Page 21 of Fated to the Drakarn Commander (Drakarn Mates 4)

He lunged again. Feinted left, grabbed right. Too fast. His claws closed, a scorching steel trap around my upper arm. Pressure just shy of breaking skin. He yanked me off-balance. Toward him.

I fought back.

Everything I had. A kick to the knee that would cripple a human. A strike to the throat just grazed him as he jerked back. Years of training. Instinct.

Not enough.

He was bigger. Stronger. Hungry.

“Let go, shithead!” I snarled. Twisting, trying to break the hold.

Refuse the fear. Don’t show it.

“Unaccounted for,” he murmured, voice oily, vibrating against my skin. It made me want to retch. “Plaktish will reward this. A gift.”

I drove my knee upward. Groin? Something else? I didn’t care. I had to hurt him.

He twisted and avoided the worst. His grip loosened fractionally. But I managed to wrench free, my arm burning. I ducked low. Darted past. Back toward the training hall. I needed backup. Now.

His tail whipped out—a blur of scaled muscle. It caught my ankle and sent me sprawling. Stars exploded behind my eyes as my side slammed into unforgiving stone. Air punched from my lungs, leaving me gasping.

Before I could move, he was on me. His clawed hand clamped around my throat. Squeezing. Threatening. Dragging me toward the side passage.

“Struggle,” he whispered, breath hot, foul. Against my face. “I enjoy it.”

Terror. Fury. A boiling cauldron inside me. I fought like a cornered animal. My elbow smashed into his jaw. Hard. His head snapped back. I felt the bone connect. His grip loosened—yes!—and I twisted away.

He recovered too fast. Lunging again, his claws caught my shirt, and fabric ripped. He hauled me backward.

Kicking, I connected with his knee. I felt savage satisfaction as he let out a grunt of real pain. He didn’t let go. His other hand tangled in my hair. Pain flared across my scalp.

“Enough,” he snarled, enjoyment gone. Replaced by cold purpose. “You?—”

ROAR.

Thunder. Primal. It shook the stone, the air, my bones. Dust rained from the ceiling.

I knew that roar.

Khorlar.

He materialized from the shadows. A nightmare. Vengeance given form. Coiled muscle. Lethal grace. His wings flared—immense—filling the passage. A wall of dark membrane, scaled edges sharp as blades. His eyes—burning gold. Pure, undiluted fury. Blinding.

The Ignarath’s grip went slack. Shock. Just an instant. Enough.

I threw myself forward. Broke free and rolled, scrambling to my feet. Fight or run?

Too late. Khorlar moved in a blur. Unholy speed. Claws—wicked death—closed around the Ignarath’s throat. He lifted him. Lifted him off the ground. Effortlessly.

“You. Dare?” Khorlar’s voice—unrecognizable. A guttural snarl ripped from the mountain’s core. “Touch. What. Is. Mine?”

The Ignarath choked. Struggled. His claws scrabbled uselessly at Khorlar’s grip. Iron. Unbreakable. “Diplomatic … immunity …,” he gasped. “Law …”

“I am the law here.” It was a growl vibrating with killing intent. Khorlar slammed him against the wall. Stone cracked. Spiderwebbed. “And you defile sacred ground.”

I was frozen. My heart battered my ribs like a trapped bird. Relief. Terror. Adrenaline—a dizzying cocktail.

I should move. Help? I was useless. Transfixed by the violence. The sheer power.

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