Page 28 of Scorched By Fate

Something crunched. Fangs caught briefly on my gauntleted hand before I tore myself free with a force that sent gore splattering across the rock behind him.

He staggered, stepping back with a mangled snarl, his blood dripping thickly in rough streaks that sizzled against the heat of the ground.

I advanced. My arm shot forward, carving into the column of his throat with exacting force. My weight collided with his bulk, each motion deliberate, powered by bloodlust honed into something sharper than instinct.

The brute swayed, refusing to fall. His massive frame reeked of defiance, but it didn’t hold when my tail speared into the connective joint of his wing.

The scream he let out tore through the thick air, primal and broken.

My wings flared wide, anchoring me against his failed resistance as I drove him down. He buckled hard. Collapsing under the crushing combination of clawed strikes and raw, unrelenting weight. As his chest hit the ridge beneath us, he squirmed one last time—half resistance, half instinct pushing him toward survival.

The brute fell silent.

Behind me, the remaining rogue scrambled back, his panic-laced hissing scraping over molten air as he turned to flee.

Two steps.

That’s all he got.

My tail hooked sharply into his back leg and dragged it over the splintered ridge. His snarls turned desperate, sharp claws carving scratches into the agonized rock as he fought.

Futile.

“You don’t get mercy,” I said. My voice was quiet, almost thoughtful, but the edge of it could’ve cleaved the ridge itself.

My claws sank neatly into his throat. Twist. Tear.

Silence.

I stood over the remains of them, breath dragging through my lungs, the remnants of the fight settling low in my limbs. Scented with blood. With violence.

And underneath it all—her.

Selene.

The heat simmered around me, pulsing sharp and fevered as I straightened. Every inhale dragged currents of heated air into my chest, its weight clinging as though trying to anchor me in the aftermath. Her scent threaded through it all, sharper now, intertwined with the adrenaline and ash-slicked air pressing hot onto the ridge.

She was barely standing.

Her back was rigid, though exhaustion nearly buckled her frame. One hand gripped the hilt of the knife I'd given her, her knuckles white where her resolve tried to bleed into the steel. The way she held it—not raised in threat but trembling with raw defiance—was a testament to her. She wasn’t fearless; no, she was far too human for that.

But she was breathtaking all the same.

Myknife.Mywoman.

The truth of it didn’t matter, not now with my blood running hot and battle riding high.

Even bruised with blood streaking the soft edges of her brown skin, she stood like a creature made of fire and spite, still ready—still fighting—even with nothing left to wield but that knife and whatever shards of stubbornness she could cling to.

Her dark eyes darted to me briefly, then away. She wasn’t shaking anymore, but her stance betrayed the truth—heelsedging into bad footing, muscles braced too tight, her body locked somewhere between ready-collapse and survival instinct.

“You’re not hurt.”

Not a question. A demand.

Her gaze snapped upward, locking onto mine with a sharpness that would’ve made a weaker creature falter. Her lips trembled, but only long enough for her to bite down and press them tight against the emotion straining there. Her chest rose unevenly, breath catching before she answered with a force that nearly cracked under the weight of its own stubbornness.

“I’m fine.” Her voice was strained. Fractured at the edges.

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