Page 43

BATTLE WOUNDS

Fritz POV

Pain rips through my side with every breath.

My vision blurs around the edges, the world shrinking to just what's right in front of me as I tear through another dragon's throat.

Blood sprays across my face—hot, metallic, enemy red mixing with my own purple-black leaking from a dozen wounds.

I barely hear the dragon's death scream over my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.

How many hours since dawn? The sky has gone from pink morning to blazing afternoon, but time doesn't matter anymore. There's only the next attack, the next defense position, the next kill.

Fire erupts to my left. I twist—too slow—and dragon flame catches my side. Pain sears through muscle and fur, the smell of my own burning flesh filling my nose. I snarl through fangs still dripping with enemy blood, pushing through the pain to bury my claws in scaled flesh.

"Commander!"

Thorne's voice cuts through the battle fog. I blink away blood and sweat, trying to focus on his face. When did he get here?

"Northern perimeter secured." His voice sounds far away even though he's right beside me. "Settlement civilians safe in the cave network."

Aria. Safe. The thought cuts through my pain-clouded mind with sudden clarity. I breathe in, testing the air for threats, ignoring the stabbing protest from what must be broken ribs.

"Keep archer coverage on... the retreating forces." My voice comes out rough, strangled. "They'll regroup at the ridge line."

My vision swims suddenly, darkness creeping at the edges. I slam a hand against the stone wall, claws digging into the surface to stay upright. Can't show weakness. Not yet. Enemies watching. My soldiers watching.

Blood drips from my fur onto the stone beneath—steady, dark, too much of it mine.

"Commander, you need medical help." Thorne's tone shifts, careful. I catch the worried smell coming off him. "The battle is stabilizing. Positions are holding."

I bare my teeth, automatically challenging the suggestion of weakness. "I'll go when perimeter security is fully set."

His missing ear twitches—he's about to risk making me angry. "With respect, sir, you're bleeding out on the fucking wall. Even you have limits."

The bluntness startles me. Thorne rarely talks this way. I must look worse than I thought.

"Status," I demand, ignoring both his concern and the violent shaking that's started in my left leg.

He gives me the field report with quick precision. Casualties lower than expected. Three positions need reinforcement. No civilian losses.

Civilians safe. Aria safe. The knowledge settles something in me, lets me finally admit what my body's been screaming.

The burns along my side have eaten through muscle.

My back feels shredded, blood matting my fur in thick clumps.

Each breath sends shards of pain through my chest—ribs not just cracked but broken.

"You have command until morning." The words cost me more than the wounds. "Maintain defensive rotation. Reposition archers for likely attack points."

Relief floods his scent. "Yes, Commander."

The walk from wall to courtyard becomes its own battle. Each step threatens to collapse me. The fortress swims around me, walls shifting and doubling in my vision. My blood marks my path in dark splatters, the smell of it heavy in the air.

By the time I reach my quarters, I'm moving on instinct alone. The door swings open under my weight.

Aria.

She stands in the middle of my private room, medical supplies spread on the table beside her. Her scent hits me first—worry, determination, and something deeper, something that makes my alpha instincts stir even through the pain.

"Fuck, Fritz." No title. No careful distance. Just raw shock as she sees my blood-soaked body. "You're torn apart."

"Not as bad as it looks." The lie comes automatically, alpha pride refusing to admit weakness even as blood pools beneath my feet.

"Bullshit." She moves toward me without hesitation, not afraid despite how I must look—blood-matted fur, extended claws, fangs still partially bared from battle. "Sit down before you fall down. You're painting my floor purple."

Something in her tone—the authority, the lack of omega submission—cuts through my stubbornness better than Thorne's concern. I sink onto the bed, the movement sending fresh pain through my injured side.

"The settlement–" I begin.

"Is fine." She's already reaching for my armor fastenings, fingers moving with surprising confidence. "Everyone's safe in the caves. Thorne sent word an hour ago."

Of course he did. Presumptuous bastard. Right now, I'm pathetically grateful for his disobedience.

"I can handle this myself," I growl, instinct still fighting against needing help even as my vision threatens to black out completely.

She pauses, eyes meeting mine directly. "Yeah, and I could have stayed in the caves instead of waiting here. We both know where our priorities are, so shut up and let me help you."

The honesty of it—her admission that she chose to be here—creates a tightness in my chest that has nothing to do with broken ribs. I stay quiet as her fingers return to the armor fastenings, efficiently working clasps designed for claws rather than human hands.

Each plate removed reveals more damage. The heavy copper smell of my blood fills the room, mixed with the burnt stink of scorched fur and flesh.

Dragon fire has seared a path across my left side, the skin beneath blistered and weeping.

Claw marks stripe my back in parallel furrows that cut to muscle.

"Jesus," she breathes, seeing the full extent of the damage. "You fought all day like this?"

I try a dismissive shrug that sends lightning pain through my shoulder. "Feline biology allows?—"

"For you to be a stubborn idiot, apparently." There's anger in her voice, but not at me—for me. "This goes beyond duty, Fritz. This is fucking self-destruction."

The criticism should offend my alpha pride. Instead, it creates warmth beneath the pain—knowing she cares not just for the commander, not just for the fortress's defense, but for me specifically.

Her hands move across my injuries with careful precision, but there's nothing clinical in her touch. Each contact feels like more than medical necessity—feels like connection. The antiseptic burns, but I keep perfectly still, not wanting to make her job harder.

"This needs the burn salve," she mutters, examining the scorched flesh along my side. "Nyssa gave me something special for dragon fire. It'll hurt like hell going on."

"Do it," I manage, voice steadier now that battle rage has fully faded.

Her fingers scoop the green-tinged paste and apply it to the burned area. Fire ignites beneath my skin, worse than the original injury. My claws gouge deep furrows into the bed, my body going rigid with the effort not to pull away from her touch.

"Sorry," she whispers, real regret in her scent. "Almost done with this part."

I catch her wrist with my least injured hand, stopping her. "Don't apologize for necessary pain."

Her eyes meet mine, something shifting in their depths. "Necessary pain is still pain, Fritz. It's okay to admit that."

The simple statement—permission to be affected rather than stoic—creates cracks in armor I've maintained since my earliest military training. I let go of her wrist, letting her continue while I process this unexpected insight.

Her hands move to the claw wounds across my back, cleaning each with methodical care. The strange purple-black of my blood stains her fingers, so alien against her human skin.

"Your blood's different," she notes, watching it clot with inhuman speed. "Thicker. Almost like oil with how it moves."

"Evolutionary advantage," I explain, grateful for the distraction of talking. "Rapid clotting prevents blood loss during long fights."

"Smart design," she says with a hint of dark humor. "Though clearly not foolproof, given how you look right now."

As she works, her fingers find the older scars beneath fresh wounds. Her touch changes, becomes exploratory, almost reverent. She traces the raised tissue with deliberate care, mapping the history written across my body.

"This one looks nasty," she says softly, following a dramatic scar that curves from shoulder to mid-back. "The dragon commander you mentioned?"

"Yes." The memory flashes—pain, blood, the certainty of death before I managed a killing blow.

Her fingers find another set of scars, three parallel lines identical to those on my face. "Same fight?"

"Same fight," I confirm, surprised by my willingness to share. "I was young. Thought I was invincible."

"Apparently you nearly were." There's something like admiration in her voice.

She continues exploring, each scar prompting questions I find myself answering with unexpected honesty. The intimacy of it—her fingers on my battered body, my willing sharing of battle history—creates heat beneath my skin that has nothing to do with injuries.

"These circular ones?" she asks, tracing burns along my spine.

"Oni weapons," I reply, the words coming easier now. "Superheated metal. Even feline healing can't erase them completely."

Her touch lingers, warm against my skin. "You've survived more than seems possible."

"Had to," I say simply.

Then her scent shifts, subtle but unmistakable to my senses—the warm notes of arousal mixing with concern. She's affected by this contact, by the intimacy of tending my wounds, by the vulnerability I've never shown anyone else. My alpha instincts respond, even through the pain and blood loss.

"Your hands are steady," I observe, my voice dropping lower despite myself. "Most humans would flinch from how different my body is."

"I'm not most humans." Her fingers trace along uninjured fur between wounds, the touch no longer strictly medical. "And you're not the monster I once thought you were."

Her words create hunger deeper than the pain. I catch her wrist again, holding her hand against my chest where my heart pounds beneath muscle and bone. "What am I, then?"

She goes still, eyes meeting mine with unexpected boldness. "You're mine. As much as I'm yours."

The claim—so simple, so powerful—breaks something inside me. Without thinking, I pull her closer, ignoring the protest from my injuries. Her body heat radiates against my fur, her scent filling my senses with notes of concern, desire, and something deeper I hesitate to name.

"I could have lost you today," she whispers, hand rising to cup my face, fingers gentle against the scars that mark my features. "When they said how bad the fighting was at the western approach..."

"I'm not so easily killed," I murmur, leaning into her touch despite myself.

"No," she agrees, thumb tracing my jawline. "But you're not invincible either, no matter what you want your soldiers to believe."

Her closeness, her touch, her willing care for my battered body creates need that goes beyond physical pain. When she leans forward, pressing her lips to my forehead in a gesture of such unexpected tenderness it steals my breath, my restraint crumbles completely.

My hand slides to the back of her neck, guiding her mouth to mine.

The kiss has none of the battlefield desperation of our earlier moment outside the caves—this is slower, deeper, connection beyond mere claiming.

Her taste floods my senses, sweet and warm and tinged with the metallic hint of my own blood.

She responds with unexpected hunger, careful of my injuries yet unwilling to pull away from this newfound intimacy. When we finally part, her pupils are dilated, her pulse visibly racing at her throat where my claiming mark stands stark against her skin.

"You need rest," she says, voice husky with emotion she doesn't try to hide. "Actual healing, not... this."

"This is healing too," I admit, the truth easier in this moment of shared vulnerability. "Different kind."

Her smile—genuine, unguarded—creates warmth that pushes back the darkness creeping at the edges of my vision. Exhaustion and blood loss fight against the desire to maintain this connection, to explore this new territory between us.

"Sleep," she urges, going back to bandaging with gentle efficiency. "The fortress is secure. Thorne has command till morning."

I should protest, should assert alpha strength rather than give in to weakness. Instead, I find myself trusting her judgment, trusting her presence, trusting her in ways I've trusted no one in decades of lonely command.

"Wake me if the dragons return," I manage, consciousness already slipping despite my efforts.

"I will." Her promise carries weight beyond the simple words.

As darkness takes me, I feel one final sensation—her hand resting against my head, fingers sliding through the fur between my ears in a touch reserved for deepest intimacy among my kind. The gesture speaks volumes, creating safety I haven't known since earliest childhood.

My vigilance—the constant alertness that has kept me alive through combat and politics and betrayal—surrenders completely under her protective watch.

My last thought before unconsciousness claims me is amazement at how completely our roles have reversed from that first claiming—the monster now vulnerable, the captive now protector, the forced claiming evolved into something I've never dared to seek.

Something I hesitate to name, even in these final private thoughts before darkness takes me completely.