Page 22 of Burned Alive to Be His

JUDITH

T he descent from the summit is a slow, agonizing journey through a world that has been fundamentally altered.

The mountain is quiet, its rage soothed, its heart regulated by the key I now hold.

I carry the obsidian sphere cradled in my arms, its gentle warmth a stark change to the biting cold of the wind.

It feels less like a stone and more like a sleeping heart, its power a low, steady hum against my skin.

Xvitar walks beside me, a wounded giant leaning on the support of two of his warriors.

He does not speak, but I feel his eyes on me, a constant, heavy presence.

The arrogance is gone, the cruelty is gone.

In their place is a raw, unguarded intensity that feels more dangerous, more intimate, than any of his previous threats.

When we reach the settlement, the entire clan is gathered, a silent, waiting sea of dark, powerful bodies.

They part for us, their eyes wide with a mixture of awe, confusion, and fear.

They look at the dead and wounded being carried behind us, at the broken, bleeding form of Grakar, and at me, the small, ash-covered human clutching the glowing Heart of the Mountain.

Vorlag stands before the Great Cavern, his ancient face a mask of stone. He waits until Grakar is thrown to the ground at his feet.

“Treason,” Vorlag says, voice a low, cold rumble that echoes through the clearing. “You have shed the blood of your own kind. You have attempted to destroy this clan, this island, in the name of your own mad ambition. You have defiled the sacred altar of our Mother. What say you in your defense?”

Grakar, his body a ruin of shattered bones, pushes himself up onto one elbow in bloody defiance.

He spits a gob of blood onto the black grit.

“I say that you are a fool, old dragon,” he rasps, his voice a wet, broken thing.

“You would have us put our faith in a pathetic human, in a child’s story.

I would have led us down a path of strength, of conquest. I would have made us gods. ”

“You would have made us ash,” a new voice snarls.

Xvitar pushes himself away from his guards, his body trembling with the effort, and stalks forward to stand over his defeated rival.

“You speak of strength,” he says in a deep, deadly growl.

“But your strength was not enough. You speak of weakness.” He turns his head, his violet eyes finding mine across the clearing.

“But it was that ‘weakness’ that saved us all. It was her wisdom that calmed the mountain’s heart while you were trying to rip it out. ”

He turns back to Vorlag, his gaze sharp, accusatory. “You knew. You knew this was a possibility. You sent us up there not just as a trial, but as a sacrifice. You used her, and you used me, to solve the problem of your rival.”

A tense, shocked silence falls over the clan.

To accuse the Eldest, so openly, so bluntly…

it is unheard of. Vorlag’s ancient eyes narrow, the only sign of his displeasure.

“I did what was necessary for the survival of this clan,” he says, his voice cold as the summit’s wind.

“The prophecy demanded a test. Grakar provided one. The outcome has proven the wisdom of my path.”

“The outcome was secured by her,” Xvitar counters, his voice ringing with an unshakeable conviction.

“Not by your machinations. Your authority is no longer absolute, old one. The clan has seen the truth today. They have seen that our future lies not in the old ways of dominance and pride, but in a new path. A path of partnership.”

He turns, his wounded body a testament to the battle he has just fought, and he walks toward me. He does not stop until he is standing before me, so close I can feel the heat of his body, smell the scent of his blood. The entire clan watches, their breath held.

He goes down to one knee.

A collective gasp ripples through the crowd. A dragon warrior, a male of his power and pride, kneeling. To a human. It is a gesture so profound, so world-altering, it feels as if the mountain itself holds its breath.

He looks up at me, his bright violet eyes blazing with a raw, fierce, and utterly humbling emotion. “Judith,” he says, my name a sacred vow on his tongue. “I am a beast of fire and stone. I am a creature of rage and pride. I have been a monster to you. I have been your captor. Your tormentor.”

He reaches out with his good hand, not to grab, not to take, but to gently cup my cheek. His touch is a brand of heat and reverence. “But I would be your mate. Your partner. Your equal. If you will have me.”

The world narrows to the space between us, to the feel of his scaled skin against mine, to the fierce, desperate hope in his eyes. The trials, the pain, the fear… all of it has led to this. To a choice. My choice.

“Yes,” I whisper, the word a tear, a prayer, a promise. “Yes, Xvitar. I will.”

A roar of approval erupts from the clan, a deep, primal sound of acceptance and celebration. Vorlag simply nods, accepting the new reality. Grakar is dragged away, his exile a foregone conclusion. And I… I am home.

That night, I am not in my cold, small cave. I am in his. He has been tended to by the clan’s healers, his arm set in a proper splint, his wounds cleaned and bound. He lies on the great pile of furs, a wounded dragon king in his den. And I am with him.

I sit beside him, gently dabbing a cool, damp cloth on his feverish brow. He watches me, his eyes dark and intense in the soft, magical light of the cavern. The silence between us is no longer a weapon. It is a space of comfort, of a deep, unspoken understanding.

“You should rest,” I say softly.

“I cannot,” he rasps, his good hand coming up to capture mine. He brings my hand to his lips, his mouth hot against my knuckles. “My mind is… loud.”

“What is it thinking?” I ask.

“Of you,” he says, voice a rough growl. “Of the promises I made to you in the darkness, when I thought I was dying. Of the promises I intend to keep.”

He pulls me down onto the furs beside him, his arm wrapping around my waist, drawing me close. He is so warm, so solid, a mountain of heat and strength. “I will not hurt you again, Judith,” he whispers, his voice thick with an emotion I can’t name. “Never again.”

“I know,” I say, and the truth of it settles deep in my bones.

He kisses me, a slow, deep, searching kiss that is filled with all the things he cannot say. It is one of apology, of reverence, of a desperate, hungry need. And I kiss him back with all the pent-up hope and fear and a dawning, terrifying love that has taken root in my soul.

The kiss deepens, the gentle exploration giving way to a raw, desperate hunger. His hand slides from my waist, up my side, his thumb stroking the curve of my breast through the thick tunic. A jolt of pure, liquid fire shoots through me, and a soft gasp escapes my lips.

He pulls back, his eyes searching mine. “Is this…?”

“Yes,” I breathe, cutting him off. “Yes, please.”

The word is a key, a permission he has been desperately waiting for.

With a low groan, he rolls, his powerful body covering mine, his weight a comforting, possessive presence.

He is careful of his injuries, his movements deliberate, but there is no mistaking the raw, primal need that radiates from him.

“I need you, Judith,” he rasps, his mouth moving to my throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. “Like I need the fire in the mountain’s heart. Like I need the air in my lungs.”

“Then take me,” I whisper, my hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. “Make me yours. Truly yours.”

He needs no further encouragement. His hands are on my clothes, not tearing this time, but removing them with a reverent, almost painful slowness.

He peels away the layers, his eyes devouring every inch of skin he reveals.

He kisses my shoulders, my collarbone, the scars on my arms. He does not treat them as imperfections.

He treats them as a part of me, as a map of the battles I have survived.

When I am naked before him, he simply looks at me, eyes blazing with a fire that is hotter than any volcano. “You are beautiful,” he says, the words a raw, broken whisper.

“So are you,” I reply, and I reach for the laces of his breeches.

He helps me, his hands trembling slightly. When he is free, he is magnificent, a creature of pure, masculine power. He is thick, and long, and impossibly hard. But this time, I feel no fear. Only a deep, aching, desperate need.

“I want to feel you,” I say, voice sounding like a husky plea. “All of you.”

He comes down over me, his body a searing brand against mine. But he does not enter me. Not yet. He kisses me, a long, slow, soul-deep kiss, while his hand slides down between my legs. He finds my slick, wet heat, and a low, triumphant groan rumbles in his chest.

“You are ready for me,” he whispers against my lips.

“I have been ready for you my entire life,” I reply, the words a truth that comes from a place deeper than thought.

His fingers slide inside me, and I cry out, my back arching off the furs. He is so skilled, his touch both gentle and demanding, a perfect, exquisite torture. He strokes me, he circles me, he teases me, his name a constant, desperate plea on my lips.

“Please, Xvitar,” I sob, my body coiling, tightening, my release a shimmering, imminent thing. “Please, I need you inside me.”

“Say it,” he commands, his voice a rough, guttural rasp. “Say you want to be my mate.”

“I want to be your mate,” I cry out, the words a surrender, a declaration, a prayer. “I want to be yours. Now, Xvitar. Please. Fuck me. Hard.”

With a savage roar, he positions himself at my entrance and drives into me with a single, powerful thrust. He fills me completely, a searing, stretching, perfect invasion that tears a scream of pure, ecstatic pleasure from my throat. He is home. He is my home.

He begins to move, a slow, deep, powerful rhythm that is completely different than the frantic, desperate energy of our first joining.

This is not a claiming. This is a worship.

His eyes are locked on mine, and in their violet depths, I see my own reflection.

I see not a slave, not a survivor, but a queen. His queen.

“Faster,” I beg, my nails digging into the powerful muscles of his back. “Harder.”

He obeys, his rhythm becoming a savage, frantic pounding that matches the beat of my own heart. The cavern is filled with the echo of our bodies colliding, of my breathless moans and his guttural groans.

“Mine,” he snarls, his thrusts deep, powerful, aimed at the very core of my being. “You are mine, Judith. My heart. My fire. My mate.”

“Yours,” I sob, the pleasure so intense it is almost a pain. “Always. Take me, Xvitar. Make me yours.”

I feel my climax building, a tidal wave of sensation that is pulling me under. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, if that is even possible. “I’m so close,” I gasp.

“Come with me,” he roars, and his body goes rigid, his own release imminent.

We shatter together, a cataclysm of pleasure and release that seems to shake the very foundations of the mountain.

My scream is his name, his roar is mine.

We are two halves of a whole, two fires merged into one, and in the blinding, white-hot light of our shared climax, I know that I’m no longer just Judith, the human slave.

I am Judith, the dragon’s mate.