Page 9 of Beast of Blood and Ash (Drakarn Mates #6)

REIKA

I wanted to kill those acolytes.

Fire still blazed through my veins a whole two days later—a righteous, helpless fury that left a taste like scorched metal on my tongue.

Two nights of nightmares more extreme than usual didn’t exactly help.

Not even Kira could calm me down when I woke up, slick with sweat and choking on screams, sure that the sadistic guard Draskeer was about to take a blade to my flesh.

Again.

The memory was a phantom limb, an ache where skin had been torn. I couldn’t shake it. Couldn’t sleep it off. Couldn’t outrun it. So I did the only thing I had left. I went looking for a different kind of pain.

The training grounds were deserted when I entered. The vast, subterranean cavern echoed with the ghost of violence. It smelled of Drakarn sweat and sand that clung to the damp stone and filled my lungs. I squeezed my eyes shut and forced myself not to think of Ignarath.

It didn’t work.

The scent memory was too strong. I could almost hear the cheer of the bloodthirsty crowds, a roar that vibrated deep in my bones. Almost feel claws wrapped around my throat, pulling me closer and …

No!

I snapped my eyes open, my heart hammering against my ribs. My gaze darted around the empty space, searching shadows for threats that lived only in my head. This was Scalvaris. The air was warmer there, the light from the overhead heat crystals a sickly, sulfurous yellow, but it was safe.

Or, well, safer.

They didn’t have slaves there. The only Ignarath in this territory was Omvar, and he was …

He was …

I didn’t know what the hell he was.

Just thinking his name sent a confusing jolt through my system. One part of me recoiled, flooded with the terror of his kind—of the scaly brutes who ruled my nightmares. But another part, a deeper, more treacherous part of me, remembered the solid wall of his chest, the impossible heat of him.

My skin tingled where his arms had wrapped around me, a memory that was both a brand and a balm. The physical reaction was instantaneous and infuriating. A flush crept up my neck, my stomach tightening into a knot that was equal parts dread and a strange, unfamiliar longing.

I hated it. I hated him for making me feel it, and I hated my own body for its utter betrayal.

You are not broken, I told myself, the words a thin, frayed mantra. You are not broken.

I squared my shoulders and marched over to the racks of weapons, the grit of the sandy floor crunching under my sandals.

They were made for Drakarn warriors and far too big for me.

Row upon row of massive swords, brutal-looking axes, and spears that were longer than I was tall.

It was Volcaryth’s way of reminding us humans didn’t belong: fragile, breakable things in a world of stone and predators.

I yanked a staff off the rack and held it up. Heavy, but it would do. The polished wood was rough against my callused palms. I could use the strength training. If I was stronger, maybe the nightmares would stay away. Maybe I wouldn’t feel so pathetic.

I moved to the center of the arena, the empty space amplifying the sound of my own ragged breathing. I fell into a basic stance, feet planted, knees bent. I swung the staff in a wide arc, the weight of it pulling at my shoulders, forcing a grunt from my lips.

Again. And again.

I poured all my anger, all my fear, all my shame into the movements. The two acolytes. The memory of their sneering faces. My own humiliating panic. The staff became my fury, slicing through the thick, heavy air.

But my form was sloppy. My frustration mounted with every clumsy pivot, every swing that was just a little off-balance. I was fighting myself as much as any phantom enemy.

And someone was watching me.

The feeling was a cold prickle at the nape of my neck, the sudden, certain knowledge that I was no longer alone.

My hypervigilance screamed. I didn't stop my motion, didn't give anything away. I swung the staff in another arc and pivoted towards the entrance, holding my weapon like it was a sword instead of a glorified stick, the end pointed directly at the cavern’s opening.

Omvar stood there. Waiting.

He filled the archway, a massive silhouette against the distant glow of the city tunnels. His red scales absorbed the faint light, making him seem carved from shadow and cooling magma. He was perfectly still, his sheer presence a physical weight in the air.

I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly bone-dry.

I wanted to run. To hide. To dig a hole and crawl into it and never see the light of day again. But I was already living underground, and that hadn’t done much to help me face my fears either. I had run from him in the market, run from him after his fight, run from him after he’d held me.

I was so tired of running.

There had to be a bit of boldness in me somewhere. A scrap of the person I used to be before all this.

The memory of his arms wrapped around me flashed through my mind. His body shielding me from the acolytes. It was a paradox that threatened to tear me apart.

He was the monster from my nightmares and the only solid thing I’d had to hold onto in months.

“Did you come for the show?” I asked, my voice tight but steady. I held my staff up like a shield, a pathetic piece of wood against a mountain of scaled muscle.

Omvar stepped forward, slow, waiting for my reaction. Another step. Then one more, easy and practiced, until it felt like he took up all the space, his scent spreading—smoke, hot metal, something wild and almost clean. My pulse skittered.

“Would you like a training partner?” His voice was a low rumble, deep enough to vibrate in my gut.

No! screamed some part of me. Run. He’s one of them.

Yes, a traitorous whisper answered from somewhere deep inside me.

When Terra said I should spar with a Drakarn, I never imagined him.

Her words from the other day echoed in my head.

You need practice against bigger opponents.

The kind with wings and claws. She was right.

I knew she was right. But the thought of letting any of them that close, of willingly putting myself in that position was … unthinkable.

And yet, I wasn’t sure there was anyone else I could even let try. I’d seen the casual cruelty in other Drakarn eyes. But not in his.

He’d held me like I mattered.

I wasn’t shaking. That was a change. My hands were steady on the staff, my feet planted. My heart was a runaway train, but my body held its ground.

“I wouldn’t say no to a few pointers.” It came out almost sarcastic.

A flicker of something, maybe surprise, crossed his features before being smoothed away. He gave a single, sharp nod and moved to the weapon rack, selecting a staff that looked twice as thick as mine.

He approached me in the center of the ring, his size overwhelming.

He demonstrated a simple defensive block, his movements fluid and powerful where mine had been clumsy and forced.

"Your center of gravity is too high," he said, his voice quiet.

"You fight with your arms. You need to use your whole body. Like this."

He moved behind me. My whole body went taut, every nerve on high alert. I felt the fire of his breath at my ear, the heat pouring off him—not the heat of danger, but something alive.

His hand closed around my upper arm. Claws, ever-present, curved but careful; a threat, but somehow … familiar. Goosebumps shot across my skin—a reminder of what he was, what I was letting him do. My own traitorous body leaned back, just a bit, into his guidance.

“Keep your weight centered,” he murmured, low enough that it was almost private.

He adjusted my grip, his other hand sliding to my lower back, pressing me imperceptibly into the stance.

Every place he touched me felt raw, hypersensitive.

The heat of him against my spine, his chest ghosting along my shoulders, professional, almost, but too much, too close.

His thigh brushed mine as he nudged my foot into place.

Instructional, I told myself. Just a lesson.

We returned to position—him opposite me, holding his staff. My thoughts scattered. All I could think of was him, his strength, his restraint, the way he could break me and chose not to.

I fumbled a step and lost my footing. His staff came down, quick, controlled, not hard, but enough to knock my grip loose, my own staff clattering to the ground in the echoing quiet.

I stumbled forward. Into him. And his arms wrapped around me before I could fall.

His arms caught me automatically, closing around my body with heat and impossible gentleness. For a heartbeat, I was wrapped in him: his chest solid beneath my palms, scales radiating warmth, heart beating a steady thrum beneath my hands.

The heat igniting in me was nothing like the blazing anger from before. No. This was need. A raw, aching thing that stunned me with its intensity. I hadn’t felt it in months. I’d been certain I’d never feel it again. I’d thought that part of me had been scoured out, burned away by pain and fear.

And for one of the monsters on this planet? For an Ignarath warrior?

Never.

Tell that to my body, which was humming with a life I didn’t recognize, leaning into his touch even as my mind screamed in protest.

I tried to focus, to clear my head, but his proximity was a drug. My thoughts splintered. All I could feel was him. The solidness of him. The sheer, restrained power of him. How could I want this? How could any part of me crave the touch of a creature that represented everything I feared?

I didn’t pull away. Didn’t run.

Instead, I looked up. Up and up, into golden eyes blown wide with something hot and hungry. His gaze dropped to my mouth, the air between us thick and charged and trembling.

The training was over. This was something else, something wild and terrifying and alive.

I was so tired of being afraid. Tired of being prey. I wanted, just for a heartbeat, to choose.

To reach and take.

So I did.

I rose on my toes and curled my fist in the rough fabric at his hip to balance myself.

I kissed him.

Not gentle. Not sweet. I crashed my mouth to his, all rough desperation, pouring in every ounce of confusion, longing, and anger I had left. For a heart-stopping moment, he was perfectly still, a statue of surprise.

Then a low growl rumbled deep in his chest, and his mouth answered mine.

One of his big hands slid from my back to cradle the base of my skull, claws brushing lightly through my hair. His thumb stroked my neck, sending sparks through every nerve ending. The threat and gentleness wrecked me in equal measure.

I pressed closer, desperate for more: his heat, his power, his mouth on mine. Every inch of contact stoked the fire. I was melting, unraveling, alive in a way I’d forgotten was even possible.

He shifted, tilting my head, and his mouth claimed mine more fiercely, tongue tracing a line that left me shaking—possessive, demanding, but never rough.

I moaned against him, swallowing his heat, his need, my own.

Thought left me. There was only sensation, surrender and wanting, the bared edge of possibility.

Something brushed my thigh. Smooth, strange, strong. It curled around my leg, up the back, wrapping, holding.

A tail.

A Drakarn tail.

The realization cut cold through the haze, shocking, undeniable.

I was kissing a Drakarn. One of the monsters. Letting him hold me. Letting him claim me as if I belonged.

What the hell was I doing?

I wrenched free, gasping, sucking in air that suddenly tasted like shame and panic. I stumbled back, looking up and up at Omvar, looming in the light, his face half-shadowed, half-fire. His eyes still burned gold, pupils huge with wanting, tail coiled around my leg possessively.

How could I kiss him? How could I want him to touch me?

The panic finally snapped the thread. My body moved before my mind could stop it. I ripped my leg free, spun, and darted away.

“Reika—”

His voice, ragged with confusion and something deeper, chased me down the stone hall, but I left him behind.

I ran, feet slapping, lungs burning, eyes blurring, away from him, away from myself, away from everything I had just admitted, even for a second, to wanting.