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Her hands fist in my hair, pulling me deeper into the kiss with surprising strength. For someone so small, she radiates power—not the crude dominance of those who rule through fear, but the quiet confidence of someone who knows her worth and refuses to settle for less.

"I need you to understand," I say against her lips, "what this means to me. What you mean to me."

"Show me," she breathes.

My hands map the contours of her body through the leather armor, tracing scars that tell stories of survival and strength.

Each mark speaks of pain endured and overcome, of a spirit that refused to break despite impossible circumstances.

She's beautiful not in spite of her damage, but because of how she's transformed it into something powerful.

"Here," I murmur, fingertips ghosting over a thin white line along her ribs. "This is where King Kres cut you during the ritual."

"Yes." Her voice catches as I press gentle kisses to the scar.

"And here." I find the brand mark on her shoulder, the cruel symbol burned into her flesh as punishment for defiance. "This is where they tried to mark you as property."

"But failed." Her back arches as my mouth follows the path my fingers traced. "I was never truly theirs."

"No," I agree, working at the buckles that secure her armor. "You were always meant to be free. Always meant to choose your own path."

The leather falls away piece by piece, revealing skin that bears the history of her struggles written in scars and calluses. She should be broken by what she's endured. Instead, she stands before me like a goddess of war and resilience, claiming her power through survival.

"Your turn," she says, her hands already working at my own armor fastenings.

I let her undress me with the same reverent attention I showed her, though my scars tell different stories.

Where hers speak of endurance and survival, mine chronicle battles won and enemies defeated.

Each mark represents a choice to fight rather than flee, to protect what matters even at personal cost.

"So many," she whispers, tracing a particularly prominent scar that crosses my chest. "How do you carry all this history?"

"The same way you carry yours. One day at a time, with the understanding that pain can create strength if we don't let it define us."

Her smile holds depths I'm only beginning to fathom. "Wise words for someone who claims not to be good with feelings."

"You inspire wisdom I didn't know I possessed."

The admission seems to please her, because she rises on her toes to claim another kiss. This one burns with different fire—not the desperate hunger of first contact, but the slow smolder of desire tempered by genuine affection.

When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, she fixes me with a look of absolute certainty. "I choose this," she says. "I choose you. Not because I need protection or shelter, but because I want to know what it feels like to belong somewhere completely."

"Even knowing the dangers? The enemies who'll come for you, the battles we'll face together?"

"Especially knowing those things." Her hand covers my heart, feeling its rapid rhythm. "I've spent too many years surviving alone. I want to try thriving with someone who understands that strength and vulnerability aren't opposites."

The declaration shatters the last walls around my heart.

I claim her mouth again, pouring everything I can’t put into words into the contact.

She tastes like hope wrapped in defiance, the sharp, metallic promise of battle softened by the warmth of something far more dangerous—trust. Her hands fist in my hair, tugging me deeper into the kiss, and I give her everything.

Every unsaid vow. Every broken piece I’ve kept buried beneath duty and blood.

When I lift her into my arms, she doesn’t flinch.

She curls against me with trust so complete, it robs the breath from my lungs.

This woman—scarred, stubborn, gloriously untamed—offers herself not out of fear, not out of obligation, but because she wants me .

And that knowledge makes my heart thunder like war drums.

I carry her across the tent, past the maps and weapons and war plans, to the sleeping furs laid near the glowing embers of the fire. Shadows dance over the curved canvas walls, casting flickers of flame across her painted skin.

“This isn’t just claiming,” I murmur, laying her down with care I don’t give to anything else in my life. “This is recognition.”

Her smile is soft but sure. “Then see me, Rogar. All of me.”

I kneel over her, letting myself drink her in. She’s still partially dressed in the worn leather she’s fought in, survived in. But she looks more like a queen than a warrior now—painted, primal, fierce. Mine.

“You’re not just seen,” I rasp. “You’re fucking revered.”

My hands move over her body with reverence and need, undoing buckles and laces one by one.

The armor loosens, parts, falls away—until it’s just her beneath me, all golden skin and defiant scars and eyes that burn with something unspoken.

Her breath hitches as I bare her breasts, as I trace the scar under her ribs with my thumb.

“Here,” I whisper, pressing my mouth to the line of pale skin. “This is where you bled and lived.”

“Here,” she echoes, guiding my hand to the brand on her shoulder. “Is where they tried to own me.”

I bend and kiss it, slow and lingering. “They failed.”

Her fingers tremble as they slide down my chest, to the laces at my side. “Take this off,” she demands, voice low and urgent. “I want to see you , too.”

I strip fast, without flourish—she’s seen me in battle, bloodied and ruthless, but never like this. Never bare . My cock stands hard, thick with need, the head flushed and leaking against my abdomen.

Her gaze drops, and her breath catches.

“Gods,” she whispers, reaching out. Her fingers wrap around the base of me, tentative at first, then firmer. “You’re... bigger than I thought.”

I groan, hips twitching into her grip. “You imagined this?”

“Often,” she admits, a flush painting her cheeks. “In my cot. Alone. After you spoke the claiming words. I was confused, I tried to dismiss it but you sneak into my head.”

I growl, the sound low and feral, as her thumb teases the slit at the tip.

“Tell me what you imagined,” I say roughly, guiding her hand in slow strokes.

“I thought about how you’d feel,” she murmurs. “How you’d fill me. I thought about your voice in my ear, telling me I’m yours. Taking me slow at first... then rough. Like you couldn’t help yourself.”

I’m going to explode if she keeps talking like that.

Instead, I push her back into the furs, covering her body with mine. She opens for me instantly, thighs parting, her pussy glistening with arousal. I drag my hand down her belly, cupping the slick heat of her sex, groaning as her hips jerk into the contact.

“You’re so wet,” I mutter, teasing her folds, fingers stroking with maddening leisure. “So ready for me.”

“For you ,” she corrects, hips grinding into my hand. “Only ever for you.”

I slide a finger inside her, and she gasps, arching. Her walls clench, greedy and hot around the intrusion.

“Another,” she pants. “Please—gods, Rogar—don’t make me wait.”

I give her two. She moans, hands clawing at my back as I thrust them deep, curling them to find the spot that makes her tremble.

“You like that?” I growl against her throat.

“Yes—fuck—yes, I love it when you—ah!”

I press my thumb to her clit and suck a bruise into the hollow of her neck. She shudders, moaning loud enough I’m grateful for the thick canvas walls.

When I draw my fingers out and replace them with the broad head of my cock, she looks at me like I’ve hung the stars.

“I want to see you when you come,” I say, voice shaking. “I want to see what it looks like when you take all of me.”

She nods, fierce and unafraid. “Then claim me, Chieftain. All of me.”

My cock sinks into her in one slow, deliberate push.

Her body stretches around me, wet heat pulling me deeper, deeper, until I’m fully sheathed. We both cry out—her in pleasure, me in sheer disbelief that something this perfect could be real. Her pussy clutches at me like a fist, tight and hot and made for me.

“Fuck, Zahra—” I pant, forehead pressed to hers. “You feel like home .”

Tears shimmer in her eyes, but her smile is pure fire. “Then stay.”

I start to move, hips rocking in a rhythm that builds steadily, slowly.

Her legs wrap around my waist, anchoring me, urging me deeper.

I give her everything—my body, my strength, my devotion—in every thrust. Her nails score down my back as I find a rhythm that has her crying out, hips meeting mine in wild, perfect sync.

“Harder,” she begs. “Don’t hold back. I can take it. I want it.”

I flip her over in one motion, dragging her onto all fours and gripping her hips. Her back arches, ass high in the air, the curve of it making my vision haze. I slam into her from behind, watching her throw her head back, moaning like she’s breaking apart for me.

“So fucking perfect,” I growl, one hand on her hip, the other sliding up her spine to tangle in her hair. “So goddamn perfect like this.”

“Yours,” she gasps. “Rogar—I’m yours?—”

I thrust harder, faster, until she’s shaking under me, her pussy clenching with every stroke. I reach around to rub her clit again, and she screams , her orgasm tearing through her with violent grace. Her whole body quakes, pussy squeezing me in relentless waves until I can’t hold back.

“Zahra—fuck—” I explode inside her, spilling deep, groaning her name like a prayer.

We collapse onto the furs, tangled, spent, panting.

For long minutes, we just breathe. The fire pops softly nearby. The clan sleeps on beyond the walls. But in here, everything has changed.

She rolls to face me, still glowing, still marked with the war paint of a warrior—but now she’s mine. Not claimed like territory. Chosen. Shared.

“Next time,” she murmurs, brushing a kiss to my jaw, “I want you on your back. I want to ride you. See the way you lose control for me.”

I laugh, breathless, already half-hard again. “You’ll get no argument from me, mate.”

And as her fingers find my cock again, stroking with promise, I realize something else:

This is more than just a bond. This is the beginning of a reign.

Ours.