Let Me Love You_Red Planet Dragons of Tajss Novella by Miranda Martin

Author:Miranda Martin [Martin, Miranda]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-01-23T05:00:00+00:00

10

Inga

Samil’s words echo in my thoughts. Over and over, replaying on repeat. There’s a sense of unreality about it, even as the memory replays itself. Surely I didn’t hear what I thought I heard. He can’t love me, how can he? I’m broken, no man could love me. Afraid to be touched, afraid to even have the attention of a man.

Yet he said those words. I know he did. I’m a fool. Samil is great. No, he’s not burly like the other Zmaj. If that’s a good word to use for them. Maybe not burly, that implies hairy to me, which no Zmaj is. Hmm, they’re… too alpha? Too male? I don’t know, they’re all too much. Intimidating is probably the word.

Yes, definitely. Intimidating is it. I don’t like it when they do their macho thing. Samil isn’t like that. He’s kind and gentle where the others are all rough and tumble. There’s a beauty inside of him that shines out in his sweet nature. The other Zmaj may not respect it but I do.

“Can we pause?” I ask. “I need some water.”

“Of course,” he says, not looking directly at me.

When he looks my way he doesn’t make eye-contact, looking to the side or above me. Everything about him right now is tentative. He’s tense and it’s my fault. I should reassure him. It’s not him, it’s me. Sipping water from the canteen, I lower it and replace the stopper.

“Samil,” I say, fully intending to tell him.

His eyes meet mine and I’m blank. The sincerity on his face is too much. The words that were there a moment ago are gone. I open my mouth to say them, maybe they’ll come back on their own, but no sound comes out.

I’m lost in his eyes. Beautiful striations of gold run through their soft brown. They’re deep and warm, filled with kindness. An artistic soul is what my mom would have called Samil. She would have liked him, the kind of boy she would have approved of me bringing home.

“Yes?” he asks, even his voice thick with earnestness.

His scales are lighter in color than most of the Zmaj, a sandy-tan that’s almost a shade of white. The edges are tinted with a darker tan. There are also hints of yellow and here and there a bit of green. I know, from experience now, that they’re not rough but smooth and cool to the touch. My fingertips tingle with the memory of them.

His hair is pushed back and forth across his forehead by the hot breeze that shifts across the desert sands. He pushes a stray patch of it out of his eyes, waiting patiently for me to speak.

Say something Inga!

Swallowing, I force the lump in my throat down. I want to tell him how I feel. How amazing he is. I want to tell him he’s not less, not broken, I am.

“Thank you,” I say.

The words fall out of my mouth in a betrayal of my intention and thoughts. It’s not what I want to say but it’s all that I can.

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