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Instead, I find myself reaching toward him, hand steady as I touch the fur along his jaw, feeling the thundering pulse that shows both predatory fury and protective focus.

"We need to move," he says, visibly working to bring his battle form under control. The extended fangs retract slightly, his posture becoming marginally more human. "The main force is being pushed back. These scouts were just the beginning."

I nod, battlefield practicality taking over. Survival first, processing later.

As we move toward the cave entrance, Fritz's larger form positioned protectively between me and potential threats, I realize how completely my perception has changed. The monsterI once feared now represents safety. The predator I once hated now protects what I value most.

The claiming mark at my throat throbs with sudden, insistent heat—an omega response to alpha protection that courses through me like wildfire. My body recognizes what my mind is still processing—he fought for me, for our child, with a savagery that should terrify but instead ignites something primal in my core.

When we reach the cave entrance, Fritz pauses, nostrils flaring as he processes the complex mixture of scents inside. "Stay with your people," he orders, commander's authority reasserting itself as battle fury recedes. "I'm needed at the northern perimeter."

"Be careful," I say, the words coming out without thinking. Simple, human concern for his safety that would have been unthinkable months ago.

Something shifts in his golden eyes—surprise, maybe, at the genuine emotion behind my words. Before rational thought can stop it, my omega instincts surge to the surface, overwhelming months of careful distance. I reach for him, hands clutching the blood-matted fur at his chest.

"Fritz," I whisper, using his name instead of title—a deliberate choice that acknowledges the alpha beneath the commander.

A growl builds in his chest, vibrating against my palms. His pupils contract to vertical slits, battle-rage still simmering beneath fragile control. For one breathless moment, I think he'll push me away, maintain the battlefield focus needed for survival.

Instead, he pulls me against him with devastating suddenness, one clawed hand tangling in my hair while the other wraps possessively around my waist. His mouth claims mine with hunger that borders on violence—fangs still partiallyextended, the taste of dragon blood metallic on his tongue as it demands entrance.

I yield without hesitation, omega instinct surrendering to alpha dominance in ways my rational mind would have fought weeks ago. The scent of battle clings to him—blood and fire and primal fury—yet beneath it pulses the distinctive markers that my body recognizes as mate, protector, father of the life growing inside me.

The kiss deepens, going beyond mere physical connection to something raw and honest—acknowledgment of what we've become to each other beyond claiming necessity or strategic alliance. His claws prick gently against my scalp, careful even in passion, while his tongue claims mine with possessive thoroughness.

When we finally separate, his eyes have cleared somewhat—the feral rage receding enough for the commander to resurface. His thumb traces the line of my jaw with surprising gentleness, claws fully retracted despite the battle still visible in the tension of his muscles.

"Protect what's ours," he says, the possessive plural acknowledging what grows inside me as shared legacy rather than mere biological outcome.

Then he's gone, moving with that impossible feline speed back toward the battle that still rages around the fortress walls. I watch until his form disappears among the rocks, my fingers rising to touch lips still burning from his claim, the taste of him lingering as my pulse gradually steadies.

Behind me, the settlement humans huddle in fearful groups, their whispered conversations falling silent as I turn toward them. They saw Fritz in his battle form. Witnessed the savagery he's capable of. Their eyes reflect the horror my own once held when first confronting his monstrous nature.

But they also saw him fight to protect what could have been abandoned. Saw him prioritize human lives when strategic calculation might have suggested otherwise.

"The northern access remains secure," I tell them, voice steady despite the battle still raging beyond our shelter. "Commander Clawe has eliminated the immediate threat."

Commander Clawe. Not the monster, not the feline, not my reluctant captor. The name carries weight now—connection rather than division. Respect rather than fear.

The claiming mark at my throat pulses with my heartbeat as I move among the humans, organizing supplies and checking injuries. Each throb a reminder of the predator whose blood-soaked fur and elongated fangs no longer trigger revulsion but recognition.

I've seen the monster beneath the commander now. Witnessed the savagery beneath the strategy.

And found myself moving toward it rather than away—accepting the predator while trusting the protector those fangs and claws can serve.

CHAPTER 19

BATTLE WOUNDS

Fritz POV

Pain ripsthrough my side with every breath. My vision blurs around the edges, the world shrinking to just what's right in front of me as I tear through another dragon's throat. Blood sprays across my face—hot, metallic, enemy red mixing with my own purple-black leaking from a dozen wounds. I barely hear the dragon's death scream over my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.

How many hours since dawn? The sky has gone from pink morning to blazing afternoon, but time doesn't matter anymore. There's only the next attack, the next defense position, the next kill.

Fire erupts to my left. I twist—too slow—and dragon flame catches my side. Pain sears through muscle and fur, the smell of my own burning flesh filling my nose. I snarl through fangs still dripping with enemy blood, pushing through the pain to bury my claws in scaled flesh.

"Commander!"