Page 55 of Fated to the Drakarn Commander (Drakarn Mates 4)

The claim wasn’t soft. It landed like a brand, heat flaring low in my belly instead of the expected prickle of resentment. Stepping inside felt like crossing a boundary I couldn't see. The air clung, heavy with his scent—not just the familiar ozone and dust of the tunnels, but something richer, the tang of forge-heat deep in the stone, charred cedar after rain, and an undercurrent of raw musk that coated the back of my throat. Mine. The word echoed in the scent, in the weight of the air.

Weapon racks lined one wall, and the steel wasn’t just gleaming—it looked hungry, used. The wooden grips were dark with oil and countless grips of his hand. They were not decorative. They were ready. Geological maps etched into stone panels weren't just art; they pulsed with faint geothermal light, the lines sharp enough to cut. Every surface seemed charged with his presence.

His eyes—molten gold, predatory—tracked my every step across the floor. It wasn't cold stone; warmth radiated up, a low thrum of power from the planet’s core, more potent here. More intimate. That gaze didn’t feel like targeting anymore. It felt like … ownership. Devouring.

“Is this acceptable?” he asked, the gravel in his voice rougher, laced with something that scraped like uncertainty. This, from the male who’d torn through soldiers like they were paper? The vulnerability was a shock, sharp and disorienting.

“It’s you,” I managed, turning. The admission felt ripped from me, raw and too loud in the sudden quiet. “I feel you. Everywhere.”

His nostrils flared, sampling the air between us, tasting my scent, my reaction. His jaw tightened, satisfied. He stalked closer, heat rolling off him in waves, the air crackling. In three strides, he filled my space, dwarfing me.

“There is no one else,” he admitted, his words clipped, rough. “This was … mine. Only mine. Until you.”

The weight of it pressed down. It was not just sharing space. This was sanctuary breached, walls lowered. His last defense. Offered.

We didn’t talk about the med-bay, the blood, the sickening crack of my bones beneath his desperate hands trying to hold me together. We didn’t need to. Death’s cold shadow lingered, making the heat between us flare brighter, more desperate. Everything flimsy between us had burned away in that sterile white room, leaving only this raw, jagged truth.

He moved again, closing the last inch. His hand came up, claws clicking softly as they hesitated near my face. Then, impossibly gentle for such lethal weapons, the pads of his scaled fingers brushed stray hair from my cheek. Electricity didn't just skitter; it jolted through me, bypassing the dull throb in my ribs to pool, hot and heavy, low in my gut.

My breath hitched.

His eyes locked on mine. Gold burned into brown. He was not the Stone Fist. Not the Council member. Just Khorlar. Raw. Gutted. His heart beat a frantic rhythm I could almostfeelin the air. Offered up like a sacrifice.

Words were useless. Ash in the mouth. My hand lifted, clumsy, touching his jaw. The scales weren’t smooth; they were textured, warm ridges over unyielding bone. Real. Solid. Here.

Something shattered between us—not tension, but the last brittle restraint. We collided, drawn by a force that was beyond choice.

His mouth met mine, not soft, but possessive. A desperate claiming that tasted of relief and the lingering metallic tang of fear. His fear. For me. This wasn’t reverence; it was raw need, a staking of claim on what was almost lost. My hands fisted in the coarse fabric of his tunic, pulling him closer, needing the solid weight of him.

“Vrakasha,” he groaned against my lips. His hands clamped onto my waist, fingers digging slightly, careful of the bandages but demanding contact. He was learning me again, not with wonder, but with the frantic desperation of confirming I was whole. Real.

I answered with touch, not words. My palms scraped over the hard planes of his chest, scale ridges catching against my skin. The thump of his heart slammed against my hand, a frantic drumbeat mirroring my own pulse.

He deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping into my mouth—hot, insistent, tasting me, marking me. He was exploring not with tenderness, but with a starved urgency.

He broke the kiss only to lift me. There was no warning, just solid muscle bunching as he scooped me against his chest. My ribs screamed a reminder, but the pain was distant, drowned by the crushing safety of his hold. His wings flared, shadowing us, creating a sudden, intimate darkness as he strode toward the massive sleeping platform dominating the far side of the room.

This wasn't the sparse cot of the siege room. Thick silks—black, midnight blue, deep gray—covered a carved stone base. A predator’s nest. He laid me down, not like crystal, but like something vital he couldn't bear to drop. His claws scraped lightly against my hip as he straightened.

“The bindings—” he started, his voice tight, gaze fixed on the white bandages stark against my skin.

I cut him off, fingers already fumbling with the clasp of my tunic. “Off,” I said. It was not a request. It was a demand. “Slow. I need to feel.”

His eyes flared hotter, pupils dilating until only a thin rim of gold remained. He didn’t rush. He backed off, giving me space, but his gaze … his gaze stripped me bare faster than my own fingers could.

My shirt came off with a wince, the movement pulling at healing tissue. His breath sawed out, a harsh sound. It was not desire, not yet. It was the sight of the bandages—the proof of my fragility, of how close he’d come to failure. His claws flexed, gouging shallow lines into his own thigh.

“Here,” I whispered, the word thin. “I’m here.”

He gave a single, jerky nod. Then his hands went to his own armor. Buckles hissed, straps fell away, and heavy leather dropped onto the stone floor. It was not a ritual. It was a shedding of restraint. Piece by painful piece until he stood there, lit by the pulsing light of the heat crystals. Naked. Power coiled tight under black and gray scales that gleamed like wet volcanic rock. They thinned over the hard ridges of his abdomen, hinting at darker skin beneath. His cock, already thick and half-hard, jutted from its scaled base, flushed a brutal crimson, twitching. A drop of clear fluid beaded at the angry-looking slit at the tip.

I expected him to lunge. To pin me down and reclaim me with bruising force. Instead, he lowered himself onto the furs beside me, facing me. Close enough that his heat scorched my skin. One hand, claws carefully averted, landed heavy on my hip. His tail snaked around my ankle, a possessive weight. Grounding. Claiming.

“There are no words,” he grated out, his voice raw. “My tongue … has no words for this.” He gestured between us, the air thick with unspoken need.

My throat closed. I swallowed, hard. “Then show me.” The whisper was ragged.

He leaned in, mouth brushing my forehead, my temple, the corner of my lips. Each touch wasn’t reverent—it was branding. Testing. His hand slid up my side, heat searing through the thin bandage wrap, stopping just below my breast. Then his palm covered me, thumb scraping, rasping over the peak through the fabric until it beaded tight, aching.

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