Page 36 of Xara and the Xenobeast

Ash had found them.

She clutched her metal rod, frozen in place as the two bodies collided in a blur of claws, fangs, and raw power. The predator was massive, but Ash moved with lethal precision, each strike calculated for maximum damage.

He ducked under a swipe of razor-sharp claws, then drove his own into the creature’s underbelly, ripping through chitinous armor with terrifying ease. The predator shrieked and twisted, managing to catch him across the shoulder with one of its barbed limbs.

He didn’t even flinch. He grabbed the offending limb and wrenched it backward until something cracked. Then he was on the creature’s back, one hand gripping its head while the other drove repeatedly into a vulnerable spot where its plates didn’t quite meet.

The battle was brutal, efficient, and over in seconds. With a final, decisive movement, he snapped the creature’s neck, silencing its metal-tearing shriek forever.

Silence fell over the ruins, broken only by his heavy breathing.

When he turned to face her, her breath caught in her throat. He was covered in the predator’s viscous blue-black blood, his silver eyes blazing with battle rage. His chest heaved with exertion, muscles coiled tight beneath his gore-splattered skin.

But it was his hands that caught her attention. They trembled slightly as he clenched and unclenched them, as if trying to regain control.

The pups approached him cautiously, chirping in subdued tones. One nudged at his leg, and he looked down, some of the wildness fading from his eyes.

She set down her makeshift weapon and took a tentative step towards him, her hands open and extended. His gaze snapped to her, wary and uncertain.

She moved slowly, deliberately, until she stood directly before him. Up close, she could see a gash across his shoulder where the predator had caught him. Blue blood—his blood—mingled with the creature’s darker fluids.

Without hesitation, she placed her hand on his arm, feeling the tension in his muscles, the slight tremor still running through him.

“I’m safe,” she said softly, holding his gaze. “So are you.”

For a long moment, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, his sensory tendrils reached for her, wrapping gently around her waist, her arm, her shoulders. They were warm, pulsing slightly with his heartbeat.

The pups crowded around their feet, chirping with relief. The smallest one began grooming Ash’s leg, meticulously cleaning away the predator’s blood.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “You saved us.”

His eyes held hers, and she saw something shift in their silver depths—a softening, a vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to show. One of his hands came up to touch her face, hesitant, as if afraid she might pull away from his blood-stained fingers.

She leaned into his touch instead.

His exhale was almost a sigh, the tension draining from his powerful frame. He pulled her closer, enfolding her in an embrace that felt like shelter and strength and barely restrained emotion.

She pressed her face against his chest, heedless of the gore. His heartbeat thundered against her ear—faster than a human’s, but strong and steady. His sensory tendrils wrapped more securely around her, as if afraid she might disappear.

“I’m okay,” she murmured. “We’re all okay.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her face, his eyes searching hers for confirmation. His hand came up to trace the line of her jaw, his touch feather-light despite the deadly strength she’d just witnessed.

The pups had settled, their glow patches returning to normal patterns. Trouble was investigating the dead predator, poking at it with suspicious chirps.

“We should head back,” she said, glancing at the darkening sky. “That shoulder needs cleaning.”

He nodded, but made no move to release her. Instead, he bent his head until his forehead rested against hers, his eyes closing briefly. The gesture felt intimate, vulnerable—a moment of quiet after the storm of violence.

When he straightened, his expression had regained some of its usual composure, though his eyes remained softer than before. He gestured toward the cave, then bent to scoop up the pups, tucking them securely against his chest.

She retrieved her metal rod, deciding it might make a useful tool back at the cave. As they walked, she found herself studying him—the fluid grace of his movements, the careful way he cradled the pups, the occasional glance he cast her way, as if reassuring himself she was still there.

This wasn’t just protective instinct. This wasn’t just the mindless violence of a weapon. She’d seen the calculation in his attacks, the precision, the control even in the midst of fury.

He’d made choices. To follow her. To protect her. To risk himself for her and the pups.

The data tablet’s words echoed in her mind: ‘subject refused to execute target purge... deemed defective.’

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