Page 8

VEGA

Sleep? Not tonight. I managed maybe twenty minutes before every inch of my body shot electric with warning, fingers curled around my knife.

It had slithered under the torn hem of a blanket.

My breath caught, and for a wild second, I half-expected to see an alien claw descending or some Ignarath freak busting through the door.

But it was just the room, our sad little splinter of sanctuary.

Zarvash sprawled on the bed, motionless except for the rise and fall of that too big chest. In the dimness, he looked less like a dangerous warrior and more like the monster I'd imagined under my bunk as a kid.

The one with claws, fangs, and a bottomless void for a heart.

I’d made him take the bed. Like an idiot.

After that skin-hot moment earlier, his claws ghosting over my wrist, that tongue, God, that unexpected scorch of his touch, even thinking about sharing the bed was absolutely out of the question.

And he still needed to baby that wing if he was ever going to fly us out of there.

So, I’d staked out a patch of cold wood in the corner and pressed my spine to the wall like that would hold me together.

Outside, laughter crashed through the night, drunken, furious, and feral.

Somewhere nearby, something heavy hit the dirt, followed by the painful sound of bone or maybe teeth connecting with something alive.

My brain ticked through every noise, instant threat assessment, cataloging: safe, dangerous, maybe both.

Sleep never stood a chance. But that wasn’t even the problem.

It was the ghost of a memory haunting my skin, the soft, terrifying press of Zarvash's claws on my flesh.

Gentle, somehow, in total defiance of my expectations.

His tongue, quick and … fucking precise, soothing the rawness on my wrist. But searching, too, like he could taste my fear, my confusion, the chaos roiling just under the surface. And the forbidden fucking want.

I did not need this.

I pushed my palms against the rough, grit-scabbed floor, tried to let the cold crawl inside my overheated body. “Get a grip,” I mouthed, barely breathing.

This wasn’t one of Terra’s clandestine stares at Darrokar. Not Orla, moon-eyed for Rath, or Selene with Vyne. Least of all Hawk, giving Khorlar those sharp, hungry looks when she thought no one was paying attention.

If it was, I'd owe Hawk one hell of an apology.

But it wasn't.

I’d torn into Hawk last time. Hadn’t pulled a damn punch. Accused her of letting her judgment slip, mocked her for drooling over scaly muscles with our people still lost out there.

And now there I was, pulse stuttering whenever a dragon-monster in strategist's armor let his gaze linger a beat too long.

Pathetic.

The bar crowd erupted outside. My nerves shot into high gear and then calmed once I realized it wasn’t for me. For a simmering second, I wondered if I’d survive the night without Zarvash’s shadow between me and whatever prowled the alleyways.

The window glared down at me, flimsy wooden shutters, one loose on its nail, promising escape or maybe just another brand of death.

Beyond that? A city slavering for blood, for the spectacle of soft-fleshed captives torn apart.

But also … maybe, maybe, Kira’s sister or any human someone I’d promised myself I’d find, back before I hitched myself to the slumbering monster in the bed.

The guilt was a stone, cold and relentless, grinding under my breastbone. I’d heard the rumors. Known what was at stake. And there I was, locked up in a room with a Drakarn, counting my heartbeats, too scared to move, too furious to sleep.

My wrist ached, still tingling where Zarvash’s breath and tongue had touched it, the sensation flickering between a warning flinch and something I wasn’t about to put words to. Too much fear, too much need, too much everything balled tightly under my skin.

Across the room, Zarvash didn’t stir. That wounded wing was a dark scythe, folded clumsily, vulnerable for once. Back when I’d patched it up, he hadn’t so much as growled. But it had to be hurting him.

And if I stayed in that room another second, I might do something stupid like try and soothe it.

I should wake him. Say I was going for air. The smart move, the safe move.

I didn’t.

Instead, I uncoiled, every joint protesting the cold, the stress, the wrongness. I'd cataloged the language of the floorboards: third from the door squeaks, fifth sags, skip both. Knife, always, back in its sheath.

The click of the latch sounded like gunfire. Zarvash didn’t so much as sigh; dead to the world or just letting me think so.

Six feet from freedom, or at least from breathing room.

The hall was pure blackness, sliced with sick-yellow lantern light from somewhere far below. I jammed my feet into my boots, forced numb fingers to work laces until they were tight enough to run, tight enough to feel like armor.

Running from what? Ignarath, its claws out. Zarvash, if he woke angry. Or worse, running from this thing worming under my ribs, this sick pinch of guilt and something rougher, hotter. I had to move.

Creak. Step. Creak. Every bone in the flophouse joined in, as if warning the city. Nobody yelled. Only the revelry outside answered, echoing up the stairwell.

At the foot of the steps, the entryway was abandoned. The main door hung on crooked hinges. Of course it wasn’t locked; what idiot would try to break in there? All the danger was already inside.

Night air was a slap, cool, sharp, chasing sweat from my temples.

The moon bled over unfamiliar roofs, making the city feel even more alien and predatory, as if it was waiting for someone to let down their guard.

Shadows huddled under doorways. The main drag was a party—Drakarn jammed elbow-to-elbow around a makeshift pit in front of the tavern, all teeth and shouting, tossing something like dice or bits of bone into the center.

As the crowd parted, I caught sight of the battleground: two pitiful animals, their scales fever-red, battered and scrambling in a spray of sand and spit. When one got the upper hand, claws locking tight, pinning colored wings, the mob shrieked their approval.

Of course. No matter how far you fly from Earth, throw enough bodies together, and someone will start a cock fight.

No one saw me. No one even glanced my way. I drifted through the shadows, keeping close to stone walls, every sense straining, watching for claws, watching for the cold eyes that might recognize prey.

Every step away from the room, from Zarvash and safety, made me feel even more guilty. I should have woken him, shouldn't have walked away like that. Should have left a note, a warning, something. But I was already outside now; there was no use turning back.

The market square, abandoned now, was worse than in daylight: limp banners tangled, vendor stalls empty, strips of old cloth that were stained with something I didn't care to examine.

For a wild heartbeat, I let myself pretend this was just a dusty city, ugly, but survivable. For a second, I saw tall towers and yellow cabs and the lights of home. I almost let myself pretend. Almost.

But that wasn’t why I was there, and pretending would only get me hurt.

If I was a gladiator or a slaver bragging about prizes, where would I be?

The answer was obvious. Banners snapped northward on the night breeze, marking the route to what looked like half stadium, half execution ground. No grace to it, just hunger, all broken archways and timber, yawning wide as any earthen grave.

I stood there, the weight of my body saying turn back, turn back, but my brain locked on the memory of Kira’s voice, her desperation, the ugly possibility of that final loss, and I forced my feet forward.

Inside was worse. The air tasted like pennies and rot. Benches climbed in ragged tiers overhead, watching, waiting. Moonlight and whatever passed for bleach there warped the sand a sick, flickering shade of silver.

I hugged the wall, refusing to let the idea of being watched claw into my spine, eyes peeled for doors, shadows, secret passages, anything that’d ring as “prison” to a dirty, blood-hungry society.

A door stood out, iron, banded, deliberate. Hiding something. Was this too easy, too obvious? I reached for the latch, then?—

Voices.

Not gravel and smoke. Not Drakarn.

Human. Sharp, tired, pissed-off English.

“… can't be serious …”

“… have a choice?” A second, low and broken.

I slipped closer, heartbeat shoving against my ribs hard enough to bruise. The corridor bent, tunneled toward a grate built for keeping things—people—in. Iron bars, rusted and sturdy. Behind them: shadowy figures. Three. Huddled and ragged.

The pacing one wore what was left of a NASA T-shirt, logo half-obscured by blood and dirt. The recognition was a punch straight to the solar plexus.

They were who I was looking for.

But only three?

I didn’t waste another heartbeat on silence. I moved forward, pressed both hands to the cold, rough bars, blood roaring in my ears.

“Hey.” My voice was rough with everything I’d been holding in. “Hey, over here.”

Three faces jerked towards me, hollow-cheeked and wild-eyed. The one with the cropped hair, a woman, taller than me, face carved in hard lines of exhaustion and disbelief, shot toward the bars, all raw-edged aggression.

“Who the hell are you?” she hissed.