Page 40 of Fated to the Drakarn Commander (Drakarn Mates 4)

The warriors shifted, a low rasp of scales on stone. Unease rippled through them. This was not just chatter. It was poison. Carefully dripped into waiting ears. Politics played out with claws barely sheathed.

The words hit me like a physical blow, stealing my breath, cracking something deep inside. The fear I’d pushed down, the gut-level certainty I’d refused to name—confirmed. Khorlar wasn't just risking his standing. He was laying his honor, his command, maybe the fate of his people, on the line. For … this. For whatever raw, dangerous thing pulsed between us.

A quieter voice, female, came from the back. Bronze scales caught the heat-crystal light. “They fight with honor, Elder. They seek no quarrel.”

Vraxxin’s tail slammed the ground. Crack! The sound echoed, sharp as breaking bone. “Honor? Wisdom? When Ignarath hordes sharpen their claws on our borders? When the sacred flames themselves show ill omen?” He jabbed a clawed finger toward me. “This is the folly of sentiment! You are too soft.”

The bronze warrior stiffened, wings quivering with fury held rigidly in check. Hierarchy. It was brutal and absolute.

Enough. The air was suddenly thick, unbreathable, charged with accusation and the crushing weight of Khorlar’s sacrifice. The stone walls felt like they were shrinking, pressing in. I backed away, movements tight, controlled. I dropped the practice staff onto the rack. The clatter sounded too loud in the sudden quiet.

“I need air,” I clipped out, forcing the words past the tightness in my throat. I addressed no one in particular.

No one tried to stop me. I walked, measured steps, refusing to run, toward the arched exit. Dignity was armor, even when shattered underneath. Inside? It was a vortex.

The corridors were a maze carved from the mountain's heart. I climbed, seeking height, escape, autopilot steering me toward the eastern overlook. I just needed out. Away from the judgment, the politics, the impossible weight of him.

The air was still a furnace, but it was fresher there. Below, the broken, savage landscape of Volcaryth sprawled under twin setting suns bleeding violent reds and golds across the sky. A brutal beauty. Raw. Untamed.

Like him.

My palms pressed against the rough-hewn stone railing. Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out. Force the panic down. Fill lungs with air that didn’t taste of guilt and a desire that felt dangerously close to treason against my own survival.

A faint rush behind me, the whisper of powerful wings displacing air. Every nerve ending screamed awareness before my brain caught up. Primal recognition. My spine went rigid. There was no need to turn. I knew that sound. Knew that presence.

Khorlar.

I kept my eyes locked on the bleeding horizon, forcing stillness. The air shifted, crackling, as he landed silently behind me. His sheer presence saturated the small space, shrinking it, charging it. Making it infinitely more dangerous.

“The training master reported an abrupt departure,” his voice rumbled, low and rough-edged, vibrating through the stone beneath my feet.

I was still facing out. “I needed space.” My voice was tight, brittle.

He moved closer. He didn’t walk. He stalked. Each step was measured, deliberate, closing the distance until he stood beside me. His heat rolled off him in waves, scorching the air, raising gooseflesh despite the burn.

He was close enough to feel the thrum of his power. I finally risked a glance. Dark scales drank the dying light, revealing pulsing fiery undertones. His eyes—molten gold, ancient fire, impossible to read—were fixed on me with an intensity that kicked my pulse into a frantic, traitorous rhythm.

He held something. Dark leather, glinting alloy. Intricate straps. Sized for … me.

My throat went dry. “What is that?” The question was a croak.

“Yours,” he stated simply, extending it. It was a flight harness. The complex arrangement dangled between us, heavy with implication. Exquisite craftsmanship. Supple, dark leather, lightweight metal buckles gleaming dully. Reinforced seams, adjustable clasps.

“To secure you,” he explained, his voice dropping, roughening further. “Against falling. But it allows … adjustment. Freedom. Mid-flight.”

My fingers reached, ghosting over the cool leather, the precise stitching. Hours of work. Days. For me. A lump formed in my throat, thick and painful.

This wasn't just gear. It was a statement. A claim.

“This is …” The words caught, strangled. My voice shook. It felt like a betrayal. “You shouldn’t have.”

“You deserve sanctuary. Safety.” His words cut through my attempt at deflection, raw and absolute. The lack of his usual guarded control stripped me bare. “This,” he gestured with the harness, “is merely … practical.”

Practical. As if the word could mask the sheer possessive weight of the gesture. As if it wasn’t a promise forged in leather and steel.

“Permit me,” he rumbled, less a question, more a quiet command that sent a fresh tide of heat crashing through me.

Hesitation warred with a desperate, aching need to accept. Not just the harness. All of it. The dangerous connection. The fragile sense of belonging he offered.

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