5. Shana

5

SHANA

" H ave you all lost your ever-loving mind?" I yell.

Kosh sits on a stool in front of me. His legs are spread, his arms resting on them, and his head bowed, hanging low. His tail makes a rasping sound as it twitches almost in time with every syllable I'm shouting.

"It is a good idea," he says.

"In what world?" I ask, throwing my hands up in exasperation.

If I'd asked for something to take my mind off my own problems, this would certainly be proof that prayers were answered. But I didn't. I wasn't happy, but I was trying to figure it out. All those concerns have taken a back seat to this.

"Sha—"

"No," I cut him off. "You do not get out of this that easy. You don't get to rumble my name like that and distract me. This is a terrible idea. I cannot believe Nyanna is going along with it. She must have lost her damn mind. Dick fever, that's got to be it." Kosh snorts and his shoulders move up and down as he tries hard to not laugh but a chuckle still escapes. "Oh, you think I'm funny, do you? What did I say that has you so amused?"

"I have never heard of ‘dick fever'," he says. "Does that translate right? You mean…"

He motions towards his crotch and my cheeks flush red hot. Of course, that's what I meant, but his stopping to call me out on it, amongst all the other things I've been saying, causes me an intense feeling of embarrassment.

Immediately following the desire to hide, my stomach clenches as the most incredibly strong wave of nausea hits. Bile races up my throat. I hold a hand over my mouth as the room suddenly feels scorching hot. Sweat beads my face as I struggle to not throw up, but it's a losing battle.

I grab a trash bin and lose it.

The instant I do I feel better. The nausea is gone as fast as it hit leaving only the foul taste and the burning in my throat. As my awareness expands from my spasming stomach to include more than the trash can in my hands the first thing I notice is Kosh's hands. One on my back, one holding the trash can.

He's rubbing circles on my back while setting the can down. He takes a hold on my arm and then helps me over to the bench he just vacated himself. I take the seat, staying bent over, waiting to make sure that the nausea is truly gone.

"Shana," he says, pressing one hand to my forehead and then to my cheeks. "You are sick."

"No," I say, shaking my head.

I know what this is. But I can't tell him. Not yet. If I tell him that, then I have to tell him everything.

I can't. Even the idea of it causes a sensation like my chest is locking up and my thoughts crash to a halt. As if I'm staring into an abyss. All I can think is how it's all unknown. How will he react? Will he think less of me? Will he still love me?

I sob. I don't mean to. Like the nausea, it comes out of nowhere. Fast, hard, and surprising. Tears break free and I don't even try to stop them. The idea of him rejecting me is too much. Only now do I realize that's the thing hiding in that black abyss. That if I tell him the truth, tell him everything, he won't want me anymore.

The blackness is my life without him in it. Empty, pointless, with no light, and no hope.

Don't be stupid. He would never…

Wouldn't he? My mother did. If she would, how can I know he won't? Wouldn't anyone?

"You are not… sick?" he asks. His hand is so cool and comforting tracing circles on my lower back. "You are warm."

"It's… nothing. Happens when I throw up. That's all."

"Throw… up?" he asks.

I raise my head until I see he's actually asking a question and not being sarcastic or something else that I don't understand. Sometimes I forget that Common isn't his language. The thing the Zmaj have the most difficulty with is idioms. Their language doesn't use them, meaning what they say when and how they say it.

"My stomach," I say, trying to explain. "When I got sick. The contents," I press my hands to my belly then throw them up and out.

"Oh," he says grinning. "Throw up. " He mimics my gesture and then he laughs, shaking his head. "Humans. Very funny."

"I'm glad you think so," I say, but his humor is contagious and I'm chuckling too.

He shrugs as the humor on his face is quickly replaced by concern. He hunches down so he is at eye level and staring intently. He frowns then presses his palm against my cheek.

"Still warm," he grumbles.

I put my hand on his, intending to move it away, but there's something electric in our touch. Maybe not electric, it's more… the connection. A circuit closing. When we touch, I feel different, whole.

"I'm fine," I say. "Promise."

His eyes bore into mine, searching for any signs of deception but it's true. I am fine. Now. As fine as I can be, all things considered. The words form in my mind. The truth, ready to blurt out, give it all to him, but before that happens my throat clenches closed.

I clench my eyes and push the words away. I can't. I can't risk losing him. I know I have to tell him, sooner or later, but not yet. Not now. The more pressing matter is this stupid idea that the Zmaj have somehow gotten Nyanna on board with. The safety of everyone matters more than my problems.

I move his hand off my cheek though the reluctance makes it hard, I do it anyway. The greater good has always motivated me more than anything else. My mom considered it a character flaw, but I don't know. It's who I am.

He doesn't resist, taking his hand back. He remains crouched in front of me with his intent stare and pursed lips that I really, really want to kiss, no matter how gross my mouth probably is right now.

"Water?" he asks at last.

"Please," I say.

He rises then unhooks the skin he carries, offering it to me. I take it gratefully, sipping slowly to be sure my stomach will accept the offered liquid. I swish it in my mouth,swallow to get rid of the bad taste, and then hand him the skin back.

Silent, he seals it and re-slings it over his shoulder. I run my fingers through my hair, buying time to focus my thoughts. Stomach settled, I stand up and meet his eyes. My heart speeds up and once again, unbidden, the words surge forward, ready to be given voice.

"Back to your stupid idea," I say instead.

He doesn't speak for a long moment. Our eyes are locked onto each other's and inside I am begging him for time. Time to figure this out. A little more. I'll tell him everything soon. I won't make any decisions without him, but I need to do this when I'm ready and I am so not ready.

Not ready to lose him. Will I ever be?

"It is not my idea," he says at last.

I can't be sure if he's acquiescing to my silent request for time or if he's only responding to my question. Either way, I latch onto it and run with it.

"Right, but you agreed to it?"

He shrugs, begins to nod, then shakes his head, before stopping both half-gestures and shrugging in the end.

"It was… decided."

If I've learned anything about the Zmaj as a species, they are almost blindly obedient to their internal social structure. They seem to operate on something akin to a republic. Everyone has their input, the leaders listen, and then they decide on a direction. Once it's decided, they all go along with it, no matter what their personal beliefs or desires might be.

It's effective unless they're trying to do something monumentally stupid. Which they are, and Nyanna is all in on letting them roll with it. Right now, Dan and I are the only voices of reason.

"You think this is a good idea?" He shrugs, pursing his lips. They're the most overt signs of disagreement I'm likely to get out of him. "What if they don't listen? What if they capture the delegation? What if they kill them?"

"All possibilities?—"

"See? That's my—" I interrupt but he stops me by raising a finger and waving it side-to-side.

"But it was decided this has the greatest odds of success."

"It was decided," I snap. "By who? I had no input into it."

"No, by the leadership," he says.

"But they're wrong!" I yell, gesticulating wildly.

He grabs my hands and holds them in his. Tight, but not too tight. Cool to my heat. The electricity of our connection sparking right into my heart and making it beat faster as my breath becomes ragged with desire.

"Shana, you do not know the enemy we face," he says. "They are…"

He trails off, shaking his head. He always has intense eyes, but somehow, they become even more so. His mouth twists and turns as he tries to figure out the words.

"They are what?" I ask, feeling breathless.

"Bad," he says.

A simple word. One syllable. There's not much to it. A casual word. Something I might not like, an expression of dismissal. It shouldn't carry the weight it does when he says it. I don't know how he does that, but that simple utterance, feels like a thundering bass drum is rattling my bones.

"Bad," I repeat, but I cannot come close to the way he does it.

"Bad," he says and there it is again, leaving no doubt that it was only my imagination.

I blink. Slowly, processing and trying to decide my next words carefully.

"Worse than trying to talk to the Order?"

He frowns, furrowing his brow which pulls his horns down with it. The concentric ridges of his horns glisten in the light and my thoughts jump to the way they feel when he's between my thighs working my core with his tongue. Their rough texture teasing the skin of my legs adding to the pleasure.

"Much," he says. "I do agree. The risk is worth it."

My mouth is too dry to speak. All the moisture in it has pooled behind my eyes which feel as if they're a crumbling dyke, valiantly trying to hold the building pressure at bay.

"And who do we send?" I ask. His frown deepens and I know the answer before he speaks. "No!"

I don't intend to shout but it happens before I can stop it. His eyes widen and he leans back with the force of my words. Breath coming in rapid, ragged gasps I grab his arms and shake him. My mouth moves, but I can't form words. The wrongness of all of this is overwhelming. I can't let him go, not like this, not without knowing.

Tell him… I can't. I must. Can't. Must. Can't. He'll deny me. He'll hate me. I'm worthless. Broken. Dirty.

All the doubts, worries, fears and every negative thing I've ever thought about myself takes on its own unique persona in my head. Some sound like my mother, others sound like me, a dozen voices all talking over one another, rising in volume as each of them strives to be the dominant one.

Tears stream down my face, I can't look away from him, can't let him go. I move my mouth, but no words will come. Which ones do I choose? Which me do I give him? The confident, steady one? That's the role I've played since the crash, but it's not me. Because inside I know better. I know that I'm dirty. Weak. Unworthy.

All the things that I've thought about myself since everything went wrong. Since my life was shattered in one moment of stupidity. One bad decision that led to another and another.

"Shana," Kosh says, his voice soft and gentle.

He moves closer, not breaking free of the death grip I have on his arms. His tail curls around my waist as he unfurls his wings. The room is hardly big enough for them, but he manages to close them around the two of us.

I fall into his arms, pressing my face against the cool scales of his chest. His arms wrap around me and he lifts me, cradling me close. He doesn't speak further as I break down. All my fears. All my doubts. Everything comes out. Not in words, but in sobbing tears. The dyke tried as hard as it could, but in the end, nothing was going to hold this back. Sooner or later, it had to be set free.

His grip is tight, and comforting. He kisses the top of my head and most of all, he's silent. He doesn't ask questions. Doesn't try to understand, yet in his silence he gives understanding. He gives me exactly what I need, assuagement. Relief from the pain and emotions that I've held back for so many years that I thought they had become nothing more than scar tissue. Now it's clear how wrong I was. They weren't scars, they were scabs, too easily removed.

My tears finally seem to be running dry. I'm a mess, clinging to him. Arms around his neck as I keep my face buried in him. They seem to have washed away everything. I'm empty, but clean feeling. The doubts and fears have receded at least, if they're not fully gone. I take a deep breath, hold it, then slowly let it out.

I have to tell him. I can't keep this secret any longer. The weight of it is more than I can stand. I wiggle, but he doesn't set me down. His tail is rubbing circles on my back and he's running one hand through my hair.

Grief and overwhelm gone I become suddenly aware of him. The smell of him fills my senses. Warm with his exotic musk. The coolness of his scales that is so damn enticing. Desire surges and I almost give into it.

It would be so easy. Distract him and me both with sex. Push away the conversations that really need to be had in favor of pleasure. So much pleasure. He's such a good lay. I have never been fucked like he does and it's so much more than his girth and size or the alienness of his dick. It's him.

He's attentive and reacts quickly to the slightest indication I might give that what he's doing is working for me. A giving lover barely encompasses him in bed. I lift my head and stroke my fingers along his strong, smooth jaw. Zmaj don't grow facial hair, making his face so smooth, but textured with tiny overlapping scales. I trail them over to his lips and he puckers, kissing them.

A tingling rushes through my body. Desire, need, want, but if I give into it all I'm doing is pushing the problem further down the road. And that's not going to work. Maybe, just maybe, if I tell him he'll stay. He won't go on the mission that is as likely as not to get him killed.

"We need to talk," I say.

My throat hurts saying the words. God, I don't want to talk. Fear makes my stomach flutter and feel bubbly. Kosh blinks, a long slow closing of his eyes then every bit as slowly opening them.

"Treasure," he whispers, and my heart skips a beat.

Every time he says that it causes the same effect on me. Chills race down my spine, my stomach clenching, and this strange sensation of both being owned and owning. Belonging is the only word that comes close.

"Yes," I say, pulling my hands from his lips. "But talk."

"Of course," he says.

This is it. I'm going to tell him. I can only hope he doesn't regret calling me his treasure…

He sets me onto my feet and pulls his wings back. I swallow, trying to find the courage to say what must be said. My stomach is alternating between a hard rock and a roiling volcano that's about to explode.

Just do it. Get it over with.

"Kosh—" I say, but the door opens behind us.

"There you are!" Dan yells.