Golmarr pulls a chair out for me to sit at a small square table built into the side of the wagon. “May I look at your ankles?” he asks, his voice tentative.
I laugh. “I have nothing to hide from you, sir, since you stared at my bare legs for days.” He grins and kneels at my feet, but when he lifts my skirt and drapes it over my knees, then takes my calf in his hand, running his fingers gingerly over my skin, all mirth is instantly drained from me. My cheeks flare at his touch, and my skin prickles with goose bumps. My mind and my heart start to battle. My heart desperately wants me to lean down and kiss the crease between Golmarr’s brows, but my mind tells me I should throw my skirt back over my legs and tell him to stop touching me.
Golmarr takes my other leg in his hands and clears his throat. I stare at him while he is intent on my healthy skin and wonder how I could ever have thought that he was a wild, ferocious-looking barbarian. He is the handsomest man I have ever seen. My gaze moves to his mouth, to the tension tightening his lips, and all I can think about is how he kissed me last night. My cheeks warm further at the thought, so I close my eyes and try to push Golmarr out of my mind before I embarrass myself by yanking my legs away from him and accusing him of making me think indecent thoughts. Because they’re not indecent. They’re…normal.
After another moment, I feel my skirt dropped back around my ankles and hear a chair scrape against the wooden floor. I open my eyes to find Golmarr sitting at the other side of the table. “Are you still cold?” he asks. “Your legs look good, but they’re covered with goose bumps.”
I take a deep breath of air and slowly blow it out. The goose bumps had nothing to do with being cold. “The chill from the glass dragon is gone,” I say. “But not the chill from when I healed you. It is in my hands, mostly.”
He reaches across the table and takes my hands, pressing my palms together. With his hands, he covers the outside of mine, encasing them in warmth. “Why did you scream at me not to kill the glass dragon?” he asks.
I shudder and try to pull away from him, but he holds me tight. “You would have inherited its treasure if you killed it,” I whisper.
“What is its treasure?” Golmarr asks in a quiet voice, leaning closer to me. “Gold? Riches? Knowledge?”
I shake my head. “What use does a dragon have for gold and riches? Honestly, think about it. All the legends say dragons hoard their treasures, and as human beings we always assume a dragon would treasure the same things we do. But they don’t. They are beasts. They kill when they are hungry. They sleep on rock. They do not buy and sell like we do, take no pleasure in comfort or possessions. They do not need gold. The glass dragon,” I whisper, “treasures hatred of man above everything else, and of all the people living right now, it hates me more than any other. If you killed it, you would have inherited a hatred so intense, it would have driven you mad, or driven you to murder to satisfy your hatred. And I would have been the first person you killed.”
All the warmth leaves Golmarr’s hands and he lets go of me. He leans back and folds his arms over his chest. Frowning, he asks, “What do we do when it comes back for you, Sorrowlynn, if we can’t kill it?”
My throat seems to close at his question, because it will be back. I know this in my heart. I stand and start trying to suck air into my lungs, but can’t. Turning to the front door, I throw it open and thrust my head out and let the damp forest air wash over my panic. A strong hand grips my shoulder and pulls me back inside of the wagon. “Are you sick?” Golmarr asks, gently turning me to face him. His eyes are tight with worry.
“No,” I gasp. “I can’t breathe.”
One of his eyebrows arches. “I’ve heard that one before. Right about the time you decided to steal my father’s horse.” Despite everything, I laugh, and all of a sudden I can breathe again, as if Golmarr has broken my anxiety in two and taken half of it.