Page 3 of Beast of Blood and Ash (Drakarn Mates #6)

OMVAR

I sliced through the throng like a shard of broken glass. Direct. Cutting. An unwelcome intruder. The River Market’s towering ceiling somehow pressed down, trapping a miasma of sulfur, sharp and metallic. Sweat, acrid and foreign.

A thousand unnamable scents clung beneath it all. Heat crystals flickered overhead, their soft light an oily pulse on scaled bodies, a quicksilver flash off blades arrayed on merchants' tables. Everything gleamed wet. Everything echoed.

And every eye tracked me. Their stares weighed on me.

My wings stayed folded tight. It was a conscious, burning effort of will. To spread them here would be to shove, to assert a dominance I hadn’t earned in this hostile city. I wouldn’t give them another reason to spew their hate.

They had enough. More than enough.

Traitor. The whisper was a serpent’s hiss. Ignarath dog. Tainted blood. Always just loud enough to hear, to flay another strip out of my scales.

A hatchling darted past, eyes wide with fear, scrambling up a stone face to avoid the mere brush of my leg. The crowd parted before me, a reluctant, instinctive yielding to my sheer size, but their retreat was barbed with malice. I kept my gaze level, jaw locked tight.

Show nothing.

This path wasn’t random. I’d spent days mapping her routines, etching them into my mind.

Learning where she went, when she left the dubious safety of the humans' quarters.

Always with others, a small, wary pack. Never alone.

Until today. Her faint and tantalizing scent pulled me forward, a hook sunk deep in my gut, dragging me toward the herb seller's stall just beyond the river's sluggish edge.

I’d told myself I wouldn’t seek her out. That I would grant her the small mercy of peace.

Another lie. My chest burned with the need to pull her close. My mouth ached, fangs oversensitive with the need to mark. The mate-bond was a molten chain that wouldn’t let me keep that silent promise.

It burned.

I rounded the corner where the market path narrowed, the air thickening, and there she was.

Small. Tense. Her hands, those fragile human hands, worked with careful, almost painful precision over a display of brittle plants.

Her back was to me, but I would know her in any hell.

The precise set of her shoulders. The hair cut close, dark against her skull.

The way her fingers moved—quick, efficient, delicate.

She wore layers, even in this suffocating heat.

Protection. Always, always protecting herself.

My bones ached with profound cellular recognition. My mouth watered.

Disgust followed, swift and brutal. Not at her. At myself. At the hunger, this raw, undeniable gnawing. At what I’d done, and what I'd failed to do.

I shouldn’t be there.

My very presence was a violation. I shouldn’t watch her. But she was etched into me, a pattern I couldn’t claw free, no matter how I tried.

Not that I was trying very hard.

I stilled, melting against a pillar of cold, dark stone, trying to become shadow.

Other Drakarn surged past, some clutching purchases, others dragging heavy carts of metal or freshly butchered meat toward the deeper, darker tunnels.

A human female sat cross-legged on a nearby ledge, weaving something from pale fiber, her movements small, contained.

She glanced up, registered my presence, and instantly hunched deeper over her task, a small creature making itself smaller.

And there was Reika. Less than twenty paces.

The herb seller, a Drakarn female, scales gone soft and gray with age, spoke to her in that slow, exaggerated drawl some used with humans, as if they were stupid, not just foreign.

Reika only nodded, her focus absolute on the bundled herbs in her hand.

Even from there, I could see the restless dart of her gaze, always checking her surroundings, alert to every shift, every shadow.

She never relaxed. Never let down that razor guard. Her vigilance was a cold twist in my gut.

I should leave. Turn now. Vanish. Stop torturing us both.

Instead, I stepped forward.

My plan, if the chaotic surge of desperation roiling within me could be called a plan, was to walk past. Just past. Let her see me, perhaps offer a single, quiet word. Show I meant no harm. Show I could be near without breaking her. Begin, somehow, to undo the damage my kind had inflicted.

The damage I had done with my silence, my watching from the shadows when I should have acted.

I circled in a slow arc to approach from the front. Better to be seen coming.

She was inspecting a clump of crimson leaves, rubbing them between her fingers. The motion released a scent like bitter smoke. The old Drakarn female gestured impatiently. "Twelve talins," she said coolly.

"It was ten yesterday," Reika said. Her voice, low, steady, careful. Nothing at all like the screams I remembered.

I moved closer, weaving between bodies, forcing my pace to slow. Her eyes flickered up once, caught on someone else, returned to her bargaining.

The herb seller growled. "Today’s price is today’s price. Make your choice."

One pace. Another. The crowd thickened. A cart rattled past, forcing me aside. When it passed, Reika had paid, tucking bundles into the satchel at her hip. She was turning away.

No. I still hadn't?—

I cut across the path, angling to intersect, feet carrying me too fast. I forced myself to slow. Soften my steps. Roll my shoulders down.

Don't frighten her. Don't be what she fears.

She looked up.

Our eyes met.

And her scent crashed into me. Sweet. Copper.

The land after rain. A thread of fear, sharp as a shard of glass, spiked through it.

The mate-bond seized, twisted, pulled tight.

My fangs throbbed. My claws itched with the need to claim, to protect.

I dug them into my palms until pain bloomed, a steadying agony.

I froze, caught in her gaze. Her eyes widened. Color drained from her face. One hand tightened on her satchel strap, knuckles white. The other drifted to her waist where a blade would be.

But she was unarmed.

The space between us vibrated. Hostility. Memory. The insistent drum of the bond. Market scents receded, overwhelmed by her—her sweat, her fear, her warm human skin.

A violent need crashed through me. To reach. To drop to my knees. To beg forgiveness. To gather her against me until her heart steadied, until I could wrap wings and arms around her, guard her from everything.

But I was what she feared most. Or, if not me, exactly, then everything I represented.

Ignarath. The slave pens. The torture.

I never lifted a finger against her, but it didn’t make me any less a monster.

I stared, unable to move, to speak. She was pale, dark circles bruising the skin beneath her eyes. Too thin. Taut as a wire. Beautiful in her wounded fierceness.

My mouth opened. Closed. I reached for something—a word, a gesture. Anything to make her see I wouldn't hurt her. That I was ashamed. That I would carve my own heart out before causing more pain.

"Reika." Rough, my throat scraping over her name.

She flinched as if struck. Her gaze darted past me, seeking escape.

"I—" What? What could I say? "I want—" To protect you. To serve you. To make amends.

She took a halting step back, bumping a Drakarn male, who snarled. She didn’t look at him. Her breathing, shallow, rapid.

Another step. A third. Tensed to flee.

Merchants passed between us, blocking my view. I didn’t move. Couldn't. My hand had lifted, unbidden, extended, claws curled. Savage Ignarath. In that moment, I proved every smear. When they cleared, I dropped my arm. But she'd seen.

Her eyes were wild, whites showing, pulse hammering in her throat.

Lips parted, no sound. I wanted to curl in on myself.

Disappear. I tried to make my stance non-threatening—head lowered, wings tucked.

Ridiculous. I was a massive, blood-scaled warrior, scarred and brutal.

My presence terrified even blooded warriors.

Her tongue darted out to lick her lips. “You’re from there.” The words were brave, even if they were barely a whisper.

The crowd around us had noticed. Conversation shifted, quieted, turned curious, ugly. A squat Drakarn female cast a searing glance from me to Reika. "Ignarath filth," she muttered. "Obsessed with prey."

Another voice, low, for my ears alone. "Animal. The council was mad to let you stay."

I kept my eyes on Reika. Nothing else mattered. Only her ragged breathing, the tension. "I won't hurt you," I said.

The words were foreign, stiff. When had I last tried gentleness? Never. I wasn’t much for talking at all. My claws and sword were more than enough.

She didn't believe me. How could she? Her memories were full of males like me, proving Drakarn, especially those from Ignarath, could not be trusted.

I stepped back, giving her space. "The herbs," I tried, gesturing at her satchel. "For healing?" Foolish. Trivial.

"Go away." Her voice, louder now, was thick with strain. Not anger. Terror.

I’d lost count of those I’d killed. Watched others bleed for sport. Participated in cruelty by silence, by obedience. Nothing cut deeper than her fear.

"I'm sorry," I said. Inadequate. A breath against wildfire. "I only wanted?—"

"Leave me alone." Shadows on her face. Memory in her eyes, darkness, wings, capture, pain. Memory I'd witnessed. "Please."

The "please" broke me. A plea. From her, to me. As if I deserved it.

I stepped back again. "I’m sorry."

For everything.

She clutched her satchel. The crowd’s attention thickened. Some human women gathered, wary, watchful. Ready to protect her—from me.

You are the monster in her story.

I retreated another step, face blank, wings tight. Still, she watched as if I might lunge.

If I could have torn the scales from my body, stripped away the parts of me that sent terror skittering over her skin, I would have. Right there.

My nostrils flared, dragging in her scent one last time. The cursed bond hissed, hungry, insistent. It didn't care about her fear. Demanded claiming, completion.

But that was the real obscenity. That I was drawn to her at all. That fate or biology had tied her to me, a weapon, a killer.

Don't force. Don't break her.

I bowed deeply and stepped aside, clearing her path. "Forgive me," I said.

She darted past, giving me a wide berth, not looking back. I tracked her until she disappeared, her scent a ghost in my lungs. I stood rooted, emptied, pierced by shame.

The market resumed its bustle. Water lapped at the river’s edge. A child laughed, the sound bouncing like a thrown stone. The crowd dispersed, spectacle ended.

I was peripheral. A shadow. A curiosity, a weapon, maybe a spy. No one met my gaze.

If the mate-bond was a gift, as legends claimed, then I was a curse. My existence an assault on her peace. An ugly intruder, huge, scarred, desperate.

She won't look at you. She never will.

I didn't care. I wasn't there to be looked at. Reika owed me nothing. I'd torn myself free of Ignarath for one reason—to be certain she stayed safe.

I would stay in Scalvaris, despite their hatred, the weight of being reviled. Endure insults, whispers, suspicion. Fight their battles if needed, spill blood for a city that would never claim me.

Because staying meant I could protect her. Ensure nothing from my world touched her again.

Not even me.