Page 16 of Burned Alive to Be His

XVITAR

I wake to the scent of her.

It is the first thing I become aware of, a soft, warm, earthy fragrance that has woven itself into the furs of my sleeping ledge, into the very air of my cavern.

It is the scent of the human. Of Judith.

And she is tangled with me, her small, soft body pressed against my side, her head resting on my shoulder.

Her breathing is a slow, steady rhythm against my skin, a quiet counterpoint to the hungry rumble of the mountain.

My body is a landscape of pain. My broken arm, hastily set and bound by my own hand last night, throbs with a dull, insistent fire. The deep gashes in my side are a map of Grakar’s fury. But the pain is a distant thing, a familiar echo. The immediate, overwhelming reality is the woman in my arms.

The events of last night crash over me, a tidal wave of memory and sensation.

The raw, desperate hunger. The shocking, absolute surrender.

The feeling of her body coming apart around mine.

The claiming. It was not the cold, calculated assertion of dominance I had planned.

It was a conflagration, a mutual immolation that has left me feeling… scoured. Exposed.

A low growl rumbles in my chest, and she stirs, her eyelashes fluttering against my skin. She makes a soft, sleepy sound and snuggles closer, her hand resting on my chest. Her touch is a brand, a searing heat that has very little to do with the volcano.

This is a weakness. A fatal, unforgivable weakness.

She is my possession, my tool. And yet, I held her through the night as she slept, my good arm wrapped around her, my body a shield against the cold.

I watched the faint starlight from the cavern entrance play across her face, tracing the line of her scars, the curve of her lips.

I listened to her breathe. And I felt a strange, terrifying peace settle in my blood for the very first time in my life.

She begins to wake fully now, her body tensing as the memories of where she is, and with whom, return. She lifts her head, her dark, sleep-softened eyes meeting mine. Fear flickers in their depths, a familiar shadow, but it is quickly replaced by something else. A quiet, watchful curiosity.

“You are still here,” she whispers, her voice a husky morning rasp.

“This is my cavern,” I grunt, my voice rougher than I intend. I need to re-establish the distance, the order of things. “Where else would I be?”

“I thought you would cast me back to my own cave,” she says, her gaze unwavering.

“And have you freeze to death?” I snarl, pushing myself into a sitting position, the movement sending a fresh wave of agony through my side. I ignore it. “You are still of use to me. Do not mistake my proximity for affection.”

The lie tastes like ash in my mouth.

She simply watches me, her expression unreadable. She does not flinch from my anger. She does not cower. She has seen the beast behind the rage now, and she is no longer afraid of its roar.

Before I can say anything else, a voice calls from the entrance of my cavern. “Xvitar. The Eldest summons you.”

It is one of Vorlag’s personal guard. I grit my teeth. The old dragon does not waste time.

“I am coming,” I call back, my voice a sharp bark.

I stand, ignoring the screaming protest of my muscles. I turn my back on Judith, needing the distance. “Stay here,” I command. “Do not leave this cavern.”

I do not wait for her reply. I stride out into the morning light, my body a rigid wall of defiance against the pain and the turmoil within me.

The settlement is quiet, the clan members watching me with a new kind of gaze.

The news of my victory over Grakar has spread.

They see the bandages on my arm, the bloodstains on my tunic.

They see strength. But they also see the human who did not emerge from my cavern this morning. Their whispers follow me like smoke.

I find Vorlag in the Great Cavern, standing before a massive, carved stone map of the island. He does not look at me as I enter.

“Your arm?” he asks, his voice a calm, smooth rumble.

“It will heal,” I say, my voice clipped.

“And Grakar?”

“He will live,” I say, my voice laced with a cold fury. “A fact he owes to the human’s misplaced mercy.”

Vorlag finally turns, a slow, deliberate movement.

A faint, knowing smile plays on his ancient lips.

“It was not mercy, Xvitar. It was wisdom. To kill him would have been to make him a martyr for his cause. To leave him broken, defeated by you and spared by a human… that is a humiliation from which his pride will never recover. His faction is already beginning to fracture.”

I stare at him, a cold dread trickling down my spine. The old dragon sees everything. He is not a fool playing with prophecies. He is a master strategist, and I am a piece on his board.

“You have proven your strength,” Vorlag continues, his eyes gleaming with a calculating light.

“You have proven your dominance. Now, you must prove your worthiness, and hers. The clan is watching. They are divided. They need a symbol to unite behind. They need to see that this path, the path of the prophecy, is the true one.”

“What do you want, Vorlag?” I snarl, my patience gone.

“The final trial,” he says, his voice dropping, taking on a tone of sacred gravity.

“It is time. The Hearthkeeper demands her offering. You will take the human to the summit of Bloodstorm Peak. You will lead her to the ancient altar. There, she will make an offering of the fire-crystals she retrieved, a symbol of her courage, and a plea for the goddess’s blessing upon your union, upon our people. ”

The trap is laid, its jaws open and waiting.

It is a brilliant, vicious move. If we go, and she succeeds, it validates his prophecy.

It cements his leadership and anoints me, and my human mate, as the chosen of the goddess.

If she fails, if she dies on that treacherous peak…

then I am shamed. My prize, my chosen, is proven unworthy.

My strength is shown to be insufficient to protect her.

My claim to leadership is shattered, and Grakar’s philosophy of strength over prophecy is proven right, even from his broken bed.

“It is a political maneuver,” I growl dangerously. “You are using her, using me, to silence your opposition.”

“I am using the tools the goddess has given me to save our people,” he retorts, his voice sharp as obsidian.

“The climb is perilous. The summit is home to razor birds and worse. The air is thin. No human has ever set foot on the peak. It will be the ultimate test of her will, and of your ability to guide her. You cannot refuse. To do so would be to admit that you believe she is unworthy. To admit that you have no faith in the prophecy. It would be a sign of weakness. And the clan will not follow a weak leader.”

He has me. And he knows it. My pride, my ambition, my entire standing in this clan, is now tied to the survival of this one, fragile human.

“When?” I ask, my jaw tight.

“At dawn, tomorrow,” Vorlag says. “Prepare her. Do not fail, Xvitar. The future and survival of our race depends on it.”

He dismisses me with a wave of his hand. I turn and stalk out of the Great Cavern, a cold, hard fury churning in my gut. I am trapped. My own ambition, my own pride, has been turned into the bars of my cage.

I return to my cavern to find Judith dressed in the clothes I gave her, her hair combed with her fingers.

She has used the water I left to wash the grime from her face and arms. She is standing before my hoard, her head tilted as she studies a large, iridescent shell.

She is not touching it. She is simply looking.

She turns as I enter, her dark eyes immediately going to my face, then to my bandaged arm. “What did he want?” she asks, her voice quiet.

“The final trial,” I say, voice a harsh rasp. I cross to a large, carved chest and throw it open. Inside are coils of rope, climbing claws, and other gear for traversing the high peaks. “We climb the mountain. To the summit.”

She pales, her eyes going wide. “The volcano?”

“It is called Bloodstorm Peak,” I correct her, my voice sharp. “And yes. We leave at dawn.”

I begin to pull out the gear, my movements rough, angry. I am a storm of frustration, and she is the rock upon which I am breaking.

“Why?” she asks, her voice small.

“Because the Eldest commands it,” I snarl, throwing a coil of rope to the floor. “Because a goddess demands an offering. Because our entire world, it seems, now revolves around you, human.”

“My name is Judith,” she says, her voice gaining that familiar, infuriating steel.

“Your name is an irrelevance!” I roar, turning on her, my control finally snapping.

I stalk toward her, backing her up against a wall of glittering treasure.

“You are a complication! A weakness! A chain around my neck! Do you think I want this? To drag your pathetic, fragile body up the side of a mountain that could kill you with a single, misplaced step?”

She does not flinch. She does not cower. She simply holds my gaze, her chin lifted. “Then don’t,” she says.

“What?” I demand, stunned.

“Don’t take me,” she says, her voice calm and reasonable. “Tell them I am too weak. Tell them I am unworthy. Leave me here. It is what you believe, is it not?”

I stare at her, at the challenge in her eyes. She is offering me an escape. A way out of Vorlag’s trap. All I have to do is declare her a failure. All I have to do is admit that my prize is worthless.

And I cannot.

A savage, possessive roar builds in my chest. She is not worthless. She survived the sea. She survived the Serpent’s Maw. She survived Grakar. She survived me . She is the strongest, most resilient creature I have ever known. And she is mine.

“No,” I growl, the word torn from my throat. “You will not fail. Because I will not allow it.”

I turn back to the gear, my mind racing. The climb is not just a test for her. It is a test for me. I must prepare her. I must give her every advantage.

I pull out a thick, fur-lined cloak. “The summit is cold,” I grunt, tossing it to her. “The wind can strip the flesh from your bones.”

I find a pair of soft leather gloves. “The rock is sharp. It will tear your hands to pieces.”

I go to a pouch and pull out a handful of dried tizret fruit and a small, hard cake of journey bread. “The climb will take all day. You will need your strength.”

I work with a focused, frantic energy, my earlier rage replaced by a cold, sharp pragmatism. I check the shoes I made for her, reinforcing the leather bindings. I give her a small, sharp knife, its hilt wrapped in leather. “For the razor birds,” I say. “Aim for their eyes.”

She takes each item, her expression a mixture of confusion and a dawning understanding. She is not just a pawn to me. She is a warrior I am arming for battle.

When I am finished, I stand before her. She is a strange sight, a small human buried in the gear of a dragon warrior. But her eyes are not the eyes of a victim. They are the eyes of a survivor, ready for her next fight.

“You will listen to me,” I command, my voice low and intense. “You will do exactly as I say. You will not question my orders. You will not falter. Your life will be in my hands. Do you understand?”

She looks at me, at the gear she holds, at the fierce, desperate intensity in my eyes. I think she truly sees me. Not just the monster. Not just the captor. But the male who is terrified of losing his most precious treasure.

She gives a slow, deliberate nod. “I understand.”

“Good,” I grunt, turning away, the intimacy of the moment too much to bear. “Get some rest. We leave before the sun.”

I retreat to my own sleeping ledge, my back to her. But I do not rest. I spend the night listening to the sound of her breathing, the weight of her survival, of my own future, a heavy, suffocating presence in the warm, dark air of my cavern.