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I back against the ravine wall, knife raised in pitiful defense against a creature that could snap my spine without trying. The children have disappeared from view—safe, I hope—but that doesn't help much as I face my own death or capture.

The dragon inhales deeply, nostrils flaring as it really takes in my scent. "Interesting. You carry mixed blood already." Its scaled hand reaches toward my stomach with terrible purpose. "Commander's offspring. Even more valuable than we thought."

My grip on the knife tightens, the blade ridiculously small against armored scales, but I'll die before I let this monster touch my unborn child. The thought becomes crystal clear—not submission, not surrender, but protective rage unlike anything I've felt before.

A blur of motion erupts from the rocks above—so fast my human eyes can barely track it. One moment the dragon towers over me, the next it's slammed sideways with bone-crushing force. Fritz lands in a predatory crouch between us, transformed by battle fury into something barely recognizable.

His fangs have grown to stick past his lips, ears flattened against his skull in primal aggression. The fur patterns I've traced with curious fingers now bristle across his entire body, no longer just decorative markings but protective armor. His spine curves in ways that would break a human's back, while his tail whips with deadly precision.

This isn't the controlled commander who rules Shadowthorn with strategic brilliance. This is the feline predator in its purest form—a killing machine made for speed and savage efficiency.

The dragon recovers quickly, scales flashing as it rises to face this new threat. "Commander," it hisses, recognition in its voice. "Come to protect your breeding stock?"

Fritz doesn't answer with words. His attack is pure violence—inhumanly fast movements that put him inside the dragon's guard before it can fully stand. Claws fully extended, he tears through scaled armor at the vulnerable spot where neck meets shoulder, drawing first blood with merciless precision.

The dragon roars, fire blooming in its throat as it prepares to unleash burning death. Fritz anticipates the attack, twisting his body in an impossible contortion that takes him beneath the gout of flame. His tail wraps around the dragon's ankle, unbalancing it as his claws find the tender flesh beneath its jaw.

Two more dragons appear at the ravine edge, drawn by their comrade's roar of pain. They leap down in coordinated attack, forcing Fritz to abandon his first target to face multiple threats.

What follows defies human understanding—a blur of motion, blood, and primal sounds that trigger flight instinct in the deepest parts of my brain. Fritz moves with impossible speed between three opponents, using their size and strength against them in ways no combat training could teach.

When the first dragon falls, throat torn out by elongated fangs, the smell of blood fills the air—hot, metallic, and strangely purple-black where Fritz's own injuries seep through fur. The second dragon's spine snaps with an audible crack as Fritz uses his flexibility to maneuver behind it, delivering the killing blow with terrifying efficiency.

The third—the one that found me—tries to escape, wings spreading as it prepares for aerial flight. Fritz's leap carries him an impossible distance up the ravine wall, catching the dragon mid-flight with claws that tear through wing membranes with practiced precision. They crash back to earth together, the impact sending shudders through the ground beneath my feet.

Their final struggle is brief but vicious. Fritz pins the larger creature with impossible strength, ignoring burns along his flank where dragon fire caught him. When his jaws close aroundthe dragon's throat, the killing bite comes with cold efficiency that speaks to decades of combat experience.

Then silence, broken only by Fritz's labored breathing and the distant sounds of battle from the fortress beyond.

He rises slowly from the dragon's corpse, blood soaking his fur in patterns that will feature in my nightmares. His eyes remain contracted to vertical slits, his posture still more beast than commander as he turns toward me.

This is the monster I once feared—the predator I believed would devour me when first claimed. The savage reality beneath civilization's thin veneer.

But I see beyond the blood and fangs now. See the precision in his violence, the control maintained even in killing rage. He fought not for territory or dominance, but for protection—for me, for our unborn child, for the humans he could have abandoned to dragon slaughter.

When he approaches, still half-wild from battle, I don't back away. Instead, I move toward him willingly, closing the distance with deliberate steps. His nostrils flare, taking in my scent—checking for injury, for fear, for the continued safety of what grows inside me.

Instinct drives my response. I tilt my head, exposing my throat and the claiming mark that declares his ownership. The gesture acknowledges the predator while trusting the protector beneath the savagery.

A rumbling growl comes from his chest—not a threat but recognition. His blood-covered hand rises with surprising gentleness to touch my face, claws carefully pulled back despite battle rage still visible in his posture.

"You're hurt," he says, voice barely recognizable through the growl that underlies each word.

"Just scrapes," I indicate the cuts along my side from my fall. "The children?—"

"Safe. The cave entrance is secured." His eyes scan the ravine, still looking for threats even as he checks my condition. "You risked yourself. For them."

The simple observation carries complex meaning. In his world, omegas are protected assets, not protectors themselves. Yet he doesn't sound angry—if anything, there's something like respect beneath the growling rumble of his voice.

"I couldn't let them die." The answer seems too simple for the choice I made, but it's the only truth I have.

His hand drops to my stomach, the gesture possessive yet questioning. Asking if our child remains safe without forming the words.

"We're both fine," I assure him, my own hand covering his in a rare moment of chosen contact. "Your timing was... perfect."

"Not perfect. I tracked your scent." The admission carries weight beyond the simple words. He followed me specifically, prioritized my safety amid fortress-wide attack.

Blood still drips from his fangs, his fur matted with evidence of the lives he's taken. I should be terrified of this predator—this killer—who stands before me in all his monstrous glory.