Page 56 of Fated to the Drakarn Commander (Drakarn Mates 4)

I gasped, arching, pressing into the abrasive touch. My own hands moved, starved for contact. Scraping over scale ridges, finding the surprising heat where wing met back, the vulnerable thinness of scale near his flanks. Every touch ripped a reaction from him—a hiss of breath, muscles bunching, a low growl rumbling against my exploring hand.

My fingers snagged on a raised line of scar tissue across his bicep—pale against the dark scales. “What about this?” I murmured, tracing the puckered ridge.

His eyes went distant for a second, then focused, hard. “That was first blood,” he clipped out. “I was young. Stupid. Ignarath filth nearly took the arm.”

My thumb pressed down, acknowledging the violence, the survival. “And this one?” Near his collarbone, another mark, smoother.

A rough sound, almost a chuckle, vibrated through his chest. “That was Thrakas. My brother.” His expression shuttered. “Training. Always too fast.”

The glimpse behind the armor, into the male forged by violence and loss … it wasn’t a gift. It was a weapon surrendered. I leaned in, pressed my lips to the collarbone scar, tasting salt and old pain.

His breath hitched, sharp. His hand tangled in my hair, fingers tight, anchoring me as I tasted another scar on his shoulder, fresh, still pink beneath the scales—from the fight. From saving me. My tongue traced the ragged edge. An apology. A promise.

“No,” he growled, catching my wrist, his grip bruisingly tight before easing almost instantly. “These scars? I bear them proudly.” His gaze burned. “They are the price. For what’s mine.”

The word detonated low in my belly. I surged up, crashing my mouth against his, pouring everything—fear, gratitude, raw, aching need—into the kiss. His answering growl was pure possession, his arms crushing me against him, ignoring the faint protest of my ribs. Distance was intolerable.

His hands mapped me, not gently, but with greedy haste. His fingers dug into the curve of my waist, thumb brushing the edge of the bandages. He found the small scar on my shoulder, a relic of a stupid training accident. He broke the kiss, examining it like an enemy’s mark.

“Who did this?” he demanded, tracing it, his claw tip scoring the skin beside it.

I shook my head, a shaky laugh escaping. “Gravity. A failed harness.”

His growl was guttural, furious at the inanimate object that dared injure me. His mouth replaced his claw, sucking lightly at the old scar, a possessive claiming that sent shivers down my spine.

We mapped each other like that—scar tissue and healed wounds laid bare. Stories told in touch and ragged breaths. His wings curved, enclosing us further, a stifling cocoon of heat and shadow. Just us. Skin, scale, sweat, and the frantic hammer of his heart.

His hand slid lower, between my thighs. He found me slick, hot, ready. His growl wasn’t approval. It was triumph. His touch wasn't gentle teasing. It was direct, demanding. His fearsome claws sheathed, but the pressure of his fingers was insistent, circling, pressing, gathering the wet heat before zeroing in on my clit. One rough slide of his thumb.

I cried out, hips bucking hard off the furs. “Khorlar!” His name was torn from me, half plea, half curse.

“I’ve got you,vrakasha,” he rasped, his voice thick, strained. “Always.”

He didn’t explore. He took. While his finger could tease, the claw made it too dangerous to go inside. But he had his tail. Opening me. Stretching me. Making me desperate for more. A broken sound clawed its way up my throat. I writhed against him, desperate, impatient.

My own hand closed around his cock. It was thick. Hotter than seemed possible. Veins like cords beneath skin that felt rougher, more textured than human. The blunt tip pulsed against my palm, the lip-like ridge there twitching, weeping more slick fluid that smelled of ozone and musk. Need coiled tight, sharp, demanding in my core.

I couldn’t take the slow torment. I tugged him, hard. “Now,” I choked out against his jaw. “Need you. Now.”

He shifted, levering himself between my thighs. Careful of my ribs, but the movement was still brutally efficient. His wings tented over us, trapping the heat, the scent, the tension. Amber light filtered through the membranes, throwing his harsh features into stark relief. He positioned the thick, blunt head of his cock at my entrance.

“Mine,” he snarled, the word ripped from his throat as he surged forward. He was not easing in. He was invading. Stretching me wide, a burning fullness that bordered on pain. “My mate. My heart.”

The words, raw, desperate, shattered something inside me. Tears sprang, hot and sudden, blurring the sight of his face above mine. He filled me completely, a sweet, agonizing ache.

He started to move. Deep, powerful thrusts that stole my breath. There was no finesse. Pure claiming. That ridge at the tip of his cock dragged against my clit with every stroke, a brutal, exquisite friction that sent sparks behind my eyes. His tail tightened around my ankle, pulsing with each jarring impact.

“You are perfect,” he grated out, his voice dropping lower, vibrating through the pelts, through me. “Take me … like you were made for this. For me.”

It wasn’t possession. It was … inevitability. Fate. I clawed at his shoulders, rising to meet him, take him deeper. My nails scraped against scale, seeking purchase.

He lowered his head, teeth grazing the junction of my neck and shoulder. It was not a kiss. It was a mark. A promise. “When you heal,” he vowed, his breath scorching my skin, “I will mark you. Properly. So all know.”

A bolt of pure heat shot through me, my inner muscles clenching around him convulsively. He threw his head back, a guttural groan tearing from his chest.

“Yes,” I gasped, not knowing what I agreed to, only that I wanted it. Him. This. Everything. “Yours.”

His rhythm shattered. His control snapped. The next thrust slammed into me, driving the air from my lungs, hitting something deep that splintered my vision. “Again,” he demanded, his voice cracking.

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