Page 64 of Scorched By Fate

“We barely know each other. The mission was all stress and excitement and … fuck if I know. And now he’s telling me I’m his mate, as if I have time to deal with that while all ofthisis happening.” I spread my hand out, gesturing towards the healing Drakarn. “What was he thinking?”

“Oh, no, you’re totally right on that part. His timing sucks. But I saw the way he looked at you. He wasn’t lying.”

“I know that!” I clamped my mouth shut, like that might call back the words.

If I knew all that, why was I stressing?

I groaned. “Do you have any advice, or are you just going to ask pointed questions?”

“You don’t need advice, just a little kick in the ass. Our lives are completely messed up. It’s not like any of this was planned. So maybe embrace the good stuff?”

Before I could say more, she patted me on the shoulder and walked away to tend to one of the moaning healers.

I didn’t want to obsess over Vyne. I didn’t want to think about what it meant if I was his mate.

The problem was, I couldn’t stop.

With a grunt, I got up and walked away from Reika and resumed checking the other beds. Mysha stirred under my hand, blinking in brief confusion before drifting back into sleep. I listened for any trace of that deep, hacking rasp that had haunted them all before, but it seemed to be fading. Hope flickered inside me, fragile but alive.

After finishing my rounds, I tipped my head from side to side, stretching until my spine popped. The oppressive space pressed in. It smelled like damp stone and stale air, and the walls felt closer than they had hours ago. I needed to leave this ward, if only for a few minutes.

But as I leaned against the wall, the rasping coughs of the healers echoed in my ears, and under that were Vyne's unforgettable words.

You're mine.

TWENTY-FIVE

VYNE

The forge roared and glowed. Familiar heat pressed against my lungs, each breath thick and laced with iron tang. The hammer in my hand rose and fell in a vicious rhythm, a metallic heartbeat echoing through the stone. Each strike against the battered blade on the anvil should have eased the discord growing inside me.

It didn't.

My arms burned from fatigue, sweat coursing over my scales, but I couldn’t stop. Every swing was a question I couldn’t answer, a frustration I couldn’t name. If I kept hammering, maybe I could outrun the regret that gnawed at the corners of my mind:

Selene.

She was everything I’d never asked for—fury, a spark, and a fragile softness all tangled in one. The memory of her lived in every breath, every flare of muscle. A storm I couldn’t calm and didn’t want to. But that storm had pulled away, and the fear of losing her forever lodged deep in me, more suffocating than the forge’s heat.

It was all my own damned fault. Some need had possessed me to claim her then and there, as if exhaustion hadn't weighed heavy on us, as if Selene hadn't spent the last several days, all edges frayed with worry for the healers.

I drove the hammer down harder, as though I could pound answers from the metal. Sparks ricocheted in orange bursts, scattering into the air. The steel warped beneath each blow, but no matter how many times I struck, the chaos in me only grew.

A heavy presence filled the doorway behind me before he spoke. I knew who it was by the slow scrape of his talons against stone, by the weight in the air that always announced him. Khorlar.

“You’ll ruin the blade,” he observed, his deep voice steady. “Or yourself.”

I scowled, not taking my eyes off the battered metal. “I can fix it.”

“Can you?”

Clenching my jaw, I lifted the hammer again. The strike was so forceful it jarred my shoulder. A rough growl tore from my chest. “Why are you here?”

Khorlar folded his massive arms across his dark-gray scales. “Because I’d rather not see you destroy good steel.”

I barked a short laugh. “Close your eyes, then.”

Silence thickened, punctuated only by the clang of metal. My wings twitched, restless, but I forced myself to keep going. I couldn’t stop, or I’d feel too much.

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