I can’t get the smell of blood off of me, the blood of the innocents that I’ve killed. I scrub and scrub, but their blood is still on my hands. I hate it, and I hate myself.
None of them, not one, worried about being in my presence. Why would they? Dragons have always been the protectors of the shifters, the strongest and most fierce of us all. And yet, as much as I hate myself, as much as I know I’ll be tormented for the rest of my life, I would do it all again, and I know I will have to if it ensures that my son stays alive.
Oliver had finally let me see him. He looked drugged when I saw him, but at least he was breathing. In the short time that I got to see him, I could see the sores around his mouth where he’s been fighting against the muzzle, see the bruises and patches of spots whe
