Page 25

25

XIRATH

T he jungle closes around us, thick with the remnants of violence. Blood stains my claws, the iron tang still sharp on my tongue, but I do not care. The bodies left behind will rot beneath the trees, their deaths insignificant compared to what they dared to take from me.

Seren barely stirs in my arms.

Her weight presses against my chest, lighter than it should be. Too much blood lost, too many bruises blooming along the fragile human skin. A muscle tenses in my jaw, the rage still a living thing inside me, coiling tight, refusing to release.

The wounds covering her body should not exist. No one should have been able to touch her like this.

A sharp exhale hisses through my teeth. Anger will not mend broken bones.

The steady rhythm of my tail guides us forward, a predator’s gait slow and deliberate, despite the urgency burning through my veins. Each step carries us closer to the stronghold, but it does not feel close enough.

She shifts against me, breath rasping. My grip tightens. The thought of putting her down is unthinkable.

The stronghold looms in the distance, its high walls still standing, its warriors still guarding the gates. The smell of lingering battle clings to the stone, a reminder of the chaos that had distracted me, that had given those filthy elves the opening to steal her away.

We pass through the gates, the gathered warriors halt in place. Some stare. Others whisper. The sight of their lord returning bloodstained, carrying a half-broken human, is not something they expected.

Their gazes settle on the bruises along her throat, the swollen cut at her temple, the fragile way her body rests against mine.

They see.

They understand.

No one speaks.

One step after another, I ascend toward my chambers. Veynar waits at the entrance, his expression unreadable. Golden eyes flick between me and the unconscious figure in my arms.

A slow inhale, measured. “The dark elves?”

I do not break stride as I pass him. “Dead.”

Veynar exhales, a quiet sound of approval. “And the human?”

The sharp flick of my tail is the only answer I give.

His voice follows me. “You cannot keep her forever.”

The words grind against my patience, but I do not stop, do not acknowledge the truth in them.

She is something else.

Something I refuse to lose.

The door closes behind us, shutting out the rest of the world. Dim torchlight flickers against the stone, the room silent except for the unsteady sound of her breathing.

Gently, I lower her onto the bed.

Her lashes flutter, body shifting, but she does not wake. Fingers curl slightly at her side, twitching, fighting, even now.

A slow exhale presses through my chest.

I turn toward the basin, filling it with water, grabbing a cloth before returning to her side. The injuries need tending. The wounds left by those who thought they could take what was mine will not linger on her skin.

The damp cloth presses against her brow, wiping away blood and dirt. Her breath hitches, just slightly.

Even unconscious, she does not submit easily.

I smirk.

Of course she doesn’t.

As I clean her wounds, the truth digs deeper beneath my ribs. This should not matter.

She is human.

She is temporary.

The curse has not lifted.

Yet, my body burns with a possessiveness that has nothing to do with fate.

She is mine, but not because of some celestial bond.

Because I want her.

The realization is sharp, unwelcome.

My grip tightens around the cloth.

If she were my mate, it would be simple. Expected. A connection ordained by the gods, something written into my very existence.

But this is worse.

This is choosing.

I do not choose.

Not since the day I was cursed, not since I lost control of my own fate. Not since I learned that longing was a weakness.

Yet here she is.

A fragile human, a survivor, a storm wrapped in trembling limbs and bloodied fists.

I cannot let her go.

Her breath shifts, a small, unconscious murmur escaping her lips.

My gaze drops to her hand.

Fingers twitch slightly, curling around nothing. A small motion, but it locks something deep in my chest.

She fights even in her sleep.

She fights even after everything.

A slow breath drags into my lungs.

I cannot let her go.

But I will never say it aloud.

Instead, I press the cloth against the final wound, lingering just long enough that my fingers brush against hers.

She does not wake.

But her body relaxes, just slightly.

I allow myself to believe that she knows she is safe.