Page 16 of Fated to the Drakarn Commander (Drakarn Mates 4)

"Bullshit." If she had wings, they'd be twitching. "This isn't respect." She tilted her head back and met my gaze with narrowed eyes. "What aren't you telling me?"

"We are investigating Ignarath movements," I deflected, forcing my gaze forward. "Focus."

Her jaw tightened. A muscle jumped beneath the smooth skin of her cheek. "Fine.For now." The promise of future confrontation hung heavy, unspoken. "Where to?"

I gestured ahead, upward. The central path carved its way through the city's vertical layers, toward the peaks. "The High Overlook. Ryvik has a scheduled aerial patrol. He'll give us a report."

We climbed in silence that stretched thin as spun glass. The path steepened. The air thinned, carrying the scent of sulfur and distance. Her breathing deepened, audible now, a counterpoint to the thrumming in my own chest. Still, she matched my stride. No complaint. No weakness. Determination was etched in every line of her. She was unshakeable as the mountain itself.

The Overlook. A wide stone tongue thrust from the rock face. It was panoramic as we looked outside of the city and onto the desert that surrounded us. Brutal beauty under the harsh glare of the twin suns. Molten gold light splashed across the crimson deserts below, illuminating the distant, angry shimmer of magma rivers snaking across the blasted land.

Hawk moved past me. To the very edge. Her steps slowed. The sheer vastness hit her. I watched her profile, etched sharp against the unforgiving light. She was staring out. Something shifted in her expression. It softened. Almost fragile.

"Beautiful," she breathed, the wind snatching the word away. "Terrible beauty."

I came to stand beside her, careful to keep my distance. It was the space she demanded. "Yes."

"From up here …" Her eyes traced the distant scars of old lava flows, the jagged peaks of the Crystal Mountains where Ignarath territory clawed at the horizon. "I can almost forget the danger." A pause. "Almost."

"Volcaryth is unforgiving," I agreed. "But there is something special out there, for those brave enough to look."

She glanced at me, something unreadable flickering deep in her eyes. "I miss the sky." The admission seemed to surprise even her. A crack in the armor. Vulnerability slipping through. "Before … on Earth … flying was everything. Freedom. Perspective. Being grounded here …" Her voice trailed off, roughened.

"You were a warrior of the skies." It wasn't a question. I'd seen how she watched the Drakarn wheeling high above Scalvaris. There was hunger in her eyes. A desperation I'd only seen in Drakarn after terrible accidents and shattered wings.

"The best." It was flat certainty. No pride, just fact. "A fighter pilot. Combat-trained. I could make a jet dance on thermals you wouldn't believe." A short, sharp laugh. It was utterly devoid of humor. "Fat lot of good those skills do me here. Just another grounded, useless soldier."

Something tightened deep in me. Pressure. An unnamed ache. "You were born for the sky," I heard myself say, the words emerging unbidden, raw from my throat. "It's in you."

Her head snapped toward me, surprise widening her eyes. For a heartbeat, she just stared. Seeing me? Truly seeing past the scales, the wings, the tail?

"Let me take you," I offered, the words tumbling out before reason could catch them. "Flying."

She froze. Naked longing warred with deep-seated caution across her expressive features. "You mean …?"

I extended my wings slightly, just enough for the membranes to catch the unseen currents rising from the city far below. The iridescence caught the light. "I am strong enough. To carry you safely."

Her gaze locked onto my wings. She examined the intricate webbing. The powerful musculature beneath. Her breath hitched. A small, sharp sound, audible even over the wind's sigh. There was a spark in the charged air between us.

"Wouldn't that be …" She hesitated, searching for the word. "Isn't that too …personal?"

"A warrior-carry," I clarified quickly, desperately grasping for the flimsy excuse. "For evacuation. Rescues. It's a standard technique." The lie felt hollow, brittle, even as I spoke it. There was nothing standard about this.

Nothing standard about the fire her nearness ignited.

She should refuse. She should see through the pathetic justification. She should recognize the danger—not just of falling, but of being held so close to me, of trusting her fragile human body to my strength, my straining control.

"Yes," she said instead, the word breathless. Defiance? Trust? Madness? "Take me flying."

My heart slammed against my ribs, a violent drumbeat that surely she must hear, feel. "Now?"

Her smile bloomed then, sudden, fierce, transforming her face. Alive. "No time like the present, Stone Fist."

"Khorlar," I corrected, the rough syllables of my name raw in my throat.

"Khorlar," she echoed, softer this time.

The sound of it settled deep in my bones. Like finding home after centuries adrift.

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