Page 10 of Claimed By the Drakarn Warrior Lord

Tubwas an understatement. It was basically a pool.

I stared at it, momentarily caught off guard. He wanted me to … What, take a bath? After being marched across the desert, imprisoned, and dragged down here like a prisoner—or worse? He expected me to relax like it was some grand spa day?

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I muttered. His eyebrows twitched, but his expression remained unchanged.

I'd be lying if I said a bath didn't sound amazing. I was covered in a week's worth of desert filth and who knew how many years of stale air from the cryo-sleep chamber. The stone bath looked like something out of a dream. But I had a feeling that every time I took something from the alien—from Darrokar—there'd be a price to pay.

He gestured again, this time more insistently, his clawed hand slicing through the air toward the tub before his gaze flicked back to me. I could feel the weight of the command, even if the words weren’t there.

I narrowed my eyes, forcing myself to stay calm,though the urge to snap rose hot and fast. My options were limited. If I flat-out refused, he might force me or worse. I didn’t know what it would cost me—or my team—and I sure as hell wasn’t about to start something I wasn’t prepared to finish.

But.

He didn’t get to just make me to do a striptease right in front of him. That wasn’t how this worked. Survival didn’t mean submission.

Independence intact, but acting dumb, I tilted my head and feigned ignorance, gesturing toward myself with exaggerated confusion as if to say:What do you want from me?

He clearly didn't buy it, the tightening of his jaw proved that much. Without breaking stride, he strode toward a chaise carved from obsidian and covered in silky pillows situated near the room’s center and lowered himself onto it, every move calculated.

The tension in my muscles coiled tighter as I watched him recline, propping an arm on the back of the chaise as if this were a casual negotiation rather than … whatever the hell it was. His golden eyes remained locked on me, unyielding, and damned if I didn’t feel cornered in this vast room.

The door creaked open then, and two figures entered, slim andsilent. They moved gracefully—quiet servants who carried a large tray between them. They had wings but didn't have claws.

No, that wasn't it.

Their claws had been filed down to barely anything, and their hands looked almost like mine, if bonier. Was that something these aliens did to keep their servants from rebelling? Or was it their choice?

It wasn't like I could ask. And even if he could understand me, I doubted Darrokar would answer.

My stomach clenched sharply at the sight of food arranged in vivid, unfamiliar splashes of color. Fruits that shimmered like gemstones, steaming pieces of cooked meat glistening with glaze, and a pitcher of liquid that glittered faintly in the dim light. The smell, rich and inviting, hit me with an intensity I wasn’t prepared for.

I hadn’t realized how long it had been since I’d eaten properly until then. Rations from the crash site only went so far, and saving water was becoming a brutal necessity. My body screamed to lunge for the tray, but I froze when Darrokar shifted.

He made a harsh sound—commanding, territorial. His clawed hand extended outward, palm flat toward the food, before it gestured again toward the tub. The meaning didn’t require translation.

Not until you bathe.

Seriously?

Anger burned hot in my chest and sharper than my hunger. My first instinct was to refuse outright, to make a stand then and there. But survival whispered caution. Picking a fight over food I couldn’t secure for myself was a losing battle.

Watching him closely, I took a slow step forward, then another, my eyes flicking deliberately between him and the tray.

He didn’t move, his expression impassive, but as soon as I stretched a hand toward what looked like a caramelized piece of meat, his clawed grip shot out lightning fast. Before I could react, my wrist was enclosed in heat and strength, dragged upward just enough to make me stumble closer to him.

"Wash yourself," he hissed, my translator having no problem at picking up his words.

My heartbeat spiked violently. I wanted to pull back on instinct, but his grip was firm, holding me steady as he rose in one smooth, fluid motion that had him towering over me again. The world narrowed alarmingly.

My brain scrambled to control the interaction, to tip the balance back to neutral ground, but Darrokar had other plans. Slowly, deliberately, his other handrose to point once more at the steaming bath behind us, his command clear.

Fuck.

“Fine,” I bit out, not caring that he wouldn’t understand the sarcasm laced in my tone.

He’d get the message in my posture, in the way I refused to look away as I wrenched my wrist from his grip. My skin tingled where his claws had pressed—not hard enough to pierce, but firm enough to leave an impression that was more than just physical.

Heat burned in my veins now, distinct and unwelcome. A little too familiar.

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