Page 50

The walls feel like they're closing in, suffocating despite how large my quarters are. I need air. Space. Perspective.

The observatory tower offers solitude, clear views of our territory, and enough distance from her scent that I might clear my head. But when I climb to the top of the spiral staircase, I find her already there.

Aria stands at the western parapet, her outline sharp against the midnight sky. The mountain wind pulls at her blonde hair, now loose from its usual practical braid. Moonlight turns her skin silver-pale and almost ghostly. My breath catches, an embarrassingly teenage reaction for a commander with my experience.

She doesn't jump at my arrival—her senses have sharpened during her time here. She knew my scent before I even reached the top of the stairs.

"Commander," she says without turning, her voice carrying easily in the night air.

"You should be resting." The words come out as a low rumble, my control fraying under the competing instincts racing through my body. Protect. Possess. Claim. Tell her.

"I could say the same to you." She turns to face me finally, moonlight highlighting the claiming mark on her throat. My eyes fix on it, tracing the permanent impression of my teeth against her skin. Without meaning to, my gaze drops lower, searching for the changes my senses have detected but which her clothing still hides.

Her hand rises to her throat, fingers tracing the scar. "Does it still look the same to you?"

The question throws me off. "The mark?"

"Yes." Her fingers follow the indentation pattern. "Thorne said something during the mission... about your claiming being stronger than most he's seen. I wondered if it looks different to feline eyes."

My mouth goes dry. I move beside her at the parapet, keeping careful distance while deciding how much to tell her. Her scent hits me full force now—pine and night air mixing with her omega notes. Beneath it all lurks the subtle chemical markers of my claiming... and something newer, something that stirs protective instincts I've spent decades pushing down.

"Not visibly different," I manage, fixing my gaze on the distant mountains rather than her face. "To feline senses, it carries... extra information."

"What kind of information?"

My claws extend without me meaning to, scraping against stone. "Intention. Connection. Compatibility." My tail lashes behind me, giving away the emotion my face doesn't show. "There are... instinctive recognitions that happen between compatible pairs."

Her scent shifts—curiosity, surprise, and something warmer blooming beneath her skin. "Even in forced claiming?"

"Even then." The honesty burns, but I owe her this much. "Though normally such recognition would prevent forced claiming altogether. A feline who senses true compatibility typically approaches with more... consideration."

"But you didn't have that luxury," she observes, no accusation in her voice. "Dragon proximity forced your hand."

"Yes."

Silence stretches between us, filled with all we're not saying. She turns her attention to the star-filled sky, seemingly contentto let the moment pass. But the unspoken knowledge burns inside me, demanding to be acknowledged.

"Your scars," she says suddenly, breaking the silence. "How did you get them?"

My hand rises to my face, tracing the three parallel lines that run from temple to jaw. No one has asked directly about them since my assignment to this outpost. The question suggests curiosity beyond tactical assessment.

"Dragon commander," I answer, memory surfacing with physical clarity—the searing pain, the smell of my own blood, the roar that still sometimes haunts my dreams. "Territorial dispute in the southern mountains during early Confederation expansion."

"You fought a dragon commander directly? And survived?" Real surprise colors her voice.

A bitter laugh escapes me. "Barely. I was... younger then. More confident in my abilities than was smart."

"Were you always a commander?"

The memories flood back—blood and fire, the stench of battlefields, the weight of decisions that cost lives. "No. I started as border patrol, like most felines with combat skills. My tactical assessments caught the attention of regional command during the eastern campaigns."

"The ones against human resistance strongholds?" Her tone stays carefully neutral, though I catch the slight tension underneath.

"Yes." No point hiding this part of my history. "I led thirty-six successful operations against armed resistance cells. Eliminated seventeen rebel commanders between my third and seventh year of service."

She absorbs this without visible reaction, though her scent reveals complicated emotions churning beneath her composed exterior. "You killed humans."

"Many." I see no benefit in softening this truth. My claws extend further, scraping deeper grooves into the stone. "In direct combat, facing armed opponents. Not civilians. Never non-combatants. That distinction eventually ended my advancement within Confederation command."