Page 11 of Echoes of Fire (Drakarn Mates #2)

TEN

ORLA

I sat cross-legged on the edge of Rath’s bed, my fingers tracing the intricate weave of heat-resistant silk beneath me, when the door slid open with a quiet scrape. Things had changed since the cave, since the kiss. Kisses.

I was starting to feel more comfortable in Rath’s rooms. Our rooms. I didn’t shy away when he looked at me like he wanted to devour me. And I cherished the few stolen kisses we’d shared since then. It wasn’t some seismic shift in our relationship.

But things were different. Maybe even better.

Rath clutched a small cloth pouch in one clawed hand. The scent hit me first—sweet, floral, rich —cutting through the room’s usual musk of charred stone and spice. My stomach betrayed me with a low growl.

Rath’s nostrils flared, a flicker of satisfaction tightening his jaw as he stepped inside. “You’re hungry,” he said, not a question.

“I’m fine,” I lied. Old habits.

He grunted, unimpressed, and crossed the room in three strides. The pouch landed on the bed between us with a soft thud , its contents shifting like treasure. Up close, the scent was dizzying—caramelized sugar, something nutty, a hint of flowers.

“What is it?” I asked, eyeing the pouch like it might hiss.

His tail flicked impatiently against the floor. “Open it.”

I tugged the drawstring loose, and the aroma bloomed fully—honey, hot oil, crisp dough. Nestled inside were six golden brown fritters, their surfaces crackled and glazed, still faintly steaming. My mouth watered.

“You … got these? For me?” I blinked up at him, surprised.

He shifted, the scales along his neck rippling faintly. “You favor sweets.” A statement, blunt as a blade. “The vendor claimed these were … sufficient.”

Sufficient. The word felt too small for the effort. I plucked a fritter from the pouch, the pastry’s heat seeping into my fingertips. The first bite was a revelation—crisp shell giving way to airy dough, the honey inside hot and floral, tinged with a smoky aftertaste that could only be Volcaryth. A low, involuntary moan slipped out.

Rath went very still.

I froze, the sound hanging between us like a spark. His pupils narrowed to slits. “You … approve?”

“It’s delicious,” I admitted, licking honey from my thumb. His gaze tracked the movement, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

Without warning, he sank onto the slab beside me. His thigh pressed flush against mine, scales warm through the thin fabric of my pants. My breath hitched.

“Here.” He plucked the fritter from my hand, claws sheathed as he broke off a piece. His other hand cupped my chin, tilting my face toward him. “Eat.”

I parted my lips, and he placed the morsel on my tongue, his thumb lingering to catch a stray drop of honey. The pad of his claw grazed my lower lip, sending a shiver down my spine.

“Good?” he rumbled.

I nodded, swallowing hard. “Why … why this?”

His thumb swept over my chin again, snaring another streak I hadn’t noticed. “A warrior honors his mate’s tastes.” The words were rough. “Even … small ones.”

A laugh bubbled up, startled and warm. “Small? There’s enough here for three people.”

The corner of his mouth twitched—not a smile, but close. His tail rose from the floor to loop loosely around my ankle, a possessive anchor. “Eat,” he repeated, offering another piece.

This time, honey dripped down my thumb as I took it. Rath’s nostrils flared, his gaze dropping to the sticky trail. Slowly, giving me plenty of time to pull back, he leaned in.

His tongue—long, hotter than human—flicked over my honeyed skin.

I gasped. The sound seemed to fracture something in the air.

Rath froze, his breath a low rasp against my wrist. For a heartbeat, we stayed locked there, the world reduced to the glide of his tongue and the gleam in his eyes. Then, with a growl that vibrated through my bones, he pulled back.

My pulse thundered in my ears as I reached into the pouch with trembling fingers. The fritter’s crust crackled under my grip, scattering sugar crystals across Rath’s scales. His tail tightened around my ankle—a warning or encouragement, I couldn’t tell.

“Here, have a taste,” I managed, breaking off a ragged piece.

His nostrils flared at the offering, gaze flicking between my face and the crumbling pastry. For a heartbeat, I thought he’d refuse. Then his lips parted, revealing the faintest glint of fang.

The moment the morsel touched his tongue, his pupils blew wide. A low rumble shook his chest as flavors exploded—honey’s floral brightness against Volcaryth’s smoky depth. His clawed hand engulfed mine, preventing retreat.

“More.”

The command vibrated through my bones. I fed him another piece, then another, each bite punctuated by the slick heat of his tongue grazing my fingertips. His scales glowed faintly where our skin met, marks blooming under my touch like stars being born.

When the last crumb disappeared, he didn’t release my hand. His tongue swept the length of my index finger, rasping over calluses left by rock samples and scanner grips. The sound that escaped me was half gasp, half whimper.

“You taste,” his growl deepened, tail coiling higher up my calf, “like sunlight.”

His eyes trailed down, snagging on the exposed skin of my upper arm. I usually kept it covered. “What is this?” He traced the inked lines swirling across my inner forearm. The constellation patterns seemed to shimmer under his touch, dormant stars awakening beneath scaled fingertips.

I swallowed. “Cygnus. Lyra. Ursa Major.” My throat tightened around the names. “They’re constellations.”

His clawtip hovered over the swirling colors of the Milky Way. “And this?”

“Home.” The word slipped out raw. “Or where home used to be. Before …” I gestured vaguely toward the ceiling, toward the sky that didn’t exist there.

Rath’s tail tightened around my thigh, the pressure grounding. “Show me.”

One by one, I guided his claws over each cluster of stars tattooed on my arm, my voice gaining strength as I recounted myths half-remembered from childhood datapads.

“This one bled,” he observed, talon brushing the faded blue ink.

“My first tattoo.” I huffed a laugh. “Twelve-year-old me thought stealing a biogel pen from the medbay was a genius idea.”

Rath made a sound deep in his chest—not quite a chuckle, but something warmer than a grunt. “My Blade-Binding.” He turned his forearm, revealing a jagged scar cutting through ruby scales. “Fifteen summers. Stole a magma whip from the forge master.” His claw traced the injury with perverse pride. “It took three healers to seal the wound. I kept the whip.”

His tail slid higher, scales scraping against my legs as he nosed aside my hair to expose the honey-smeared hollow of my throat.

“Your stories are written in dead light,” he murmured against my pulse. “Mine in fire.”

The star on my arm felt like it was pulsing faintly, keeping time with the possessive grip of his claws. Somewhere in the heat, a new constellation was being born.

Rath’s claw closed around the half-empty pouch with wicked deliberation, his gaze locked on the honey glistening at its torn edge. The low light caught the golden strands stretching between fabric and talon, each thread snapping with a soft pop that echoed too loud in the sudden stillness. His nostrils flared—inhaling sugar, heat, me —as he leaned in until his breath fanned hot across my jaw.

“This,” he rumbled, “belongs here.”

The pouch tilted.

“Rath!”

Honey spilled in a ribbon, thick and sticky, painting a warm trail from the hollow of my throat to the slope of my breast under my shirt. I gasped at the heat—not scalding, but alive, like sunlight given liquid form. It pooled in the dip of my collarbone.

Rath’s tongue swept over a fang. “Better.”

His free hand settled at my hip, claws pricking warning-dimples into flesh as he leaned closer. The honey’s floral scent mingled with his own—charred cedar and midnight embers—as the last drops fell. His thumb followed the viscous path upward, smearing it wider, darker , until my pulse throbbed where honey and his touch collided.

The empty pouch dropped to the floor. His other hand caged my wrist above my head, scales hissing against stone as he lowered his mouth to the mess he’d made.

“We can’t let this go to waste,” he said. His slit pupils drank greedily at the honey dripping over me. “Too many layers,” he growled against my throat.

The first rend of fabric came without warning. His talon hooked beneath my shirt’s neckline, slicing downward in one fluid motion. Cool air rushed over newly bared skin as the garment fell away in forgotten scraps. I arched instinctively, honey-smeared breasts heaving under the hunger blazing in his eyes.

“Mine.”

The declaration vibrated through his chest and into mine as he straddled my hips. He tore off his own tunic, ruby scales glinting beneath, nipple piercings catching the crystal’s glow. My brain short circuited at that.

The first lick was a brand.

I barely registered the cool air on my exposed stomach before his tongue struck—a hot, flat stroke from collarbone to pulse point that left scorched nerves in its wake. His teeth grazed skin, not breaking flesh but promising consequences.

When his mouth closed over the honey pooled in the hollow of my throat, the vibration of his groan traveled straight to my core.

“It tastes better here,” he rumbled against damp skin, that wickedly long tongue flicking the frantic beat beneath my jaw. His hips ground down, the rigid heat beneath his trousers leaving no doubt about his state. The musk pouring off him thickened—smoke and charred amber with an undercurrent of something sweetly metallic.

I had to touch him.

He hissed when my nails caught the black hoops piercing his nipples, the sound sharpening as I rolled one between thumb and forefinger. “You,” his claws tore through the remains of his trousers, letting the fabric fall to the floor, “play with fire, shyrarva .”

The honey between us grew tacky as he reared back, allowing me to see what I’d uncovered. Thick liquid leaked out of the head of his cock. A barbell through his foreskin glinted wetly, each subtle twitch making the pierced flesh quiver like a living thing.

He was pierced there too.

Oh my god.

My breath stuttered. Human anatomy hadn’t prepared me for this —the way red scales rippled like armor at the base before melting into swollen crimson flesh, dark veins pulsing beneath the surface.

Thick. Too thick, my hindbrain whispered even as heat pooled between my thighs. The foreskin didn’t just pull back—it rippled , a strange lip curling lazily against the glans, glistening with beads of translucent fluid that carried his smoky-sweet scent.

My mouth watered.

The barbell piercing through it all caught the light, swinging faintly with every twitch of that alien flesh.

“It’s …” I swallowed, fingers flexing uselessly at my sides. “Not what I expected.”

Rath’s tail lashed once, violently, before coiling around my bare calf. “Displeasing?” The growl held an edge I’d never heard—vulnerability masquerading as threat.

“No.” My hand moved without permission, hovering inches from where pre-cum slicked the veined shaft. “Not even a little.”

A claw caught my wrist. “ Shyrarva .” The word was a lit fuse. When I met his gaze, the hunger there scorched every clinical thought to ash. “Touch me.”

It wasn’t a command. It was desperation.

The first brush of fingertips against his scaled base drew a hiss from us both. The ridges weren’t cold—they thrummed with inner heat, textured enough to tease without tearing. Higher up, the skin turned velvet-soft, the dark veins beneath thickening until they felt like braided cords under my palm. That writhing foreskin lip curled around my thumb when I reached the crown, suckling gently.

Oh god. What would that feel like inside me? My body clenched with curiosity and need.

“ Karynae ,” Rath gritted out, hips jerking. His pierced flesh quivered, more fluid welling around the barbell. The musk intensified—clove and burnt honey now, claiming pheromones that made my mouth water even more.

All thoughts of science evaporated. There was only heat, and need, and the terrifying realization that I wanted this alien intimacy. That every scale and throbbing vein called to something primal I’d buried under data logs and survival protocols.

His claws sank into the silks around us as I stroked him properly, the tongue-like ridge undulating against my palm in counterpoint to my strokes. “Your science,” he rasped, fangs gleaming, “did it prepare you for this ?”

The barbell grazed my wrist as his hips pistoned, the answer written in my racing pulse.

His tail lashed once before slithering up my inner thigh, the tip leaving ghostly trails of sensation. “This scent,” he growled, dragging his nose along my honey-smeared ribs. The motion pulled his cock away from my curious hand. “Your fear. Your hunger. They sing the same note now.”

The first lick to my nipple drew a broken sound from us both. His tongue’s ridges pressed almost too hard, the tip curling around the peak in a way no human mouth could replicate. When his cock’s fleshy lip brushed my inner thigh—hotter than the rest of him, questing blindly—I arched off the bed with a cry.

“Look,” he commanded, pinning my hips as his tail wrenched my leg higher. The glide of his cock’s extra tongue circled my clit while the rest of him pressed against my entrance, the barbell’s cool metal a shocking contrast to the searing flesh around it. Twin sensations splintered my vision into starbursts. “Watch how you take me.”

The world narrowed to points of contact—the searing press of Rath’s scaled leg against my inner thighs, the sinful undulation of that alien ridge circling my clit, the cold-warm shock of metal where his barbell kissed my entrance. His claws flexed against my hips, pinning without bruising, as his tail coiled higher to keep my leg in place. It should have felt restraining; instead I felt safe. Every shift of muscle beneath his red scales rippled with lethal grace, a predator holding itself in check.

“Breathe,” he growled against my ribs, the command fraying at the edges.

I sucked in air that tasted of honey and him, my fingers scrambling for purchase on the bed’s silks. The first breach burned—not with pain, but with obscene fullness, the barbell dragging a slick path inside me as his writhing lip latched onto my clit. My back arched off the slab, a cry catching in my throat as dual sensations collided—deep, stretching pressure below and fluttering suction above.

“ Karys’veth ir ,” Rath snarled, words rumbling through his chest into mine. I had no idea if my translator was malfunctioning or if I was just too lost in sensation to understand what he was saying. I couldn’t care.

His hips snapped forward, seating him fully in one sure thrust. The scaled base of him ground against me as his veined shaft pulsed, his cock’s tongue working in counterpoint to each jarring movement. My vision whited out, nerves howling as the tip of his tail traced the outside of my thigh.

“You feel—” He choked off, fangs scraping against my shoulder. The mark walked the knife’s edge between pleasure and pain, his tongue lapping at the sting as his pace turned erratic.

The relentless feeling pushed me over. Pleasure crested like lava breaching a vent—a scalding, unstoppable rise that shattered into full-body tremors.

Rath’s roar vibrated through my bones as my climax clamped down on him, his tail seizing around my thigh as his own release surged hot and thick. The scent of us—charred amber and honeyed musk—swelled until it coated my tongue, his glands marking my skin where his seed spilled.

He collapsed forward, catching his weight on trembling arms, his forehead pressed to mine as I gasped uselessly at the heated air. His cock still pulsed inside me, milking the last aftershocks as his tail loosened its vise grip.

“ Shyrarva .” That word, his special name only for me, was a prayer and a plea on his lips, his claws gently carding through my sweat-damp hair.

I traced the marks my nails had left on his back—constellations of possession barely marked in his scales. His answering rumble sounded almost like contentment.

Rath’s weight pressed me into the silks, his forehead still resting against mine, our shared heat forming a humid little world between our bodies. Honey had dried in sticky trails across my chest, mingling with sweat and other fluids. His tail remained coiled around my thigh, a possessive anchor even now.

His pierced nipples brushed my chest with each labored breath, the hoops now warm from our friction. “You’re trembling,” he murmured against my throat, his voice sandpaper rough.

A claw-tipped hand slid beneath my lower back, adjusting our alignment until his softening cock slipped free. I bit back a sound at the loss, suddenly aware of the mess we’d made—his release seeped between my thighs, thick and unnervingly warm, carrying that musky-sweet scent that already felt branded into my skin.

Rath’s tongue dragged a slow stripe up my honey-crusted collarbone. “Mine,” he growled, the word muffled against my skin. Not a question.

I should’ve bristled. Instead, my traitorous hands fisted in the silks as his teeth found the juncture of neck and shoulder. Not biting— testing .

“You’re smug ,” I accused, hating how breathless I sounded.

His answering rumble shook through me, more purr than growl. The tail around my leg tightened fractionally as he nosed aside damp hair to lick the shell of my ear. “You smell like me now.”

A shudder went down my spine. “Is that … a good thing?”

He stilled. Drew back just enough for me to see the way his pupils dilated—black swallowing gold. “It means,” he said slowly, claws flexing against my hip, “that even the zealots will think twice before challenging what’s etched into your scent.”

The implication coiled hot in my gut. Pheromones as property claim . I opened my mouth to protest, but Rath’s thumb brushed the bite mark on my shoulder—the one that throbbed in time with my heartbeat.

“Hush.” His nose traced the honeyed hollow of my throat, inhaling deeply. “Your mind will dissect it later. For now,” his hips rolled once, a lazy undulation that made me gasp, “let the fire speak.”

I wanted to argue. To dissect the biology of his “scent-marking glands,” to question the permanence he implied. But his hand was sliding lower, calloused palm cradling the back of my knee, and the words dissolved into a moan.

Somewhere in the fervent quiet, I realized my fingers were carding through the ridges along his spine, memorizing their topography.

Rath’s breath hitched, and his hips bucked.

I stilled. “Did I?—?”

“Again,” he demanded, voice cracking.

This time, when my nails scraped the sensitive grooves between his scales, his whole body shuddered—a seismic vulnerability that echoed in the broken sound he muffled against my throat.

The fire spoke.

And for once, I listened.