Page 57 of Fated to the Drakarn Commander (Drakarn Mates 4)

“Yours!” I sobbed, the word freeing something wild inside me. “And you—mine!”

His roar was triumph, pure and feral. He shifted, one hand shoving under my hips, tilting me, changing the angle. Driving deeper. Harder. Stars exploded behind my eyes. White-hot. Searing.

The climax slammed into me, not a wave, but a brutal rip tide, dragging me under. Thought ceased. Breath ceased. There was only the searing friction, the agonizing pleasure, the feeling of being filled, claimed, owned. His name tore from my throat, unrecognizable.

He followed me down, his own control shattering. Triggered by my convulsing muscles, his release ripped through him. His head arched back, wings flaring violently as he roared, the sound bouncing off the stone, shaking the very air. His seed flooded me, thick, scalding hot, branding me from the inside out as his hips bucked one last time.

He didn’t collapse. He shuddered, catching his weight on trembling arms before carefully rolling us to our sides, pulling me tight against his chest. His wings folded around us, a heavy, living blanket trapping the sweat, the scent, the aftermath.

“I thought …,” he choked out, the words rough against my hair. “I thought I lost you. Saw you hurt. Felt … felt the break.” A violent shudder wracked his frame. “Nothing … nothing ever …”

I pressed my palm flat against the frantic beat of his heart. “I'm hard to kill,” I whispered, trying for levity, failing.

His arm became a vise. “Anchor,” he rasped, ignoring me. “My fire. Without …” He couldn’t finish.

The jagged honesty tore through my remaining defenses. Here, wrapped in his heat, shielded by his body, I let the vulnerability surface. Let it crack me open.

“I never expected this,” I admitted, the words small, fragile. “You. Drakarn. Home.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “It should be wrong. Alien.” My fingers trembled as they traced the hard line of his jaw. “It feels … terrifyingly right. Like finding something I didn’t know I was looking for.”

He caught my hand, pressing his mouth to my palm, the touch searing. “Mate,” he rumbled, the sound deep, resonant. “The heart knows. It is not a choice. It is recognition.” His golden eyes, no longer alien, just intenselyhim, bored into mine. “You are mine. As I am yours. Not chance. Fate.”

The certainty didn’t frighten me now. It settled deep, a heavy, warm anchor in the chaos. Peace. Acceptance. This impossible place. This impossible male. Home.

I pushed myself up slightly, pressing my mouth to his. It was not passion now. It was a seal. A silent vow exchanged in taste and touch.

Sleep pulled at me, heavy and sudden. As darkness claimed the edges, I felt his lips brush my forehead, rough scales scraping gently. “Rest,vrakasha,” he murmured, the sound a low rumble against my skull. “Heal. I am here.”

The promise wrapped around me tighter than his wings, a bulwark against the lingering chill of the void. And, finally, I surrendered.

ZARVASH

The darkness was absolute.

It was an oppressive weight crushing vision, heavier than any sleep. This void was an insult, a cage built of stolen light. Then, there was agony. It seared through my skull like shattered obsidian, radiating from where scales were scraped raw against something cold.

I fought the blackness, tried to command limbs that refused to answer. I was bound. The tight, coarse material bit deep, grinding against hide, against bone. Humiliation burned hotter than the pain. My wings were in violation. They were wrenched back, twisted grotesquely, joints screaming a silent protest. Panic, cold and sharp, clawed at my throat.

To be grounded … trapped. A warrior stripped of his sky is less than nothing.

The metallic tang of my own blood coated my tongue. Salt and iron. Fury coiled tight in my gut. I carefully worked my jaw, ignoring the fresh pulse of agony through my skull. I was unbroken. It was a small mercy in this degradation.

"… waste of resources …" The voice grated, harsh and thick with the unmistakable, sloppy cadence of the Ignarath. It was like stones scraping stone. Contemptible.

"Orders are orders." The second voice was smoother yet carried the same underlying arrogance. "They pay well for live ones."

Live ones. Tactical awareness cut through the pain. I forced my breathing shallow, even. Stillness was a shield; information, a blade waiting to be drawn. I let them think me broken.

"The female's useless," the first grunted, closer now. The scrape of his talons on unseen stone set my teeth on edge. "Human. She won't survive."

Human? The word struck like a physical blow. Female. Images fractured behind the darkness—the scouting mission, the sudden chaos, Ignarath filth pouring from the rocks. Was it Kira? No … Terra? Darrokar's mate? Impossible. He would have leveled this mountain range. Who else? Khorlar would have died fighting. Who?

A guttural snort followed. "It's double price for humans now."

Then, something else cut through the stench of blood and the cold dampness of the stone. A scent bloomed in the stale air, impossibly sweet, complex. It was like fire-nectar blooms, yes, but laced with something … alien. Utterly foreign, yet it resonated deep within my bones, a vibration beneath the pain. My nostrils flared, drawing it in against my will. It invaded my senses like fine smoke, bypassing thought, settling somewhere primal. My fangs ached—a sharp, unfamiliar pang. The very air seemed to thicken, growing textured against my tongue.

"Check the bronze one's restraints," the calmer voice commanded, closer now. "He's dangerous."

Heavy talons scraped stone, approaching. Every instinct screamed to tear free, to rend and shatter, but I forced stillness. Weakness is a cloak.

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