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18

HAWK

“These are my personal chambers,” Khorlar growled, the sound vibrating low in his chest. His claws flexed on the doorframe, exhibiting a hesitation so unlike him it snagged my attention. “Our chambers. Now.”

The claim wasn’t soft. It landed like a brand, heat flaring low in my belly instead of the expected prickle of resentment. Stepping inside felt like crossing a boundary I couldn't see. The air clung, heavy with his scent—not just the familiar ozone and dust of the tunnels, but something richer, the tang of forge-heat deep in the stone, charred cedar after rain, and an undercurrent of raw musk that coated the back of my throat. Mine. The word echoed in the scent, in the weight of the air.

Weapon racks lined one wall, and the steel wasn’t just gleaming—it looked hungry, used. The wooden grips were dark with oil and countless grips of his hand. They were not decorative. They were ready. Geological maps etched into stone panels weren't just art; they pulsed with faint geothermal light, the lines sharp enough to cut. Every surface seemed charged with his presence.

His eyes—molten gold, predatory—tracked my every step across the floor. It wasn't cold stone; warmth radiated up, a low thrum of power from the planet’s core, more potent here. More intimate. That gaze didn’t feel like targeting anymore. It felt like … ownership. Devouring.

“Is this acceptable?” he asked, the gravel in his voice rougher, laced with something that scraped like uncertainty. This, from the male who’d torn through soldiers like they were paper? The vulnerability was a shock, sharp and disorienting.

“It’s you,” I managed, turning. The admission felt ripped from me, raw and too loud in the sudden quiet. “I feel you. Everywhere.”

His nostrils flared, sampling the air between us, tasting my scent, my reaction. His jaw tightened, satisfied. He stalked closer, heat rolling off him in waves, the air crackling. In three strides, he filled my space, dwarfing me.

“There is no one else,” he admitted, his words clipped, rough. “This was … mine. Only mine. Until you.”

The weight of it pressed down. It was not just sharing space. This was sanctuary breached, walls lowered. His last defense. Offered.

We didn’t talk about the med-bay, the blood, the sickening crack of my bones beneath his desperate hands trying to hold me together. We didn’t need to. Death’s cold shadow lingered, making the heat between us flare brighter, more desperate. Everything flimsy between us had burned away in that sterile white room, leaving only this raw, jagged truth.

He moved again, closing the last inch. His hand came up, claws clicking softly as they hesitated near my face. Then, impossibly gentle for such lethal weapons, the pads of his scaled fingers brushed stray hair from my cheek. Electricity didn't just skitter; it jolted through me, bypassing the dull throb in my ribs to pool, hot and heavy, low in my gut.

My breath hitched.

His eyes locked on mine. Gold burned into brown. He was not the Stone Fist. Not the Council member. Just Khorlar. Raw. Gutted. His heart beat a frantic rhythm I could almost feel in the air. Offered up like a sacrifice.

Words were useless. Ash in the mouth. My hand lifted, clumsy, touching his jaw. The scales weren’t smooth; they were textured, warm ridges over unyielding bone. Real. Solid. Here.

Something shattered between us—not tension, but the last brittle restraint. We collided, drawn by a force that was beyond choice.

His mouth met mine, not soft, but possessive. A desperate claiming that tasted of relief and the lingering metallic tang of fear. His fear. For me. This wasn’t reverence; it was raw need, a staking of claim on what was almost lost. My hands fisted in the coarse fabric of his tunic, pulling him closer, needing the solid weight of him.

“ Vrakasha ,” he groaned against my lips. His hands clamped onto my waist, fingers digging slightly, careful of the bandages but demanding contact. He was learning me again, not with wonder, but with the frantic desperation of confirming I was whole. Real.

I answered with touch, not words. My palms scraped over the hard planes of his chest, scale ridges catching against my skin. The thump of his heart slammed against my hand, a frantic drumbeat mirroring my own pulse.

He deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping into my mouth—hot, insistent, tasting me, marking me. He was exploring not with tenderness, but with a starved urgency.

He broke the kiss only to lift me. There was no warning, just solid muscle bunching as he scooped me against his chest. My ribs screamed a reminder, but the pain was distant, drowned by the crushing safety of his hold. His wings flared, shadowing us, creating a sudden, intimate darkness as he strode toward the massive sleeping platform dominating the far side of the room.

This wasn't the sparse cot of the siege room. Thick silks—black, midnight blue, deep gray—covered a carved stone base. A predator’s nest. He laid me down, not like crystal, but like something vital he couldn't bear to drop. His claws scraped lightly against my hip as he straightened.

“The bindings—” he started, his voice tight, gaze fixed on the white bandages stark against my skin.

I cut him off, fingers already fumbling with the clasp of my tunic. “Off,” I said. It was not a request. It was a demand. “Slow. I need to feel.”

His eyes flared hotter, pupils dilating until only a thin rim of gold remained. He didn’t rush. He backed off, giving me space, but his gaze … his gaze stripped me bare faster than my own fingers could.

My shirt came off with a wince, the movement pulling at healing tissue. His breath sawed out, a harsh sound. It was not desire, not yet. It was the sight of the bandages—the proof of my fragility, of how close he’d come to failure. His claws flexed, gouging shallow lines into his own thigh.

“Here,” I whispered, the word thin. “I’m here.”

He gave a single, jerky nod. Then his hands went to his own armor. Buckles hissed, straps fell away, and heavy leather dropped onto the stone floor. It was not a ritual. It was a shedding of restraint. Piece by painful piece until he stood there, lit by the pulsing light of the heat crystals. Naked. Power coiled tight under black and gray scales that gleamed like wet volcanic rock. They thinned over the hard ridges of his abdomen, hinting at darker skin beneath. His cock, already thick and half-hard, jutted from its scaled base, flushed a brutal crimson, twitching. A drop of clear fluid beaded at the angry-looking slit at the tip.

I expected him to lunge. To pin me down and reclaim me with bruising force. Instead, he lowered himself onto the furs beside me, facing me. Close enough that his heat scorched my skin. One hand, claws carefully averted, landed heavy on my hip. His tail snaked around my ankle, a possessive weight. Grounding. Claiming.

“There are no words,” he grated out, his voice raw. “My tongue … has no words for this.” He gestured between us, the air thick with unspoken need.

My throat closed. I swallowed, hard. “Then show me.” The whisper was ragged.

He leaned in, mouth brushing my forehead, my temple, the corner of my lips. Each touch wasn’t reverent—it was branding. Testing. His hand slid up my side, heat searing through the thin bandage wrap, stopping just below my breast. Then his palm covered me, thumb scraping, rasping over the peak through the fabric until it beaded tight, aching.

I gasped, arching, pressing into the abrasive touch. My own hands moved, starved for contact. Scraping over scale ridges, finding the surprising heat where wing met back, the vulnerable thinness of scale near his flanks. Every touch ripped a reaction from him—a hiss of breath, muscles bunching, a low growl rumbling against my exploring hand.

My fingers snagged on a raised line of scar tissue across his bicep—pale against the dark scales. “What about this?” I murmured, tracing the puckered ridge.

His eyes went distant for a second, then focused, hard. “That was first blood,” he clipped out. “I was young. Stupid. Ignarath filth nearly took the arm.”

My thumb pressed down, acknowledging the violence, the survival. “And this one?” Near his collarbone, another mark, smoother.

A rough sound, almost a chuckle, vibrated through his chest. “That was Thrakas. My brother.” His expression shuttered. “Training. Always too fast.”

The glimpse behind the armor, into the male forged by violence and loss … it wasn’t a gift. It was a weapon surrendered. I leaned in, pressed my lips to the collarbone scar, tasting salt and old pain.

His breath hitched, sharp. His hand tangled in my hair, fingers tight, anchoring me as I tasted another scar on his shoulder, fresh, still pink beneath the scales—from the fight. From saving me. My tongue traced the ragged edge. An apology. A promise.

“No,” he growled, catching my wrist, his grip bruisingly tight before easing almost instantly. “These scars? I bear them proudly.” His gaze burned. “They are the price. For what’s mine.”

The word detonated low in my belly. I surged up, crashing my mouth against his, pouring everything—fear, gratitude, raw, aching need—into the kiss. His answering growl was pure possession, his arms crushing me against him, ignoring the faint protest of my ribs. Distance was intolerable.

His hands mapped me, not gently, but with greedy haste. His fingers dug into the curve of my waist, thumb brushing the edge of the bandages. He found the small scar on my shoulder, a relic of a stupid training accident. He broke the kiss, examining it like an enemy’s mark.

“Who did this?” he demanded, tracing it, his claw tip scoring the skin beside it.

I shook my head, a shaky laugh escaping. “Gravity. A failed harness.”

His growl was guttural, furious at the inanimate object that dared injure me. His mouth replaced his claw, sucking lightly at the old scar, a possessive claiming that sent shivers down my spine.

We mapped each other like that—scar tissue and healed wounds laid bare. Stories told in touch and ragged breaths. His wings curved, enclosing us further, a stifling cocoon of heat and shadow. Just us. Skin, scale, sweat, and the frantic hammer of his heart.

His hand slid lower, between my thighs. He found me slick, hot, ready. His growl wasn’t approval. It was triumph. His touch wasn't gentle teasing. It was direct, demanding. His fearsome claws sheathed, but the pressure of his fingers was insistent, circling, pressing, gathering the wet heat before zeroing in on my clit. One rough slide of his thumb.

I cried out, hips bucking hard off the furs. “Khorlar!” His name was torn from me, half plea, half curse.

“I’ve got you, vrakasha ,” he rasped, his voice thick, strained. “Always.”

He didn’t explore. He took. While his finger could tease, the claw made it too dangerous to go inside. But he had his tail. Opening me. Stretching me. Making me desperate for more. A broken sound clawed its way up my throat. I writhed against him, desperate, impatient.

My own hand closed around his cock. It was thick. Hotter than seemed possible. Veins like cords beneath skin that felt rougher, more textured than human. The blunt tip pulsed against my palm, the lip-like ridge there twitching, weeping more slick fluid that smelled of ozone and musk. Need coiled tight, sharp, demanding in my core.

I couldn’t take the slow torment. I tugged him, hard. “Now,” I choked out against his jaw. “Need you. Now.”

He shifted, levering himself between my thighs. Careful of my ribs, but the movement was still brutally efficient. His wings tented over us, trapping the heat, the scent, the tension. Amber light filtered through the membranes, throwing his harsh features into stark relief. He positioned the thick, blunt head of his cock at my entrance.

“Mine,” he snarled, the word ripped from his throat as he surged forward. He was not easing in. He was invading. Stretching me wide, a burning fullness that bordered on pain. “My mate. My heart.”

The words, raw, desperate, shattered something inside me. Tears sprang, hot and sudden, blurring the sight of his face above mine. He filled me completely, a sweet, agonizing ache.

He started to move. Deep, powerful thrusts that stole my breath. There was no finesse. Pure claiming. That ridge at the tip of his cock dragged against my clit with every stroke, a brutal, exquisite friction that sent sparks behind my eyes. His tail tightened around my ankle, pulsing with each jarring impact.

“You are perfect,” he grated out, his voice dropping lower, vibrating through the pelts, through me. “Take me … like you were made for this. For me.”

It wasn’t possession. It was … inevitability. Fate. I clawed at his shoulders, rising to meet him, take him deeper. My nails scraped against scale, seeking purchase.

He lowered his head, teeth grazing the junction of my neck and shoulder. It was not a kiss. It was a mark. A promise. “When you heal,” he vowed, his breath scorching my skin, “I will mark you. Properly. So all know.”

A bolt of pure heat shot through me, my inner muscles clenching around him convulsively. He threw his head back, a guttural groan tearing from his chest.

“Yes,” I gasped, not knowing what I agreed to, only that I wanted it. Him. This. Everything. “Yours.”

His rhythm shattered. His control snapped. The next thrust slammed into me, driving the air from my lungs, hitting something deep that splintered my vision. “Again,” he demanded, his voice cracking.

“Yours!” I sobbed, the word freeing something wild inside me. “And you—mine!”

His roar was triumph, pure and feral. He shifted, one hand shoving under my hips, tilting me, changing the angle. Driving deeper. Harder. Stars exploded behind my eyes. White-hot. Searing.

The climax slammed into me, not a wave, but a brutal rip tide, dragging me under. Thought ceased. Breath ceased. There was only the searing friction, the agonizing pleasure, the feeling of being filled, claimed, owned. His name tore from my throat, unrecognizable.

He followed me down, his own control shattering. Triggered by my convulsing muscles, his release ripped through him. His head arched back, wings flaring violently as he roared, the sound bouncing off the stone, shaking the very air. His seed flooded me, thick, scalding hot, branding me from the inside out as his hips bucked one last time.

He didn’t collapse. He shuddered, catching his weight on trembling arms before carefully rolling us to our sides, pulling me tight against his chest. His wings folded around us, a heavy, living blanket trapping the sweat, the scent, the aftermath.

“I thought …,” he choked out, the words rough against my hair. “I thought I lost you. Saw you hurt. Felt … felt the break.” A violent shudder wracked his frame. “Nothing … nothing ever …”

I pressed my palm flat against the frantic beat of his heart. “I'm hard to kill,” I whispered, trying for levity, failing.

His arm became a vise. “Anchor,” he rasped, ignoring me. “My fire. Without …” He couldn’t finish.

The jagged honesty tore through my remaining defenses. Here, wrapped in his heat, shielded by his body, I let the vulnerability surface. Let it crack me open.

“I never expected this,” I admitted, the words small, fragile. “You. Drakarn. Home.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “It should be wrong. Alien.” My fingers trembled as they traced the hard line of his jaw. “It feels … terrifyingly right. Like finding something I didn’t know I was looking for.”

He caught my hand, pressing his mouth to my palm, the touch searing. “Mate,” he rumbled, the sound deep, resonant. “The heart knows. It is not a choice. It is recognition.” His golden eyes, no longer alien, just intensely him , bored into mine. “You are mine. As I am yours. Not chance. Fate.”

The certainty didn’t frighten me now. It settled deep, a heavy, warm anchor in the chaos. Peace. Acceptance. This impossible place. This impossible male. Home.

I pushed myself up slightly, pressing my mouth to his. It was not passion now. It was a seal. A silent vow exchanged in taste and touch.

Sleep pulled at me, heavy and sudden. As darkness claimed the edges, I felt his lips brush my forehead, rough scales scraping gently. “Rest, vrakasha ,” he murmured, the sound a low rumble against my skull. “Heal. I am here.”

The promise wrapped around me tighter than his wings, a bulwark against the lingering chill of the void. And, finally, I surrendered.