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7

HAWK

We didn't speak. Not one word.

Not when those impossible arms swept me up—a cage of stone and heat. Not when his wings like scarred night unfurled, swallowing the weak corridor light. Not when we shot upward through a vertical shaft, a sickening, dizzying spiral that should have ripped a scream from my lungs.

Instead? Nothing. Just … a weird, wild uncoiling deep inside.

My fingers dug into him—hard muscle, cool rough scales beneath me. It was instinct. I was grounding myself against the impossible. His scent hit me again—that volcanic stone and something else, something sharp, primal, male—and my lungs hitched on a shaky inhale. His arms weren’t just strong; they were … possessive.

Careful, yes, but with a crushing undercurrent. Like I was something fragile. Something he owned.

That thought should have triggered pure rage. It should have.

But it didn't. Why?

The shaft opened. Sky. Endless, bleeding red sky. Twin suns hemorrhaging light across the horizon, painting this broken world in raw, wounded color. Then the heat hit—a physical blow, a violent updraft flinging us higher. My stomach vanished. A choked gasp tore free, involuntary. His grip tightened instantly. Possessive. Protective. Both.

We soared.

Below was Volcaryth, sprawling, impossible. Hidden ledges, dark openings. And beyond—nothing. Crimson waste stretching forever. Lava rivers like molten veins. The distant, deadly shimmer of the Crystal Mountains. Ignarath territory. Poison.

Wind ripped at me—my hair, my torn clothes, my sanity. It tried to slash away the terror still clinging from that corridor. From what almost happened.

He climbed higher, his wings beating—a powerful, steady rhythm vibrating through his body, into mine. Solid muscle worked beneath my desperate grip. Living steel. Raw power, ruthlessly contained. But I could feel it—the tension coiled tighter than before. Darker. Sharper.

This wasn't the controlled flight from the other day. This was … fury unleashed. A raw, jagged edge to his movements. His breathing—harsh, audible even over the wind—betrayed the inferno still banked beneath the scales.

Rage. At the Ignarath warrior. At the situation. At me? Or something deeper, something tied to that burning look in his eyes?

He banked—sharp, sudden. My breath hitched as instinct took over again. I clutched tighter, pressing myself against the unyielding wall of his chest. His heart hammered under my palm—too fast, too hard. A war drum echoing the frantic beat in my own ribs.

"I would have killed him," he bit out, voice a low growl nearly lost to the wind. Each word was obsidian sharp. "Should have."

The first words. They shattered the charged silence.

I swallowed past the sudden dryness in my throat. "Not worth the diplomatic incident." My voice sounded thin, reedy.

Something rumbled through him, deep in his chest, sinking straight into my bones. "Worth everything ."

That conviction—raw, absolute, scraped from somewhere deep and terrible—sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the altitude. Or maybe it did.

His eyes found mine. Gold fire. Burning away pretense. Burning away me . "He touched you."

It was not a question. It was a verdict. A wound ripped open.

"He didn't get far," I managed. I forced steadiness into my voice. I was a liar.

His nostrils flared. Was he scenting me? My lingering fear? The echo of the other male's proximity? Or something else—something stirred by his own words? "Far enough."

Silence again. Thick with it. His wings worked, catching currents rising from the cooling rock below. Effortless grace masked the storm inside. The tension didn't vanish—not in him, not between us. It just … shifted. Twisted into something less like rage, more like … anticipation. A wire pulled taut. Waiting.

Time dissolved. I lost track. Lost myself in the steady beat of his wings, the solid pressure of his arms, the impossible, terrifying freedom of the open sky. This. This was what I’d craved since crashing here. This vastness. This escape.

With him. Because of him.

Damn it. My brain circled back, trapped in the contradiction. Hating the cage, needing the bars? Needing the keeper ? The way he watched me … the way I was starting to watch him back.

No. Stop.

The light shifted. The suns sank lower, shadows stretching like grasping fingers across the scarred land. Reluctantly—I felt it in the shift of his muscles—he began the descent. We spiraled back toward the mountain. Toward the city. Toward the cage.

"Thank you," I whispered, the wind stealing the sound. But his grip tightened fractionally. He heard. Acknowledged.

We didn't return to the shaft. We landed instead on a narrow stone platform—a balcony carved into the rock face, tucked away, facing the cooler, shadowed side of the mountain. Private. Isolated.

His wings folded with a soft leathery sigh as his feet touched down. But he didn't release me. Not yet. He held me there, suspended, my face level with his. Close. Too close. Close enough to see the faint pulse in his throat, the rigid line of his jaw. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. Close enough to drown in those burning gold eyes.

Slowly. Deliberately. He lowered me. My boots scraped stone. His hands lingered at my waist—heavy, hot. Was he steadying me? Or just … unwilling to break contact?

Both.

"Better?" His voice was low. Rougher than the wind.

A simple word. An impossible question.

I nodded. I couldn't trust my voice. The flight had scoured the panic away, yes. But it replaced it with … this. This trembling awareness. This awful, dangerous curiosity.

We stood there. Inches apart. His hands still branded my waist. His wings, not fully retracted, created a partial enclosure. Trapped us in a bubble of scale and heat and fading light. Just us.

"You frightened me." Each syllable sounded dragged from his throat. Like a confession ripped free. Or an accusation.

My spine stiffened. "I wasn't trying to?—"

"I'm not angry." He cut me off, sharp. "Frightened." He repeated the word like it tasted bitter. Like the admission cost him something vital. "When I saw him … touch you—" He broke off. Jaw grinding. A muscle jumped near his temple. "When I couldn't find you. When I thought?—"

Something cracked. Raw. Undone. Right there in his voice. Made my own chest physically ache in response.

"I'm okay," I said. The words felt stupid. Useless. Untrue.

"No." A shudder rippled through him. Visible. His wings trembled. "Not okay. None of this … is okay."

Before I could process that, could even think, he turned. Released me abruptly. Created distance. A chasm opening between us. Protecting me? Or himself?

"We should return," he said, voice clipped. Controlled again. But the current underneath … it was volatile. Barely contained. Dangerous.

I should have nodded. Said nothing. Let the distance stand. Maintained the lie—protection, duty, alliance. Nothing more.

Instead, I stepped forward. Closed the gap. "Khorlar."

His head snapped around. Eyes blazing—pure gold fire. Pupils contracted to sharp vertical slits. His focus absolute. Terrifying.

"What aren't you telling me?" My voice was steadier than I felt. A reckless challenge. "About the Ignarath. About me. About … this." I gestured vaguely at the charged air between us, thick with unspoken things.

He sucked in a harsh breath. His chest rose, fell. Was he steadying himself? Or preparing? "You don't understand." Rough. Bitten off. Like the words physically hurt him. "You can't understand."

"Try me." A dare. A stupid, stupid dare.

A mistake.

He moved. That impossible speed again—stone to liquid fire in the space between heartbeats. His hands clamped onto my shoulders. Not rough. Not exactly. But … inevitable. Decisive. Nowhere to run.

"It's not protection," he admitted, the words torn raw from somewhere deep. Primal. "Not just protection."

I wanted to flinch back. My survival instincts screamed at me to move . But my feet were bolted to the stone. My body—traitor—held fast. Heart trying to hammer its way out of my ribs.

"What then?" A whisper. Barely audible.

His hands slid. Slow torture. One cupped the side of my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone—rough heat. The other back to my waist, drawing me closer. Inch by agonizing inch. Not forcing. Asking. Demanding. Claws carefully, pointedly retracted. Just warm, hard palm against the thin fabric of my shirt. Then bare skin.

"This," he growled. Low in his throat.

And his mouth crashed down on mine.

Fire. Nothing but fire. Consuming. Absolute.

Shock first—the alienness of it. Lips firmer than human, impossibly hot. A scaled texture at the edges. His taste—wild, sharp, elemental heat, utterly male—exploding through my senses. My hands flew up to his chest—to push him away? To cling on? Didn't know. Didn't matter.

Then instinct surged. Older than reason. Deeper than fear.

I kissed him back.

A sound ripped from his chest—a growl, a groan. Hunger. Victory. Relief. His hand tightened at my waist, hauling me flush against his furnace heat. Body to body. An inferno. His other hand tangled in my short hair, rough scales scraping my scalp, angling my head. Deepening the kiss. Demanding. Taking.

And I gave. God help me, I gave it all.

My fingers clenched, digging into the hard scales of his chest. Trying to find purchase in the hurricane. I found the frantic thunder of his heartbeat beneath. Matching mine. Beat for desperate beat.

His tongue—hot, surprisingly soft but with a textured roughness—traced the seam of my lips. Asking. A question buried in the certainty. I parted for him. Let him in.

The taste of him—scorched spice, primal heat, pure male—seared through me like lightning. Obliterated thought. Caution. Sanity. Left only raw, aching need . The slick glide of his tongue tangled with mine. The careful, terrifying edge of fang brushed my lower lip—sensation blurring pain and pleasure. Control. Even now, that terrifying control.

A sound tore from someone’s throat—desperate, broken, needy. Oh god. Me. It was me. Shame flared—hot, brief—then vanished, swallowed by the firestorm coiling low in my belly, burning through every vein.

His hand slid under my shirt hem. Scalding palm flat against the bare skin of my back. Tracing my spine. Gentle. Deliberate. Each brush of his fingers a brand. A claim. Making me his.

I arched into it. Into him. Pressed closer. Needed closer. That sound again—mine? His? I didn't know. Didn't care.

"Sarah," he groaned against my mouth. My name. My real name—a prayer and a curse torn from his throat.

Ice water shock. Reality crashing back.

I wrenched away. Gasping. Stumbling back on trembling legs. I put space between us. Heart hammering so violently my vision pulsed at the edges. Air searing my lungs.

What— What just?—?

What had I done ?

His eyes—wild, unfocused gold fire—locked onto mine. Pupils blown wide, then snapping back to sharp slits as control warred with instinct. The hunger there—naked, raw, unfiltered—sent another wave of sickening heat washing through me.

"I—" he started. Stopped. Jaw working. Utterly lost. His chest heaved. Wings still half-unfurled, trembling with reaction.

I touched my lips. I felt the burn. Tasted him still. Fire and spice. Him.

"I'm sorry," he finally managed, the words rough, dragged from somewhere deep and painful. "I should not have?—"

"No," I cut him off, surprised I had a voice. Surprised it was almost steady. "It was?—"

What? What was it? A mistake? Stress? Captivity fever? The inevitable explosion of this —this impossible, terrifying connection?

None felt right. None captured the earthquake that had just leveled every wall I'd ever built.

"It just … was," I finished lamely.

He understood. The unspoken hung heavy between us. His eyes—molten gold, burning with something far more complex than just desire—held mine for another long, shattering moment. Then he looked away. Forced a deep, shuddering breath. Forced his wings to fold tight against his back. Stone warrior assembling himself piece by painful piece.

"We should return," he said again. Voice tight. Strained. But underneath—that barely restrained wildness still thrummed.

I nodded. Once. Mutely. Couldn't speak. Couldn't trust myself.

He approached. Slowly this time. Carefully. Asking permission with his eyes, his stance. Maintaining a sliver of distance. I stepped into his space. Into the heat radiating off him. Let him gather me up again, tuck me against his chest.

It was different now. Everything different. Charged. Every point of contact a spark, a live wire humming with dangerous energy. But his touch was … formal. Impersonal. Almost. Despite the inferno I could still see banked deep in his eyes.

The flight back was silent. A heavy, suffocating silence thick with everything unsaid, everything suddenly, irrevocably changed.

We slipped back through the shaft. Back into the stone throat of Scalvaris. Back toward the cage. Our quarters. The shared space that suddenly felt impossibly small. Suffocating.

I turned away. Faced the wall. Needed air. Needed space. Needed to not feel the ghost of his mouth on mine.

"Hawk," he said. Quietly. That low, rough growl that sent an entirely unwelcome shiver tracing fire down my spine.

I risked a glance over my shoulder. His face was closed off again. Impassive stone. But his eyes—always the eyes—betrayed him. Still burning. Still hungry. Still remembering.

"I must attend to Council matters," he said, the words stiff. Formal. "I will return later. You'll be safe here."

Translation: I need to get away from you . Now.

"Fine," I managed. I hated the breathless edge clinging to my voice. "Go."

He hesitated. A flicker in his eyes—was there more to say? More to do ? Then a sharp, decisive nod. And he was gone. The door clicked shut, leaving me alone.

Alone with the echo of his taste searing my lips, the phantom heat of his hands on my skin, and the terrifying, burning certainty that whatever line had existed between us—duty, protection, captor, captive—had just been incinerated.

And I had no idea what was going to grow out of the ashes.