Page 5 of Beast of Blood and Ash
She looked up.
Our eyes met.
And her scent crashed into me. Sweet. Copper. The land after rain. A thread of fear, sharp as a shard of glass, spiked through it. The mate-bond seized, twisted, pulled tight. My fangs throbbed. My claws itched with the need to claim, to protect. I dug them into my palms until pain bloomed, a steadying agony.
I froze, caught in her gaze. Her eyes widened. Color drained from her face. One hand tightened on her satchel strap, knuckles white. The other drifted to her waist where a blade would be.
But she was unarmed.
The space between us vibrated. Hostility. Memory. The insistent drum of the bond. Market scents receded, overwhelmed by her—her sweat, her fear, her warm human skin.
A violent need crashed through me. To reach. To drop to my knees. To beg forgiveness. To gather her against me until her heart steadied, until I could wrap wings and arms around her, guard her from everything.
But I was what she feared most. Or, if not me, exactly, then everything I represented.
Ignarath. The slave pens. The torture.
I never lifted a finger against her, but it didn’t make me any less a monster.
I stared, unable to move, to speak. She was pale, dark circles bruising the skin beneath her eyes. Too thin. Taut as a wire. Beautiful in her wounded fierceness.
My mouth opened. Closed. I reached for something—a word, a gesture. Anything to make her see I wouldn't hurt her. That I was ashamed. That I would carve my own heart out before causing more pain.
"Reika." Rough, my throat scraping over her name.
She flinched as if struck. Her gaze darted past me, seeking escape.
"I—" What? What could I say? "I want—"To protect you. To serve you. To make amends.
She took a halting step back, bumping a Drakarn male, who snarled. She didn’t look at him. Her breathing, shallow, rapid.
Another step. A third. Tensed to flee.
Merchants passed between us, blocking my view. I didn’t move. Couldn't. My hand had lifted, unbidden, extended, claws curled. Savage Ignarath. In that moment, I proved every smear. When they cleared, I dropped my arm. But she'd seen.
Her eyes were wild, whites showing, pulse hammering in her throat. Lips parted, no sound. I wanted to curl in on myself. Disappear. I tried to make my stance non-threatening—head lowered, wings tucked. Ridiculous. I was a massive, blood-scaledwarrior, scarred and brutal. My presence terrified even blooded warriors.
Her tongue darted out to lick her lips. “You’re from there.” The words were brave, even if they were barely a whisper.
The crowd around us had noticed. Conversation shifted, quieted, turned curious, ugly. A squat Drakarn female cast a searing glance from me to Reika. "Ignarath filth," she muttered. "Obsessed with prey."
Another voice, low, for my ears alone. "Animal. The council was mad to let you stay."
I kept my eyes on Reika. Nothing else mattered. Only her ragged breathing, the tension. "I won't hurt you," I said.
The words were foreign, stiff. When had I last tried gentleness? Never. I wasn’t much for talking at all. My claws and sword were more than enough.
She didn't believe me. How could she? Her memories were full of males like me, proving Drakarn, especially those from Ignarath, could not be trusted.
I stepped back, giving her space. "The herbs," I tried, gesturing at her satchel. "For healing?" Foolish. Trivial.
"Go away." Her voice, louder now, was thick with strain. Not anger. Terror.
I’d lost count of those I’d killed. Watched others bleed for sport. Participated in cruelty by silence, by obedience. Nothing cut deeper than her fear.
"I'm sorry," I said. Inadequate. A breath against wildfire. "I only wanted?—"
"Leave me alone." Shadows on her face. Memory in her eyes, darkness, wings, capture, pain. Memory I'd witnessed. "Please."
