Page 37 of Rok's Captive
I crouch a distance from her now, not for my protection. For hers. My claws dig into the stone floor, trying to focus on the rhythmic scrape of their sharp points instead of the chaos flooding my senses. Her scent iseverywhere, saturating the air, worming its way into my lungs until I can taste it on the back of my tongue. Sweet and sharp andmaddening.
Every breath pulls her deeper into my lungs. My skin prickles, a slow …something…spreading beneath my flesh.
I do not understand what is happening to me.
This creature is not Drakav. I have known this from the moment I found her, wandering the dust like prey waiting to be taken. But now, as I stare at her, I know something else.
She is not from Xiraxis at all.
Her scent, her softness, the strange way her skin weeps water—none of it belongs to this world. She is…other.
And yet.
The curves of her body, the way her scent pulls at something deep inside me, the way my glow flares uncontrollably when I’m near her…
It is impossible.
The thought takes root in my mind, unbidden and unwelcome, but no matter how I try to bury it, it rises again, clawing its way up from the depths of memory.
The daughters of Ain.
A myth. A story passed down from times past. Of before the Drakav were hardened by the dust. Before we became the rulers of the sands.
The daughters were said to be soft, delicate creatures, unlike anything the Drakav had ever known. They were not male, like us. They were…
Female.
The word lodges in my mind like a sandfin’s quill.
Thesefemaleswere said to be precious. Sacred. Gifts from Ain herself, sent to guide the Drakav when the world was still young and full of life. We worshiped them, but they were fragile, unable to endure the harshness of Xiraxis, and one by one, they disappeared, until they were nothing more than echoes in the sands.
I bare my fangs, a growl rumbling low in my chest.
It cannot be. The daughters of Ain are a story.Femalesdo not exist. They are not real.
And yet…
I look at her.
The rise and fall of her chest. The curve of her hips. The smoothness of her skin. I inhale deeply, the scent of her filling me again, and my claws curl against the stone.
Bare now, without those troublesome hides covering her scent, she smells like life. Like water. Like something I was never meant to touch.
The glow beneath my skin pulses erratically, my body betraying me with every moment I spend near her. My instincts are in chaos, torn between the urge to protect her, to keep her safe, and the darker, deeper urge to take her, to claim her, to make her mine.
I shake my head, as if the motion could dislodge the thoughts from my mind. This is madness.
And yet I cannot leave her.
The thought of her alone, vulnerable, defenseless against the shadowmaws, or worse, sends a surge of something primal through me.
I rise to my feet, pacing the length of the cave. The movement does little to calm me. My gaze keeps straying back to her, drawn to the sight of her trembling form.
She is still now, her eyes closed, her breathing shallow. The fire has taken hold of her completely. If I do nothing, it will burn her alive.
My claws flex at my sides.
With a frustrated snarl, I cross the cave and crouch beside her. Her skin is flushed, beads of water glistening on her brow and neck, and her scent is stronger now—richer, deeper, almost intoxicating.
