Page 12 of Beast of Blood and Ash (Drakarn Mates #6)

OMVAR

If I looked at Reika too hard, she might just disappear.

Her presence in my rooms was a fragile thing, smoke cupped in my hands. Every move I made felt like a threat that could send her scattering into nothing.

The air was thick, heavy with the rawness of recent violence and the sharp, metallic tang of blood still clinging to my scales. I’d dragged her there straight from the chaos, a warning still ringing in my throat, Ignarath blood splattered from my jaw to my wrist.

I tried to walk with care, to keep my shadow from swallowing her whole. But now, with the battered door shut behind us, the silence was a living, gnawing animal.

She hovered by the entrance, the strap of her satchel digging into her shoulder, her knuckles tense and white. I filled the small guest quarters to bursting. The stone walls, once a cool sanctuary, now pressed in, shrinking with every shallow breath she took.

Blooded warriors of Scalvaris had bigger rooms. Guest quarters weren’t meant to be welcoming. It hadn’t seemed small until she was in it.

Every sound drilled itself into my skull.

The soft, quick scrape of Reika’s breath.

The brittle snap of her boots against stone as she set her bag down by the door, so careful, as if a sudden movement would shatter the uneasy peace between us.

Even the faintest shuffle of her weight felt like a challenge, a test I was doomed to fail.

I was still covered in blood. A warrior always carried battle on him, but this felt different, dirtier.

That she hadn’t run screaming was a miracle forged in stubbornness.

She anchored herself to the far wall, shoulders hunched, chin tucked, eyes darting anywhere but at me.

It was instinctive. Her body screamed danger while her spirit refused to break.

My own heart thundered, too big for this space, too loud for what passed for comfort. I kept my hands open and my movements slow, my voice softened to careful edges.

You can’t force trust into a wounded thing.

Caution, stillness, a softening of the voice. These were the tools that coaxed a frightened creature close sometimes. Patience had always been a weapon in my arsenal.

But this wasn’t patience. This was torment.

The memory of our kiss hung in the air, unspoken but blistering between us. I wanted to comfort her, to close the gap and crush my mouth to hers, to promise safety in the only language that felt true. But the urge itself was poison. Any wrong step, any show of strength, would make everything worse.

My want was a blade pointed at my own throat.

I scrubbed a hand down my jaw, feeling the sticky smear of drying blood. I had to get clean. I made myself small, as small as a thing like me could be.

I retreated into the narrow bathing alcove, careful to close the partition only halfway so she could see. No traps. No surprises. Just me, washing away the blood and the horror I carried on my skin.

I worked fast. Cold water bit at fresh cuts, old battle-aches coming alive beneath my scales as I peeled off battered armor and the bloodstained tunic.

Symbols of what I was, of what I’d done.

The copper tang of blood chased me, refusing to be banished, but I scoured my arms clean and let the cold numb my hands.

My reflection caught me in a shard of polished obsidian above the basin: gold eyes too bright, jaw set, a monster staring back.

I found a fresh shirt, black and simple, softer than what I’d worn in the field.

No armor. No weapons. No claim, save the scars winding over my shoulder and chest, stories written in flesh that no amount of scrubbing could erase.

When I stepped back into the main room, Reika flinched. It was barely there, just a tightening around her eyes, a jerk of her chin. But I saw it. I felt it like a wound reopening.

I slowed everything. Breath in. Shoulders hunched, posture closed, my hands visible and empty. Part of me wanted to drop to my knees, to show her my throat, to offer every vulnerable piece of myself to prove I wasn’t the monster she remembered.

That would do me no good.

“I need to go get something. Stay here.” The words dropped like hot stones, a command disguised as a plea.

Reika’s head jerked up, her eyes wild. “I thought you wanted to guard me.” Her tone was a snapped wire, hostile and defensive, brittle with humiliation.

A sting, but I hid it. “No one will get to you here.”

The words felt empty, a lie stacked on top of all the others I’d told or kept silent. Still, she didn’t move.

I forced words out past the shame. “I will return shortly.” I tried to make it sound like routine, not desperation. Not an excuse to flee the heat of her panic and the acid of my own need.

She didn’t answer. I lingered a moment, heavy with things unsaid, then moved into the corridor. My steps echoed down the stone, each footfall a drumbeat of guilt.

It took longer than I expected to find them.

The market had emptied while night pressed in, merchants packing away the last of their goods.

The scent of honey and crisp-fried dough was nearly gone, drifting faintly above the spice of roasted meat and river moss.

I bribed a vendor with a coin worth more than twice the price, careful to keep my claws in check as I carried the warm plate back to my quarters.

A dull throb started beneath my breastbone with every step. She wouldn’t still be there. Of course she wouldn’t. Only a fool would stay with a blood-soaked monster, even one with a Drakarn’s promise stamped on his tongue. I quickened my pace, fighting the urge to run.

When I returned, Reika was right where I left her, her back to the door, arms folded, the tension in her spine gone brittle and high. Her eyes flicked to mine, searching for threat, for escape, for any sign I’d changed my mind.

I offered her the plate of honeyed sweets. I placed it on the low table between us, then retreated, giving her distance. I watched her too closely, hating myself for it.

Her hand hovered over the treats, fingers trembling as they traced the air just above the sticky shells. Her lips pressed into a thin line. I forced myself to remain still, patience a pain-bright thread pulled taut in my chest.

“How did you know I liked these?” she asked, her voice soft but edged. There was accusation in it, a challenge, as if I’d stolen a secret.

Panic flared hot in my throat. I couldn’t say I’d watched her in the market while she devoured a plate of them, eyes closed, lips shining with honey and bliss.

I couldn’t confess that seeing her happy, unguarded, had nearly broken me.

That I’d burned the image into my memory to keep myself alive through the worst of the dark nights.

“I think everyone likes these.” It was a coward’s answer. The truth sat heavy just behind my teeth, a stone I couldn’t spit out. Not if I wanted her to stay.

Her suspicion didn’t fade. She studied the plate as if it might bite.

Slowly, Reika lifted one of the sweets. Her thumb pressed into the sticky crust, breaking the shell while honey oozed around her fingertips. She hesitated a moment longer, head bowed, then brought it to her lips.

She ate with a strange gravity, as if the morsel held a memory she needed to taste to believe it. Her tongue darted out, licking a stray drop of honey from the corner of her mouth. The gesture was so unconsciously sensual it cracked something open inside me.

The moment softened, the air less jagged. A heartbeat of quiet. She looked up, her voice distant, vulnerable in a way I’d never seen before.

“I had these for the first time in Ignarath,” she said. “I don’t know why they were in my cell. Someone must have favored me.” She shuddered, the memory crawling over her skin. “Whoever they were, they never called in that debt. It was the best thing I ate while I was there.”

My hands curled into fists beneath the table, nails biting deep into my palms. Shame slicked the back of my tongue.

That had been me.

Months ago, hidden behind a mask of iron and discipline, I’d slipped treats past the guards when I couldn’t bear her suffering another day. Too cowardly to show my face, too broken to offer more than crumbs from the feast of my guilt.

She had no idea.

I wanted to tell her. The urge to confess was a boulder at the edge of a cliff, gravity pulling it, needing only the smallest push. But I couldn’t. Not now. Not if she thought there’d been a price.

“There’s plenty here for both of us.” She slid the plate across the table. The offering was awkward, almost shy. The gesture was clumsy, but it was hope. Her hope, extended in trembling fingers.

I took one of the sweets, careful to move slowly, non-threatening.

My fingers brushed a smear of honey from the edge of the plate. Her eyes darted to the spot, tracking the movement, her pupils blown wide with something I didn’t dare name.

We sat in silence, the tension so thick it might have been a third person in the room. The longing in me grew sharp, unbearable. A hunger not just for her body, but for the bond, for the chance to be seen as something other than her monster.

Her lips glistened. She licked the honey from her thumb, then caught me looking and snapped her gaze away. A bloom of color rose on her cheeks against pale skin.

Without thinking, she reached up, fingers hesitant, and brushed at something on my jaw. Her touch was featherlight. A single fingertip, warm and sticky, catching on a spot of honey I’d missed.

Time fractured.

I didn’t breathe.

Her touch, her scent, the honey and the sweetness and the coppery thread of her fear, all tangled together, crawling over me with the crackle of lightning.

Pressure built behind my ribs, a physical pain, aching for closeness, for anything to bridge the distance.

I wanted to lean in, to press my face to her palm, to beg for just a second more.

“I …” I tried to speak, but my voice betrayed me, thick with longing.

She pulled away, fast and sharp, the connection snapped. Her cheeks went scarlet. Her eyes shuttered blank, her whole body drew in on itself, small and apart. She jumped up from her seat and retreated to the farthest corner of the room.

The distance yawned open again between us, as wide as the chasm between worlds. The moment was ruined, the ashes of hope drifting down around our shoulders. I was a monster. I would always be a monster.

I stared at my hands, fighting the urge to beg her to come back, to let me try again. But I’d already pressed my luck. My want was a wound I couldn’t close, raw and open and exposed to the air. Reika didn’t look at me. The stone walls felt smaller, the light colder.

The warmth of what might have been was already flickering out.

If I looked at her too hard, she would disappear. So I made myself look away, and waited, half alive, for something I couldn’t bring myself to name.