Page 55 of Monster's Pretty Bride

Naranus roars, his voice ripping through the night as he drags me from the river’s jaws. He fights the current, forces his way toward the banks, his wings limp, useless in the water, but his strength is inhuman.

I cough violently, choking, my body convulsing against him. He holds me tighter.

“Breathe,” he snarls, voice dark and guttural, raw with command. “Damn you, Eryss, breathe.”

My body obeys. A ragged, gasping inhale. Then another.

The second we break onto the shallows, he hauls me into his arms. My vision is blurred, my body weak, but I am aware of every place our skin touches. The burning heat of him, the tremor in his grip.

He is shaking.

Naranus. The unbreakable.

He trembles.

He collapses onto the damp stones of the riverbank, cradling me in his lap, his hands gripping me too tightly. His breath isn’t steady, isn’t calm. It’s ragged, wild. Like a beast on the edge of losing control.

I force my eyes open, my body still too weak, but I need to see him.

Golden eyes burn into me.

There is fury in them.

Fury like an inferno, searing and scorching, all-consuming. But beneath it, deeper, buried under layers of rage and control, is something else. Something we don’t want to delve into.

His fingers tighten on my skin, claws pricking, but I don’t flinch. I can’t. I feel everything. The raw power of him, the sheer dominance of his presence. And the way his grip does not waver.

I swallow, my throat raw. “You?—”

“Never do that again.” His voice is low, dark, vibrating with something primal. “Never. If you fall, you scream for me. Do you understand, Eryss?”

I shake my head, my voice hoarse. “You can’t always?—”

He growls.

Deep, guttural.

The sound reverberates through my bones, into my chest, down into my stomach. His grip on me shifts, tightens, possessive.

"You think I can't?" His golden eyes gleam, predatory, molten. His wings twitch, useless and broken, but he cages me against him with just his body. "You think I won't? If you die, it will be by my hands. Not theirs."

The words shouldn’t send heat curling low in my belly. They shouldn’t make my chest tighten, my breath falter.

But his voice is like gravel and fire, rough with unspoken things. Things I do not want to think.

I glare at him, swallowing down the madness twisting in my chest. “Let go.”

He doesn’t.

Instead, his fingers trace my throat.

Slow. Deliberate.

I shudder. It’s not gentle. Not soft. There is nothing soft about him. The touch is a warning.

"You almost died." His voice is gravel, deep enough to shake the ground. "You would have been torn apart. Your body crushed. You think I would let that happen?"

A chill races down my spine, but it isn’t fear.

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