Page 18 of Beast of Blood and Ash
Yes,a traitorous whisper answered from somewhere deep inside me.
When Terra said I should spar with a Drakarn, I never imagined him. Her words from the other day echoed in my head.You need practice against bigger opponents. The kind with wings and claws.She was right. I knew she was right. Butthe thought of letting any of them that close, of willingly putting myself in that position was … unthinkable.
And yet, I wasn’t sure there was anyone else I could even let try. I’d seen the casual cruelty in other Drakarn eyes. But not in his.
He’d held me like I mattered.
I wasn’t shaking. That was a change. My hands were steady on the staff, my feet planted. My heart was a runaway train, but my body held its ground.
“I wouldn’t say no to a few pointers.” It came out almost sarcastic.
A flicker of something, maybe surprise, crossed his features before being smoothed away. He gave a single, sharp nod and moved to the weapon rack, selecting a staff that looked twice as thick as mine.
He approached me in the center of the ring, his size overwhelming. He demonstrated a simple defensive block, his movements fluid and powerful where mine had been clumsy and forced. "Your center of gravity is too high," he said, his voice quiet. "You fight with your arms. You need to use your whole body. Like this."
He moved behind me. My whole body went taut, every nerve on high alert. I felt the fire of his breath at my ear, the heat pouring off him—not the heat of danger, but something alive.
His hand closed around my upper arm. Claws, ever-present, curved but careful; a threat, but somehow … familiar. Goosebumps shot across my skin—a reminder of what he was, what I was letting him do. My own traitorous body leaned back, just a bit, into his guidance.
“Keep your weight centered,” he murmured, low enough that it was almost private. He adjusted my grip, his other hand sliding to my lower back, pressing me imperceptibly into the stance. Every place he touched me felt raw, hypersensitive. Theheat of him against my spine, his chest ghosting along my shoulders, professional, almost, but too much, too close. His thigh brushed mine as he nudged my foot into place.
Instructional, I told myself. Just a lesson.
We returned to position—him opposite me, holding his staff. My thoughts scattered. All I could think of was him, his strength, his restraint, the way he could break me and chose not to.
I fumbled a step and lost my footing. His staff came down, quick, controlled, not hard, but enough to knock my grip loose, my own staff clattering to the ground in the echoing quiet.
I stumbled forward. Into him. And his arms wrapped around me before I could fall.
His arms caught me automatically, closing around my body with heat and impossible gentleness. For a heartbeat, I was wrapped in him: his chest solid beneath my palms, scales radiating warmth, heart beating a steady thrum beneath my hands.
The heat igniting in me was nothing like the blazing anger from before. No. This was need. A raw, aching thing that stunned me with its intensity. I hadn’t felt it in months. I’d been certain I’d never feel it again. I’d thought that part of me had been scoured out, burned away by pain and fear.
And for one of the monsters on this planet? For an Ignarath warrior?
Never.
Tell that to my body, which was humming with a life I didn’t recognize, leaning into his touch even as my mind screamed in protest.
I tried to focus, to clear my head, but his proximity was a drug. My thoughts splintered. All I could feel was him. The solidness of him. The sheer, restrained power of him. How could I want this? How could any part of me crave the touch of a creature that represented everything I feared?
I didn’t pull away. Didn’t run.
Instead, I looked up. Up and up, into golden eyes blown wide with something hot and hungry. His gaze dropped to my mouth, the air between us thick and charged and trembling.
The training was over. This was something else, something wild and terrifying and alive.
I was so tired of being afraid. Tired of being prey. I wanted, just for a heartbeat, to choose.
To reach and take.
So I did.
I rose on my toes and curled my fist in the rough fabric at his hip to balance myself.
I kissed him.
Not gentle. Not sweet. I crashed my mouth to his, all rough desperation, pouring in every ounce of confusion, longing, and anger I had left. For a heart-stopping moment, he was perfectly still, a statue of surprise.
