Page 30 of Beast of Blood and Ash (Drakarn Mates #6)

OMVAR

Peace.

The word was foreign on my tongue, a concept I’d only ever understood by its absence.

For two days, there was peace. My wounds still ached, a dull, persistent fire beneath my scales, but it was a clean pain.

An honorable pain. It was the price of her safety, a cost I would pay a thousand times over.

But now we were finally back in our quarters.

The thought sent a jolt of possessive satisfaction through me, so potent it felt almost like a physical blow. The air was warm, thick with the scent of healing herbs and the sweetness of her skin.

She was there. She was whole.

I let that truth fill me, staring at the low, golden flicker of heat crystals embedded in volcanic rock. Shadows clung to the corners and pooled under the battered table where a mug still waited, half-filled with bitter, cooling herbal slurry.

The quiet between us was charged, heavy with unspoken things, the violent memory of the battle and the shared aftermath of the healing caverns. Every time my gaze met hers, a current arced between us. It had been too long since I’d tasted her.

I watched her as she moved about the room, her small human frame dwarfed by massive stone furniture.

She was restless, her hands fiddling with the hem of her tunic, her eyes darting to the door and back to me.

The memory of the attack was still a ghost in the room, a shadow at the edge of her vision.

I wanted to erase it. To burn it away with a different kind of fire.

So I waited. I sat on the edge of the sleeping platform, claws curled inward to keep myself from reaching for her, biting back the raw need that stretched my patience closer to breaking than any wound ever had.

I drank her in—every flick of her fingers, the subtle shift of her hips in my space, the way she looked at the room now, comfortable, not like she was planning her escape route.

A bitter smile twisted the corner of my mouth.

When I’d first brought her there, she’d eyed the door like an injured animal, ready to bolt at the smallest opening.

Now she moved with unthinking ownership, leaving traces of herself scattered everywhere: the slight indentation where she’d set her satchel, a smear of honey on the rim of the mug, the fresh herbal scent that had replaced the iron tang of blood.

I almost wanted to thank my enemies for threatening her, for forcing her into my care, for giving me this: her, alive in my space, not running. It was a savage, twisted debt, but I felt it all the same. Gratitude coiled through me, hot and brief as lightning.

She turned. Looked at me. Her eyes were full of heat. Full of want.

She walked toward me and didn’t stop until she stood directly between my knees.

“Your scars,” she whispered, her voice a little rough. “I want to see them.”

The words hit deeper than any blade ever had. She didn’t ask to see the clean lines of victory or the old wounds faded with time. She wanted the whole truth, what I was, what I had survived, what I could not, or would not, hide.

She reached out and brushed against the fabric of my tunic. The touch was nothing, a whisper through worn cloth, but I felt the sensation straight down to my cock. My breath hitched, a punch of need tightening every muscle.

I went still. My breath caught in my throat. I didn’t show my scars to anyone. They were a map of my shame, of every failure, every life I’d taken, every piece of myself I’d sold to survive Ignarath.

But Reika was mine.

And she owned every part of me.

Slowly, I shrugged out of my tunic. The air of the room, usually warm, felt cold against my bare scales. I felt exposed, stripped of more than just cloth.

She drank in the sight of me, eyes roaming from my throat to the ridges below my ribs, lingering at the jagged silver scars and sickly pearls where scales had been torn and healed, where talon and blade had sought to kill what refused to die.

My shoulders locked, naked and open under her gaze.

I held myself completely still. If she wanted the ugly truth, I wouldn’t shield it.

Reika’s hands lifted, trembling slightly, and her fingers traced the jagged, silvered line of an old blade wound across my chest. Her touch was featherlight, reverent. It didn’t feel like judgment. It felt like acceptance.

“You’re beautiful,” she breathed.

The words shattered something inside me. A wall I hadn’t even known was there crumbled to dust.

All the old voices, the ones that whispered monster, beast, killer, fell silent under the touch of her skin, under the weight of her worship. I felt seen—not weighed and found wanting, but counted and claimed.

She pressed her mouth to the scar, a soft kiss that sent fire through my veins. And then her hands were on me, undressing me, her movements no longer hesitant but filled with a fierce, driving need.

The fabric slipped away. My skin prickled in the rush of air, nerves raw and newly bared.

She took her time, exploring my body, kissing each scar as if to erase the memory of the pain that had caused it.

Every brush of her lips, every graze of her fingers, was a benediction, a slow, deliberate rewriting of every ugly memory.

She moved lower, mouth trailing the seam of flesh along my ribs, hands dancing along the map of pain and survival.

A low sound escaped me, half-groan, half-plea.

I was stripped—not just of clothes, but of every layer of armor I’d ever grown.

All my power, all my violence, gone. Only her worship remained.

She got on her knees. My breath stuttered into silence. I reached out, put my hand on her shoulder to stop her, the urge to shield her still so strong.

“I don’t require that, thravena .”

Her eyes were dark with want. The hunger in them was not desperation, not pity, but promise.

“I do.”

There was no room for argument. She undid my pants and stroked my cock before taking me into her mouth.

The sensation was white-hot, a surge of pleasure so sharp it bordered on agony.

Her lips were soft, her tongue exploring, the heat of her mouth drawing the blood down, making me throb.

Nothing in Ignarath had prepared me for this: not the pit, not the pain, not the mate-bond’s relentless, insistent ache.

This was worship and surrender, the kind that made every muscle in my body tense with gratitude.

She tasted me, slow at first, then with a boldness that left my thoughts scattered.

The slick movement of her tongue, the gentle scrape of teeth, the way her mouth stretched to take me in, inch by aching inch.

My hand gripped the edge of the platform, claws digging furrows that would scar the stone.

Her palm slid up my thigh, nails trailing, setting fire along a path of nerves.

Her other hand cupped my balls, rolling them with a tenderness that made my tail twitch, desperate to wrap her up, to keep her close.

The urge to thrust, to take, roared through me, but I held back, let her set the pace, the rhythm, the depth.

I looked down at her and saw her eyes on me. The question was there, unspoken.

Can I trust you?

Will you break me?

I answered by surrendering completely.

I let her see me shiver. I let her feel the tremor running through me, the way I would do anything for her pleasure, for her forgiveness. My mate was a gift. Her courage, her want, her hands on me, around me—these were everything I’d ever craved, and everything I never believed I deserved.

She sucked me deep, throat fluttering around the head of my cock, her lips sliding down the length, letting the mobile lip at the tip rub against her tongue. I groaned, a ragged, broken sound, not caring how desperate it made me. My hips jerked, restrained only by the last shreds of my control.

She didn’t flinch. She took me to the root, the heat of her mouth tightening, her jaw aching, but refusing to let go. Her hair brushed my thighs, her hands holding me as if I would vanish if she eased her grip for a moment.

I moaned, the sound guttural and raw. If there had been pain, I would have welcomed it. Instead, there was only need—her need, my own, tangled and indistinguishable.

I did everything I could to hold back, to let her have this, to let her take me to the edge again and again. My hands fisted in the bedding, my tail wrapped around her waist, anchoring me to the moment.

I couldn’t stop the noise in the back of my throat. “Off, thravena , if you don’t want this to end now.”

She pulled back. Her lips were swollen. Her pupils blown. She looked like she’d been fucked and I now I needed to make good on the promise of that look.

“I need you, thravena .”

The words snapped whatever self-control I had left. I hauled her up, desperate, and crushed my mouth to hers. Honey and salt and myself on her tongue; I tasted her hunger, her pride, the small, trembling certainty that lived in her hands when she slid them up my chest.

Her legs straddled my lap, knees wide on either side of my thighs. She didn’t hesitate. She guided herself over my cock and slowly slid down.

She was in control now, but I shared it with her. I let her set the pace, every motion slow and deliberate, her body taking the thick, ridged length inch by inch.

I was overcome with need for her, every muscle trembling with restraint. I moved slowly, careful not to overwhelm her.

She looked at me, cheeks flushed, hair sticking to her damp forehead. “I’m not going to break.”

“But you are precious.”

The words tumbled out, a confession, a vow. Her eyes went wide, the last of the fear burning away, replaced by joy, fury, hunger. She braced herself, palms on my chest, and began to move.

We picked up the pace, every stroke a prayer and a challenge. Her hips rolled, finding the rhythm that made her breath catch, her head fall back. I met her, slow at first, then rougher, letting her ride, letting her take, letting her claim me.

It was hot. It was intimate. It was real. I watched the way her chest heaved, the confession on her lips each time she gasped my name, the way her body opened for me, took me deeper, clung to me. My claws raked the bedding, my wings flared, the world narrowed to the place where we joined.

We were fucking, bodies moving in perfect sync. The friction, the stretch, the pressure—it was too much, not enough. I kissed her, open-mouthed, tasting her moans, swallowing her need. My hands slid down her back, cupped her ass, guided her up and down, up and down.

This was intense, the slap of flesh, the slick slide, the heat gathering low and fierce, threatening to consume us both. Each roll of her hips brought me closer, made my vision swim with black and gold and the memory of every pain that had come before.

She rode me faster, chasing the edge, her cunt gripping me in strangling pulses. Her nails dug into my skin, pain and pleasure indistinguishable. My tail wrapped her waist, holding her close. The words spilled out without thought:

“You’re mine. Only mine.”

She met my thrusts, gasping, “Yours. Always.”

We clung to each other, desperate, hungry, shuddering on the edge.

And we finally came together.

It was violent, shattering, her body tightening, milking me, her voice breaking into a sob as she convulsed around my cock. I growled, a raw sound, releasing inside her, every muscle locked, the mate-bond roaring through my veins like fire and mercy.

This was what it felt like to be whole.

To be home.

I held her tighter, my wings instinctively curling around her, a shield against the world outside. She slumped against my chest, breath stuttering, arms winding around my neck. My heart hammered, wild and grateful, as I pressed my mouth to the damp edge of her hair.

Peace in Scalvaris was a fragile thing. But in that room, we had it, and I wasn’t letting go.