassured at my promise, she seems worried. “And that’s how they trapped you in the first place.”

I do not regret it. Not when it brought me to you.

She nods, but she seems less convinced.