Page 29 of Echoes of Fire

I parted my lips, and he placed the morsel on my tongue, his thumb lingering to catch a stray drop of honey. The pad of his claw grazed my lower lip, sending a shiver down my spine.

“Good?” he rumbled.

I nodded, swallowing hard. “Why … why this?”

His thumb swept over my chin again, snaring another streak I hadn’t noticed. “A warrior honors his mate’s tastes.” The words were rough. “Even … small ones.”

A laugh bubbled up, startled and warm. “Small? There’s enough here for three people.”

The corner of his mouth twitched—not a smile, but close. His tail rose from the floor to loop loosely around my ankle, a possessive anchor. “Eat,” he repeated, offering another piece.

This time, honey dripped down my thumb as I took it. Rath’s nostrils flared, his gaze dropping to the sticky trail. Slowly, giving me plenty of time to pull back, he leaned in.

His tongue—long, hotter than human—flicked over my honeyed skin.

I gasped. The sound seemed to fracture something in the air.

Rath froze, his breath a low rasp against my wrist. For a heartbeat, we stayed locked there, the world reduced to the glide of his tongue and the gleam in his eyes. Then, with a growl that vibrated through my bones, he pulled back.

My pulse thundered in my ears as I reached into the pouch with trembling fingers. The fritter’s crust crackled under my grip, scattering sugar crystals across Rath’s scales. His tail tightened around my ankle—a warning or encouragement, I couldn’t tell.

“Here, have a taste,” I managed, breaking off a ragged piece.

His nostrils flared at the offering, gaze flicking between my face and the crumbling pastry. For a heartbeat, I thought he’d refuse. Then his lips parted, revealing the faintest glint of fang.

The moment the morsel touched his tongue, his pupils blew wide. A low rumble shook his chest as flavors exploded—honey’s floral brightness against Volcaryth’s smoky depth. His clawed hand engulfed mine, preventing retreat.

“More.”

The command vibrated through my bones. I fed him another piece, then another, each bite punctuated by the slick heat of his tongue grazing my fingertips. His scales glowed faintly where our skin met, marks blooming under my touch like stars being born.

When the last crumb disappeared, he didn’t release my hand. His tongue swept the length of my index finger, rasping over calluses left by rock samples and scanner grips. The sound that escaped me was half gasp, half whimper.

“You taste,” his growl deepened, tail coiling higher up my calf, “like sunlight.”

His eyes trailed down, snagging on the exposed skin of my upper arm. I usually kept it covered. “What is this?” He traced the inked lines swirling across my inner forearm. The constellation patterns seemed to shimmer under his touch, dormant stars awakening beneath scaled fingertips.

I swallowed. “Cygnus. Lyra. Ursa Major.” My throat tightened around the names. “They’re constellations.”

His clawtip hovered over the swirling colors of the Milky Way. “And this?”

“Home.” The word slipped out raw. “Or where home used to be. Before …” I gestured vaguely toward the ceiling, toward the sky that didn’t exist there.

Rath’s tail tightened around my thigh, the pressure grounding. “Show me.”

One by one, I guided his claws over each cluster of stars tattooed on my arm, my voice gaining strength as I recounted myths half-remembered from childhood datapads.

“This one bled,” he observed, talon brushing the faded blue ink.

“My first tattoo.” I huffed a laugh. “Twelve-year-old me thought stealing a biogel pen from the medbay was a genius idea.”

Rath made a sound deep in his chest—not quite a chuckle, but something warmer than a grunt. “My Blade-Binding.” He turned his forearm, revealing a jagged scar cutting through ruby scales. “Fifteen summers. Stole a magma whip from the forge master.” His claw traced the injury with perverse pride. “It took three healers to seal the wound. I kept the whip.”

His tail slid higher, scales scraping against my legs as he nosed aside my hair to expose the honey-smeared hollow of my throat.

“Your stories are written in dead light,” he murmured against my pulse. “Mine in fire.”

The star on my arm felt like it was pulsing faintly, keeping time with the possessive grip of his claws. Somewhere in the heat, a new constellation was being born.

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