Page 27 of Beast of Blood and Ash (Drakarn Mates #6)

REIKA

The air was a punch to the face. Hot. Sharp.

Thick with the smell of sulfur and baked rock.

Draskeer’s grip was an iron cage on my bicep, claws digging deep as he dragged me into the volcanic wilds, a hellscape of shattered stone under a sky that bled.

Every jarring step was a reminder. I was a prisoner again.

There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

Every sense screamed danger. The volcanic crust cracked under my boots with each uneven step.

Heat pressed down, a physical weight that turned each breath into a punishment.

When the wind shifted, it drove the chemical bite of minerals down my throat.

It was the kind of air that scorched you from the inside out, a fire in the lungs, burning hotter with every gasp.

With each step, Draskeer yanked me forward, his claws digging deeper. I couldn’t stop seeing old blood pooled in the cracks of the stone, real or just a phantom of memory.

I didn’t dare stagger or let him see the tremor that shook my muscles beneath a stubborn posture. He had known all my tells once, but I wasn’t the same girl he’d tormented in the pens.

And yet, my body tried so hard to betray me. My skin prickled where his claws pressed, a phantom ache of memory. Still, my mind scrambled for a weapon—for Omvar’s voice hissing through the cracks.

You are not prey. Not anymore.

“You’re quiet, little prey,” Draskeer sneered, his voice scraping against my nerves. “Remember how you used to cry? I miss that sound.”

He wanted me whimpering. Wanted me to collapse under the weight of old terror.

My mouth went dry. My heart stuttered, a frantic bird desperate to beat out of my chest. The stink of him, hot stone and copper and something spoiled, was an overwhelming wave.

I stumbled but caught my balance, planting my feet on the grit.

Omvar’s voice echoed in my head. Your center of gravity is too high.

I sank into a lower, more stable stance, my body remembering lessons my screaming mind had almost forgotten.

I closed my eyes for half a heartbeat, letting the memory of Omvar’s coiled strength bleed into my bones.

Not prey. Not prey. Exhale. I bent my knees, spreading my feet over the sharp red sand.

The urge to run pounded at the base of my skull, a frantic, useless drumbeat.

The sound of my blood was thrumming a war drum in my ears.

I opened my eyes.

“I remember you being a coward who hides behind bigger monsters,” I spat back, the words a victory on my tongue. “Is Skorai not here to hold your hand today?”

I forced myself to look him in the eye, to meet his gaze with all the venom I could muster. The words tore like claws in my throat, but I savored them. Insults were armor. If I kept my mouth moving, he wouldn’t hear the sobs rattling behind my teeth.

His grip tightened, fury flashing in his eyes. “You’ve grown a tongue. I’ll cut it out before I take you back.”

That threat should have made me shrink. It almost did. My jaw clenched so hard I felt my teeth grind. The memory of torn skin, of screaming while no one came, flashed hot and sharp beneath the surface. But I forced myself to stay tall, to meet his rage with the only weapon I had left: defiance.

He shoved me toward a jagged spire of rock.

My abused hands scraped against the rough surface as I broke my fall.

Pain lanced up my arms, sharp and insistent.

I hissed between my teeth, biting back the whimper he craved.

My knees stung where I’d landed on the heat-scoured stone, grit already grinding into the fresh cuts.

But I didn’t linger on the pain. My instincts howled for an escape. A weapon. Anything. I pressed my cheek to the rock, my eyes roving the ground. A slice of obsidian. A crack just wide enough for a desperate hand. Not much, but maybe enough to draw blood.

I dragged myself upright before he could decide to help me, my jaw set.

My breath came in ragged spurts, every inhale burning.

Draskeer loomed above me, his tail cutting slow, satisfied arcs through the air.

He wanted to see me break. Wanted proof that the weak little human was still in there, begging.

Not this time.

I spat blood from a split lip, the iron taste sparking somewhere old and bitter.

“Is this it?” I sneered, fighting to keep the tremor from my voice.

“You had to drag me out here just to feel like you have any power left at all?” My breath hitched, but I pressed on.

“Was Skorai too busy licking his wounds after Zarvash stole his champion? Or did he just send you because he knows you’re the only one desperate enough to go? ”

His tail snapped against the ground, spraying grit across my ankles. He bared his fangs. “You’ll wish you’d remembered how to beg, prey.”

I saw the spasm of anger, the flicker of hesitation in his glare. Good. I wanted him mad. I wanted him sloppy. Omvar’s lessons ran through my mind, clear and cold. An enemy who loses control gives you an opening. Survive the first, bestial rush. Let him bleed out his temper.

I would choke on my own tongue before I gave him the satisfaction of my fear.

He laughed, a grating, ugly sound. “Your Beast can’t save you out here.” He raised a cruel-looking blade, its serrated edge gleaming in the harsh light. He was drawing this out, savoring my terror like a fine meal.

My mouth went dry. I tasted old horror on the back of my tongue, sour with bile and memory. The light caught the blade’s edge, making it glow a lurid, sickly yellow. For a second, every shred of bravado cracked right down the center, pure animal panic shrieking inside my skull.

This was it. The end.

Sweat stung my eyes. As he moved to press the blade to my throat, I looked him dead in the eye for a final, desperate gamble. I could feel the heat of the metal, the press of his claws locking my chin in place. My heart hammered, a drumbeat of pure defiance.

“Kill me, then,” I sneered, my voice louder than a scream. “But he’ll find you. And when he’s done, there won’t be enough of you left to feed the lava serpents.”

I saw the moment doubt undercut his arrogance, saw the flicker of uncertainty. I held his gaze, refusing to flinch.

For half a heartbeat, silence reigned. I watched the possibility of my own death reflected in his eyes, my fear boiling hot and proud in my chest.

A roar didn’t just shatter the air. It tore the world apart. A sound of incandescent rage, a promise of utter annihilation that vibrated through the rock and into my bones.

Draskeer stumbled back.

My whole body jerked and I lunged as far away from him as I could. The ground trembled. The roar ripped through the volcanic hush, primal violence made unstoppable. Heat and wind slammed my back, gritty sand biting my skin.

Omvar landed between us.

He didn’t crash. He impacted. A cataclysm of red scales and furious power, his wings flaring wide like molten banners, kicked up a storm of dust and stones that stung my face.

He was wounded, a dark gash weeping blood down his side, but he seemed not to notice. The scent of him slammed into me—smoke and honey and blood, the impossible comfort of safety and danger fused as one. His entire being was a weapon aimed at the Drakarn who held me.

Draskeer stumbled back, his arrogant smirk wiped away by a flash of disbelief, then raw, feral hatred. He shoved me away. I fell hard.

Pain flared along my wrists, elbows, and shoulders. The hot sand bit into my side, and for an instant, the world whirled, broken. I gasped, struggling not to choke on the grit clogging my throat. But even through the haze of pain, some wild, battered spark flared inside me.

Omvar didn’t look at me. He didn’t dare. His focus was absolute, his body a coiled spring of lethal intent. A low, continuous growl rumbled in his chest, a sound that promised a slow, painful death.

I forced myself up, scraping my knees raw, just to see. I felt small. Exposed. Trapped.

Predator versus predator.

And I was the prey caught between them.