Page 72

The statement contains deliberate provocation, designed to trigger alpha insecurity about forced claiming. Instead, it creates the opening I've been waiting for.

"Ask her preference now," I challenge, nodding toward Aria whose face shows nothing but contempt for the dragon commander.

Pyrax's attention shifts to her for a crucial second—the distraction I need. I launch upward with explosive force, using the ravine wall as a springboard while simultaneously signaling the guard detail into action.

"Mark!" I shout as I reach maximum height, claws extended toward Pyrax's exposed throat.

The ravine erupts into coordinated chaos. Guards deploy flash grenades specifically designed to disrupt dragon vision without affecting feline senses. Simultaneously, Thorne grabs Aria, pulling her toward the underground passage entrance as planned.

Pyrax recovers quickly from the momentary distraction, but not quickly enough to prevent my initial attack. My claws find purchase against golden scales, tearing through the thinner protection beneath his jaw. Not a killing blow, but first blood drawn against a commander rarely challenged in direct combat.

He roars in fury, wing sweeping toward me with force that would shatter human bones. I twist mid-air, using flexibility no dragon can match to avoid the blow while maintaining attack position. My tail whips forward, the unexpected direction confusing draconic battle instincts evolved for predictable opponents.

We crash together onto the ravine floor, his greater weight driving breath from my lungs but my superior agility allowing me to roll away before he can bring full weight to bear. Dragon fire erupts where I stood moments earlier, superheated flame scorching rock to glassy smoothness.

The battle transforms into lethal dance—his superior strength and destructive power against my speed and precision. I dart beneath wing strikes, twist beyond tail swipes, target vulnerable points with surgical attacks rather than trying to overpower him directly.

Blood—mine and his—spatters the ravine floor as combat intensifies. His scales provide significant protection, but I find the gaps between armor plates, the vulnerable junctions where flexibility requires reduced coverage. My own injuriesaccumulate—claw rake across shoulder, burn along left flank, bruising impact from glancing wing blow.

Through it all, I track Aria's movement toward the underground passage. Thorne guides her steadily closer to safety while remaining guards maintain defensive perimeter against other dragon forces attempting to circle our position.

Pyrax realizes their objective seconds too late. With a roar of frustrated rage, he tries to disengage from our combat to intercept Aria's extraction. The moment his attention divides, I exploit the opening with ruthless precision.

I dart beneath his defensive posture, using the low attack angle dragons habitually fail to protect. My claws find the vulnerable throat junction—the gap between chest plates and jaw armor where scales thin to allow vocal flexibility.

Blood sprays in a superheated arc as I tear through vulnerable flesh, the purple-red dragon blood coating my fur in steaming patterns. Pyrax's dual voice breaks into discordant shriek, wings beating frantically to create distance he no longer controls.

I press the advantage without mercy, driving forward with lethal intent honed through decades of combat experience. My next strike targets the exposed tendons beneath his primary wing joint—not immediately fatal but tactically devastating. Grounded dragons lose their greatest advantage, their size becoming a weakness rather than strength in confined spaces.

Pyrax stumbles as his right wing collapses, damaged beyond immediate use. His eyes—burning with hatred and disbelief—lock onto mine as he processes the reality of imminent defeat. Dragons rarely experience vulnerability, their size and destructive capability normally enough to overcome any challenger.

"You can't possibly—" he begins, cut off as I launch my final attack.

My claws find his throat again, this time with precision born from perfect understanding of draconic anatomy. I tear through scaled protection to the vital structures beneath, severing connections between brain and body with surgical efficiency that belies the savagery of the action.

Blood fountains from the catastrophic wound, coating the ravine floor in a steaming pool that hisses against stone. Pyrax's massive form collapses with a ground-shaking impact, wings twitching in final nervous response as brain functions cease.

Dragon Commander Pyrax—terror of eastern territories, architect of countless settlement slaughters—dead by feline claws within six minutes of combat.

I stand over his corpse for a crucial moment, blood-soaked and battle-wild, making sure he's dead and not just injured. Only when I'm certain of victory do I turn toward the underground passage where Aria waits with the extraction team.

The remaining dragon forces, witnessing their commander's fall, retreat rather than press attack against unexpected defeat. Their confidence—built on assumption of draconic superiority—shatters in the face of Pyrax's death. Without unified command, their greater numbers become liability rather than advantage as each soldier prioritizes individual survival over collective victory.

I approach the passage entrance, aware of my appearance—blood-matted fur, extended claws, battle rage still evident in my posture and movements. In this moment, I embody every monstrous aspect Aria once feared, the primal predator barely contained beneath civilized exterior.

She stands at the entrance, supported by Thorne's steady grip as heat continues its relentless progression through her system. When her eyes meet mine, I expect fear or disgust at the evidence of violence written across my form.

Instead, she pulls away from Thorne's support, moving toward me with steady purpose despite her condition. When she reaches me, she doesn't retreat from the blood and death-smell that clings to my fur. Instead, she tilts her head deliberately, exposing her throat and the claiming mark that declares my ownership.

She doesn't flinch. Doesn't recoil from the blood, the scent of death clinging to me. Instead, she moves toward me, offering the vulnerable line of her throat, a gesture of absolute trust that shatters the last traces of my battle rage and leaves me aching with a different kind of hunger.

The gesture—submission freely offered rather than biologically forced—creates tightness in my chest that has nothing to do with battle injuries. She acknowledges the predator while trusting the protector, recognizes the violence I'm capable of while accepting it as necessary part of the safety I provide.

"Yours," she whispers, the single word carrying weight beyond its sound. Not possession claimed through force, but partnership chosen despite initial resistance.

I gather her against me, careful of the blood staining my fur and the injuries from combat. Her heat scent has reached peak intensity now, biological imperative demanding immediate attention despite the danger of our position.

"Mine," I acknowledge, the word transformed from simple ownership to complex recognition of what she's become to me. Not tactical asset or biological necessity, but essential counterpart to all I am.