Page 15 of Chained to the Champion
My body was still locked up, perched on the edge of the bed, hands trembling, skin tingling with the echo of that tongue.Mind racing. Trying and failing to box away what just happened, index and file it like a fever dream.
But control had left the building. Something vital and dangerous had cracked open between us, transgression leaking into every breath, every nerve. We’d crossed a line I hadn’t even seen, the ground underfoot suddenly all trapdoors and razor wire.
And the ugliest truth, the one I didn’t want to touch? I didn’t know if I wanted to find my footing again.
This was bad. So freaking bad.
I stared at the scarred shutters, jaw set, heart trying to burrow straight through my ribs. Rest, he’d said. Like I could. Like that was possible in this world, this body, with this new, unnamable ache singing under my skin.
God damn it.
7
VEGA
Sleep?Not tonight. I managed maybe twenty minutes before every inch of my body shot electric with warning, fingers curled around my knife. It had slithered under the torn hem of a blanket. My breath caught, and for a wild second, I half-expected to see an alien claw descending or some Ignarath freak busting through the door.
But it was just the room, our sad little splinter of sanctuary. Zarvash sprawled on the bed, motionless except for the rise and fall of that too big chest. In the dimness, he looked less like a dangerous warrior and more like the monster I'd imagined under my bunk as a kid. The one with claws, fangs, and a bottomless void for a heart.
I’d made him take the bed. Like an idiot.
After that skin-hot moment earlier, his claws ghosting over my wrist, that tongue, God, that unexpected scorch of his touch, even thinking about sharing the bed was absolutely out of the question. And he still needed to baby that wing if he was ever going to fly us out of there. So, I’d staked out a patch of cold wood in the corner and pressed my spine to the wall like that would hold me together.
Outside, laughter crashed through the night, drunken, furious, and feral. Somewhere nearby, something heavy hit the dirt, followed by the painful sound of bone or maybe teeth connecting with something alive. My brain ticked through every noise, instant threat assessment, cataloging: safe, dangerous, maybe both.
Sleep never stood a chance. But that wasn’t even the problem.
It was the ghost of a memory haunting my skin, the soft, terrifying press of Zarvash's claws on my flesh. Gentle, somehow, in total defiance of my expectations. His tongue, quick and … fucking precise, soothing the rawness on my wrist. But searching, too, like he could taste my fear, my confusion, the chaos roiling just under the surface. And the forbidden fucking want.
I didnotneed this.
I pushed my palms against the rough, grit-scabbed floor, tried to let the cold crawl inside my overheated body. “Get a grip,” I mouthed, barely breathing.
This wasn’t one of Terra’s clandestine stares at Darrokar. Not Orla, moon-eyed for Rath, or Selene with Vyne. Least of all Hawk, giving Khorlar those sharp, hungry looks when she thought no one was paying attention.
If it was, I'd owe Hawk one hell of an apology.
But it wasn't.
I’d torn into Hawk last time. Hadn’t pulled a damn punch. Accused her of letting her judgment slip, mocked her for drooling over scaly muscles with our people still lost out there.
And now there I was, pulse stuttering whenever a dragon-monster in strategist's armor let his gaze linger a beat too long.
Pathetic.
The bar crowd erupted outside. My nerves shot into high gear and then calmed once I realized it wasn’t for me. For asimmering second, I wondered if I’d survive the night without Zarvash’s shadow between me and whatever prowled the alleyways.
The window glared down at me, flimsy wooden shutters, one loose on its nail, promising escape or maybe just another brand of death. Beyond that? A city slavering for blood, for the spectacle of soft-fleshed captives torn apart. But also … maybe, maybe, Kira’s sister or any human someone I’d promised myself I’d find, back before I hitched myself to the slumbering monster in the bed.
The guilt was a stone, cold and relentless, grinding under my breastbone. I’d heard the rumors. Known what was at stake. And there I was, locked up in a room with a Drakarn, counting my heartbeats, too scared to move, too furious to sleep.
My wrist ached, still tingling where Zarvash’s breath and tongue had touched it, the sensation flickering between a warning flinch and something I wasn’t about to put words to. Too much fear, too much need, too much everything balled tightly under my skin.
Across the room, Zarvash didn’t stir. That wounded wing was a dark scythe, folded clumsily, vulnerable for once. Back when I’d patched it up, he hadn’t so much as growled. But it had to be hurting him.
And if I stayed in that room another second, I might do something stupid like try and soothe it.
I should wake him. Say I was going for air. The smart move, the safe move.
