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ZARVASH

The city's foul breath clung to us both as I dragged Vega back through the labyrinthine alleys of Ignarath. Every shadow seemed to hold eyes, every flicker of movement felt like talons scraping against my scales, probing for weakness, for the slightest crack in my facade.

Her wrists, red and chafed, and the map of bruises blooming across her delicate face were a relentless war drum pounding against the fraying edges of my control with each step.

My grip remained firm on her arm, a calculated pressure, tight enough to sell the brutal ownership demanded by this cursed place yet consciously eased to avoid inflicting more pain.

We were a spectacle, a master and his defiant property, and all of Ignarath had eyes.

Eyes that reported directly to the Tournament Master, whose leering satisfaction was burned into my memory.

One misstep, one crack in the performance, and our lives were forfeit.

Finally, the warped wood of the guestroom door groaned shut behind us.

I slid the heavy, rusted bolt into place, the grating sound echoing in the sudden quiet.

I stood motionless, senses straining, listening for the shuffle of footsteps in the corridor, the faintest whisper that might betray surveillance.

Only when the silence stretched, thick and undisturbed, did I release her arm, the imprint of her shape lingering on my claws.

“Are you hurt?” The words clawed their way out, rough and grating like shards of obsidian scraping my throat.

Vega rotated her shoulders, a slight wince tightening the bruised corner of her mouth. “Nothing that won't heal.”

Her gaze met mine, wary, assessing, but devoid of fear.

Not of me, anyway. The crushing weight of our reality pressed down, tangible as the humid air.

The Tournament Master’s predatory eyes fixed on Vega, the sickening enjoyment he’d taken in her forced submission, the memory sent a fresh surge of black, killing rage through my veins.

“I'm sorry.” The apology felt thin, utterly inadequate against the backdrop of her degradation. “For … all of that.”

“Don't.” She shook her head, strands of sweat-dampened hair falling across the livid mark on her jaw. “You played your part. We both did what was necessary.”

I moved to the narrow window slit, scanning the deserted, refuse-strewn street below. Clear, for now. The water pitcher on the rickety nightstand was half-full, the liquid stale but precious. I poured some onto a scrap of surprisingly clean cloth I found tucked away, then turned back to her.

“Let me.” I held up the damp rag, indicating the smear of dried blood clinging to her skin.

She hesitated for a moment. Then, with a small nod, she perched on the edge of the sleeping platform.

I knelt before her, forcing my movements to be slow, deliberate, devoid of the predatory quickness natural to me.

The accumulated filth of the cells clung to her, layers of sweat, dried blood, fear, and the unique, pervasive stench of Ignarath's ever-present cruelty.

My gut churned at the thought of the humiliations heaped upon her.

Because of me. Because of this damnable, inexplicable bond that tugged at my very bones, demanding I protect her with all I was.

Carefully, I brought the cloth to her face, gently wiping away the dark crust marring the corner of her mouth.

Her skin was startlingly warm beneath the damp fabric, soft in a way that still felt profoundly alien against my scaled knuckles.

She flinched when the cloth brushed a particularly tender spot near her eye, and I pulled back instantly.

“I'm fine,” she insisted. “Keep going.”

I resumed but kept my touch light. The cloth came away, stained by blood and dirt.

With each slow pass, more of her true face emerged from beneath the grime—pale skin flushed with exertion and lingering adrenaline, the scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose like distant constellations, the sharp lines of fierceness etched around her mouth and eyes.

“I should have stopped you,” I said finally, the words low, tearing against the silence. “When you left. I should have anticipated this.”

Her eyes flashed with a spark of defiance. “I am not yours to manage.”

“You are while we remain trapped in this viper's nest.” The words came out harsher than intended, laced with the fury I felt towards her captors, towards myself. I forced my tone to soften. “This city … Vega, you cannot comprehend the depths of their depravity.”

“I think,” she countered dryly, “I got a fairly visceral introduction.”

The angry red circles around her wrists made my own jaw clench so hard I felt the bones grind. Switching to a clean corner of the cloth, I carefully dabbed at the raw, abraded skin. They had dared to put chains on her.

“Was it worth it?” I asked, keeping my voice low, pitched beneath potential eavesdropping. “The humans?”

Her expression shifted, a fragile flicker of hope breaking through the exhaustion and pain.

“Five in the lowest cells, beneath the arena sands.

They confirmed it; Kira's sister is alive.

But they've moved her, taken her somewhere outside the city walls.

And then there were the three that I saw before the guards came.

I didn't have much time to talk to them.”

“Alive is good. But it changes nothing about our immediate survival.”

I moved to rinse the cloth in the remaining water, needing the simple action. When I turned back, water dripping from the rag, she was tugging at the collar of her filthy, sweat-stiffened tunic, grimacing.

“I need to get this off. It reeks of that place.”

Before the implications could fully register, before I could form a coherent thought, she pulled the wretched tunic over her head in one swift, decisive motion.

My breath hitched, lodging somewhere high in my throat.

Look away.

Honor demanded it. Self-preservation screamed it.

But my eyes refused to obey, locked onto the sight of her, the pale, vulnerable expanse of her skin, the unexpected curve of her breasts bound tightly in some thin, practical wrapping, the brutal, beautiful constellation of purple and blue bruises blooming across her ribs.

Wounded. Defiant. Utterly, impossibly alien and yet …

My hand tightened around the cloth. My mouth was suddenly bone dry. This was madness. Utter, self-destructive insanity. And yet, I moved behind her, drawn by a current stronger than reason, stronger than duty.

Her back was covered in faint, silvery lines of old scars I hadn't noticed before, stark against the fresh, angry bruises left by rough handling, the delicate knobs of her spine leading down to the waistband of her dirt-caked pants.

I pressed the cool, damp cloth gently against her skin, starting at the tense line of her shoulders, wiping away the layers of grime in long, slow, careful strokes.

My claws, usually weapons, felt clumsy, overly large against her fragile skin.

She let out a sigh, a soft sound of relief that vibrated through the cloth, shivering down my own spine like a physical touch. I continued downward, tracing the elegant line of her backbone, feeling the subtle shift and play of muscle beneath her skin.

That close, her scent threatened to overwhelm my senses, not just the lingering stench of the prison, but something beneath it, that uniquely sweet, almost fiery spice that was intrinsically her , cutting through the filth, making my head swim, making my tongue tingle with a phantom taste.

Mine.

“Turn,” I commanded, my voice rougher than intended, strained.

She obeyed without argument, turning to face me. The thin fabric binding her breasts was now damp, clinging slightly where water trickled down from her neck. I swallowed hard, forcing my focus onto the task.

Clean off the filth. Nothing more.

I started at her collarbone, wiping away sweat and grime, acutely aware of the frantic pulse fluttering beneath the thin skin, a rapid, fragile bird-beat so unlike the slow, heavy thrum of my own heart. I moved lower, my hand hesitating instinctively at the upper edge of her binding.

“It's fine,” she murmured, her voice low, intimate despite the circumstance.

Before I could protest or retreat, she reached up, nimble fingers quickly unwinding the stained fabric, letting it fall away to pool at her feet.

The air punched from my lungs. Her breasts were revealed, small, high, perfectly formed, tipped with dusky pink nipples that tightened instantly in the cooler air.

A sliver of rational thought screamed look away, maintain control, this is madness!

But I was transfixed, caught in the gravity of her unexpected vulnerability, her defiant beauty.

“Zarvash.” My name, spoken softly on her lips, jolted me back.

I blinked, realizing I’d frozen, rag hovering uselessly in my hand. “Apologies.”

I resumed the task, my touch less steady now.

I wiped the damp cloth across her sternum, feeling the slight vibration of her heartbeat, then carefully around the gentle curve of each breast. Her skin pebbled beneath the cloth, tiny bumps rising in its wake.

A reaction to the cool water. Or something else entirely.

My own scales felt suddenly too hot.

Her breath hitched when my cloth brushed over one tight nipple.

The sound shot through me like a Narvix hunting bolt, straight to my cock, awakening something ancient, primal, and ravenously hungry.

I forced myself to continue, moving down, mapping the landscape of her ribs, cataloging each bruise with a cold, mounting fury.

When my hand reached the waistband of her trousers, I stopped. This was already miles beyond propriety, beyond the jagged line I was struggling to hold.

“I can manage the rest,” she said, taking the cloth from my suddenly numb fingers. Our skin brushed again, the brief contact searing, sending another unwelcome jolt of electric awareness through my veins.