Fire In His Chaos: A Post-Apocalyptic Dragon Romance Read online

  Fire In His Chaos

  A Post-Apocalyptic Dragon Romance

  Ruby Dixon

  Copyright © 2020 by Ruby Dixon

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Photo: Sara Eirew Photographer

  Cover Art: Kati Wilde

  Edits: Aquila Editing

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  FIRE IN HIS CHAOS

  Content Warning

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Epilogue

  Author’s note

  More to Read!

  FIRE IN HIS CHAOS

  In dangerous Fort Dallas, Rachel is untouchable. All she has to do is hand over her panties every day. Sure, it’s weird, but it keeps her safe, right? And if there’s a reason behind it, she doesn’t care.

  Until she finds out that she’s dragon bait. That changes things.

  To stay in the fort’s sheltering walls, Rachel needs to ‘befriend’ a dragon and establish a mental connection with him. Drakoni male Jurik may be protective of her, and caring…but he’s still a dragon, and just as lost to the madness as any of them. He can’t be trusted. No dragon can. Rachel wears the scars from the last time she tangled with one, so seducing one seems absurd.

  Or is it?

  Because Jurik doesn’t see her scars…all he sees is her. Is he her worst nightmare? Or everything she needed?

  Content Warning

  Hi!

  If you’re familiar with this series, you’ll know my post-apocalyptic world is not all that nice. It should not be entirely surprising that there is a content warning in here. If you do not want to be spoiled, skip the rest of this section and head on to the book.

  * * *

  Heads up that if you are sensitive to these sorts of things, the following are included in this book:

  — attempted rape

  — discussions about attempted rape

  — a scene of violence against a woman

  — verbal abuse/name calling

  The bad guy (who is not the hero, for what it’s worth) gets what’s coming to him, because abusers suck.

  1

  RACHEL

  I wake up to just another day in Fort Dallas.

  My wind-up alarm clock goes off, and all four of us in the room groan.

  Yawning, I scrub my hand over my face and glance at the whiteboard calendar on the wall. Today’s not a bathing day. Rats. I slide off my bunk, smacking my lips. Underneath my top bunk, Jenny is curled up in the bottom one, her pillow over her face.

  “Five minutes,” she mumbles.

  “You always say five minutes,” Manda adds in, slightly cranky. She’s always cranky before breakfast.

  “You know the rules,” I say, tapping Jenny’s hip with my hand. “We have to show up for inspection.”

  Kristi hops out of her bunk and stretches, then heads right out for line-up. Manda makes a face at her back, but I just shrug. Out of all of us, Kristi’s the most dedicated to the job. Rumor has it that she wanted to be a soldier back in the day, but then the Rift happened and screwed her and everyone else out of their dreams. It’s just rumor, though. Kristi doesn’t talk to anyone—can’t or won’t—so people just speculate.

  “Come on,” I tell Jenny one last time. “Panties off or they’re gonna come in after them.”

  That makes Jenny jump to her feet. “I’m up,” she gripes, rolling out of bed. Manda silently strips her own panties off and then hugs her arms over her chest, tugging the hem of her nightgown lower in the vain hope it’ll cover everything.

  A louder alarm goes off just outside, this one to wake the entire barracks. It makes me race out the door, though, because I need to get to the front of the line for food. The end of the line always gets shafted, which is why I set my own alarm clock.

  “Come on,” I say to Manda and Jenny, stepping out of my own panties and scooping them up as I head out the door. The floor is cold under my feet as I head into the hall. There’s door after door opening and other women coming out, so I walk faster, determined to get to the end of the hall before the line gets too long.

  Manda and Jenny are a few steps behind me, tugging on the hems of their shirts as we walk. I don’t bother. I’ve only got one hand and it’s currently holding my panties for turn-in, so I let my shirt ride up, not caring if my ass hangs out. No one ever looks at my ass anyhow.

  I’m first in line. The soldier at the end of the hall eyes me, pulls out a ziploc bag and tongs, and takes the panties I hand him.

  “Period?” he asks.

  “No.”

  He gives me a quick up and down inspection, then gestures me on through and puts a mark on his clipboard. After packing up my panties, he pulls out another baggy and turns to Manda. She meekly hands her panties over.

  “Period?” the soldier asks in the same bored voice.

  “Not for another week.”

  He waves her through, too.

  We wait for Jenny to go through inspection, and then head toward the cantina. In front of the doors is another table, this one guarded by an armed soldier who smirks at us as we approach.

  “Morning, ladies,” he says with a leer.

  “Fuck off,” I say cheerfully and grab a packet of freshly laundered and plastic-bagged underwear. I pull them out and step into them, then hand over the baggy for recycling.

  “You know the rules,” he says, bored. “Don’t touch any underwear but your own.”

  I make a face at him as he eyeballs Manda with far too much interest. “You busy Saturday night?” he asks her, grinning. “I’ve got some extra coin and need a date.”

  She immediately flushes and shoots me a terrified look.

  I grab her and pull her to my side, sliding her behind me so I can shield her as she puts her new panties on. “She’s not interested. Fuck off.”

  “Offer stands.” He eyes me and then shudders. “Not for you, though.”

  I smirk, even though I know it pulls the tight side of my mouth into a weird shape. Sometimes I hate my grotesquely scarred face, but at times like this? I’m glad these guys find me hideous. It’s kept me safe all through the After. Most everyone I know has been raped or forced into prostitution, but nobody wants the ugly scarred chick with just one hand.

  Suits me just fine. I’ll die a virgin if these creeps are my only options.

  “No thanks,” Manda says meekly, clingi
ng to my side as Jenny hastily dresses.

  When we’re all good to go, we enter the mess hall. A few of the soldiers eating there hoot and holler at the sight of women in nothing but a T-shirt and panties coming in for breakfast, but we ignore them. At least, I do. Not just because of my scars, but because there are armed guards watching who gets a food tray. The soldiers can hoot and catcall all they want, but they know and I know that they’re not allowed to do more than look.

  The strange new program we’re in that feeds us and clothes us also keeps us weirdly safe. The men aren’t allowed to touch us—like physically touch us—until bath day. Then, some of the girls sleep around to make some coin, but once we’re bathed? No one’s allowed to put a hand on us.

  I ignore the men and usher Jenny and Manda ahead of me to get trays. Manda holds one out to me and then hesitates, and I bite back a caustic comment because I know she doesn’t mean harm. It’s just irritating. “Thanks,” I manage, and put my tray down on the cafeteria tray rails as we wait to be handed food bowls. I grab silverware wrapped in a cloth napkin, grab a plastic cup and fill it with water, and then take the bowl of corn-mush and tomato that’s offered to me. I bend lower to balance the tray properly in my arms, but just because I only have one hand doesn’t mean I’m helpless, and I hate that Manda flicks another glance at me before moving on.

  Even though we’ve both been in the program for two months now, she still doesn’t seem to grasp that I can handle myself just fine. Ironic, because I’m always the one the others go to when they feel scared. I know she means well, that we’re just looking out for each other, but it still rankles.

  We take our trays and head to one of the designated women’s tables in the cafeteria—also watched by an armed soldier—and sit down to eat. I immediately start scooping my breakfast into my mouth, but Jenny picks at hers. “I can’t believe this is breakfast.”

  “Believe it,” I mumble between bites.

  “What happened to the oatmeal? Is it all gone?” She makes a moue of disappointment. “Breakfast should be sweet…unless it’s sausage.”

  Manda groans. “Sausage. God, I miss sausage.”

  “Just eat,” I tell them. “Or I’ll eat yours.”

  “We’re eating,” Jenny says quickly.

  I just take another bite. You can always tell which girls have had to struggle for food and which ones haven’t. Jenny and her dad recently came to Fort Dallas a few months ago, she’d told me, after roughing it at a neighboring fort that ended up getting cleaned out by plague. Her father had died last month, and she’d found herself alone and facing prostitution, so she’d signed up for what we jokingly call “the panty program.”

  Manda has a similar story. She has two older sisters, both prostituting, who kept her safe for years. One’s got two kids and the other is pregnant, so there are more mouths to feed. The moment the panty program came up, she joined because it was either that or start prostituting, herself.

  There’s not a lot of options for women in a fort, which sucks.

  Kristi, no one knows her story. She just sits next to us, her head down, and shovels food into her mouth almost as quickly as I do.

  Me, I’ve been in Fort Dallas the entire time. When the Rift hit and the dragons came through, I was one of the first to be attacked…and one of the few to live. They raked my face open, crushed my lower right arm, and left me for dead. My wounds got infected, and my hand and most of my lower arm was amputated. My parents abandoned me, deciding to go and fuck off to save their own hides. It took months before I was able to function again.

  But I lived. That’s the important part.

  I lived, and I’ve made a living doing odd jobs and repairing what I can. I make my money however I can, because I’m scrappy and I’m a survivor. It might be easier for a lot of women to just take money from the soldiers and spread their legs, but I’ve never had that option.

  Well, I do have that option, I suppose. It’s just that I’m ugly and missing a hand.

  That, and I’m not offering.

  “So what do you think the deal is with the panties?” Jenny asks as she pokes her food. She always asks. It’s been two months now and no one knows the answer to why our panties are so meticulously collected every morning. I think a lot of us signed up for the soldiers’ program thinking that we were going to end up in some sort of shitty whoring situation, but no one ever touches us.

  No one tells us what’s going on, either. We don’t know why we have to hand over our panties, or why we can’t bathe except on Saturdays, or why the men are threatened with death if they touch us. Everyone looks at me and I know what they’re thinking.

  Why’s this ugly, scarred chick in a program if we’re all being kept pure and handing off our panties?

  It’s got to be sexual. I’m not stupid or naïve enough to think it’s not sexual. But I’m just as baffled as the others as to why I’ve been included. No one wants to touch me. My lower lip has a massive scar on it and I’ve got ugly claw-marks that left deep furrows across most of my face and shoulder. I’ve got a stump that was cauterized and has burn scars. I’m unpleasant to be around, personality-wise.

  But I’m in the program, just like innocent Manda and cute Jenny. I guess because my scarred ass can wear a pair of panties just like anyone else.

  I shrug. “The new lord’s a pervert. He’s into sniffing panties. I’ve heard it’s a thing.”

  Jenny leans in. “I heard he’s a wizard.”

  I scoff, taking another bite. “He’s not a fucking wizard.”

  “Why not? There are dragons,” she protests, eating. “Why not wizards?”

  “I’ve seen him,” Manda whispers, toying with her spoon. “He does look creepy and kinda wizard-ish.”

  I just shake my head and keep eating. Manda’s not wrong. Lord Azar does look a little strange. I’ve only glimpsed him a few times and each time he looked…colorless. Remote. Kinda like one of those elf lords in the old Lord of the Rings movies.

  But he keeps us safe and fed, so he can sniff my panties all he wants. “Just because he looks different doesn’t make him a wizard. You think it makes me one?”

  “You don’t look different,” Manda says sweetly. She’s lying.

  I shoot her a look. “Just eat your food.”

  “He might be a wizard,” Manda says around a mouthful of gruel. “Haven’t the dragons stopped attacking since he showed up? Now they just hang out.”

  “It’s weird,” Jenny says with a shiver. “I wish he’d make them leave.”

  They’re not wrong; the presence of so many dragons who don’t attack is distinctly unnerving. I try not to over-analyze things, though. I can’t control the dragon situation so I try not to think about it at all. “Doesn’t make him a wizard. If he was, he’d be doing more wizardy shit, wouldn’t he?”

  “How much more wizardy does he need to be?” Jenny asks. “He’s controlling dragons!”

  I hate that she’s got a point. Even so…I’m not sure what a wizard would need with the panties of three dozen women.

  After breakfast, we quickly dress in our uniforms. The women in the “program” are given shift dresses that are little more than simple, long, sleeveless gowns with no waist and a hem that goes to the ankle. It’s like wearing a long pillowcase, and since they don’t provide bras, most of us just slip the dress over our sleep shirts. We line up with the others for daily orders. One girl’s whining about how she only got a few bites for breakfast. She’s new. She was reluctant to hand her clothing over the other day and I imagine that hasn’t changed. She’ll learn that if you want the full bowl, you show up and hand over your panties early.

  There’s no place for modesty in a fort.

  I eye the soldiers that file in with envy. While we get to wear these ridiculous dress-things, they’re wearing crisp-looking khaki uniforms that seem freshly laundered and pants and boots. They’ve even got belts. I’d kill for a damn belt and some boots. As it is, the old, grubby sneakers I have are back in my
quarters, and they’re so patched-together that the bottoms are being held together with duct tape. I’d happily wear a uniform and tote a gun, but Fort Dallas has made it very clear that the militia is a boys’ club. Even with the new guy in charge—Lord Azar, the panty-collecting pervert—things haven’t changed all that much.

  The dragon attacks have stopped. Six blank-eyed dragons patrol the car barricade at all times. But other than that? Business as usual. People still starve in the streets. People still scramble to make ends meet and to find something to trade for food. Same old shit, new master.

  “Orders today,” one of the guardsmen calls out, pulling out his clipboard and a pen. He stares at the list with boredom, then begins to mark off names. “North quadrant—Amber with Marcos, Regina with Hamm, Misty with Cooperman, Janet with Smith. Any questions?” When no one says a thing, he goes on, reciting the names of women and the guard that will be assigned to them today. I wait patiently for my name as he goes through east and then west.

  “South quadrant,” he calls out finally. “Crystal with Burr, Rachel with Brady, Jenny with Quinn.”

  I flinch, glancing over at Brady, my least favorite person in the world. He’s leering in my direction, clearly pleased with the day’s assignment. Ugh.