Page 54 of Fated to the Drakarn Commander (Drakarn Mates 4)

"I'm counting on it," I whispered back, the words tasting like recklessness.

His answering growl rumbled through my bones. Pure, male satisfaction. His arms shifted, cradling me with infinite care against the solid heat of his chest. His wing settled over us, a living shield of black membrane and scaled muscle, cocooning us in shadow and warmth.

"Sleep," he commanded, the word rough-edged, possessive. Almost gentle. "Heal. I'll watch."

Wrapped in his heat, anchored by the steady beat of his heart, I let myself sink. Into the certainty of his presence. Into the terrifying, exhilarating knowledge that I'd found something immense, unbreakable, dangerous. Here. In this violent world.

In him.

"By the First Flame's boiling blood, this is a healing sanctuary, not a … a nesting ground!"

The voice, sharp as obsidian shards, sliced through the warm dark. Yanked me back to awareness. Pain flared, hot and immediate, across my ribs. A female Drakarn stood at the foot of the slab, scales shimmering with indignation, wings flared tight with disapproval. Mysha. The head healer. Crystal adornments woven into her head-frills chimed with her rigid stance.

"Six hours! I attend the lower caverns for six hours, and I return to find my most critical patients … entwined!" My translator offered “entwined.” Her tone suggested “fucking like rabbits.”

A choked sound escaped me—half laugh, half gasp of pain. Khorlar’s arm tightened instinctively, a low growl vibrating against my back, possessive and immediate.

"She required comfort," he rumbled, deep, unwavering. Stating fact. Like gravity.

"Comfort?" Mysha sputtered, frills flaring wider, radiating annoyance like heat waves. "Survival protocols dictate minimal contact, not … cuddling!"

I pushed myself up slightly, wincing as stitches pulled. "To be fair, I'm pretty sure my blood's exactly where it's supposed to be now." Sarcasm as armor.

Mysha’s glare could have cracked granite. "Humor. From a human. While recovering from near-fatal trauma. Excellent." She stalked closer, the healer overriding the outraged elder. Her gaze swept over my bandages, clinical, assessing. "Do you have any breathing difficulty? Sharp pain on inhalation? Vertigo?"

"Just … sore," I admitted, hating the concession. Letting her check the bindings with claws that, despite their sharpness, moved with practiced gentleness. "Like something large and pissed off used my ribs for target practice."

"Hmph," she sniffed, though her claws were deft, "but the impact trauma was … significant." She straightened, frills settling fractionally. "Your human physiology metabolizes the restorative minerals with unexpected efficiency." A grudging admission.

"I'm cleared for duty, then?" I shot back, hope a stubborn weed despite the grinding ache.

Khorlar’s growl dropped lower, gaining a menacing edge. "No." Absolute. Final.

"That is my determination, Stone Fist," Mysha snapped back, though a flicker of something—approval? respect for his claim?—crossed her sharp features. She looked back at me. "Light duty. Minimal exertion. No combat maneuvers. No flight stressors. And no activities which might … place undue strain … on the regenerating tissues." Her gaze flicked between us, pointed and unambiguous.

Heat flooded my face. Damn her clinical precision. "Understood."

"See that you both do." Mysha gathered her implements, crystals tinkling like fractured ice. "Now, remove yourselves from my primary healing chamber. I have actual invalids requiring attention, not … bonded pairs treating sacred restorative spaces like personal territory."

"Bonded?" The word hit like a physical weight, settling deep in my chest. Irrevocable.

Mysha rolled her eyes, a startlingly human gesture on that alien face. "Please. The bond-scent radiating from you both is thick enough to taste. It disrupts the chamber's healing harmonics." She flicked her tail dismissively, a gesture of finality. "Out. Now. Before I decide a vivisection would yield more useful data than your convalescence."

She turned sharply, muttering about "disrespectful off-worlders," "primal preoccupations," and "improper nesting instincts," stalking towards another alcove, radiating disapproval.

I looked up at Khorlar. Found a rare spark of something like amusement softening the hard lines of his face. Dangerous territory, that softness. "Bond-scent?" I asked, raising an eyebrow despite the pull of stitches. Testing the word.

His amusement vanished. Replaced by that molten intensity that stole the air from my lungs. His gaze locked on mine. Burning. "Yes," he rumbled, the word heavy. Certain. "Undeniable. Unmistakable." His hand came up, claws tracing the line of my jaw, possessive heat sinking into my skin. Branding. "Mine."

Without thought, without resistance, accepting the inevitable gravity, I leaned into his touch. "Yours," I whispered. The word felt like stepping off a cliff into fire. His eyes promised I wouldn't burn alone.

"Let's get out of here," I added, voice steadier than the ground felt beneath me, "before she comes back with something sharp and experimental."

18

HAWK

“These are my personal chambers,”Khorlar growled, the sound vibrating low in his chest. His claws flexed on the doorframe, exhibiting a hesitation so unlike him it snagged my attention. “Our chambers. Now.”

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