Page 57 of Beast of Blood and Ash
I love you?
I wasn’t sure how to get those words out at all.
So I did the only thing I could think of. I reached out and gently touched the edge of a newly stitched wound on his shoulder, my fingers tracing the line of it. He flinched, a brief tremor under my touch, but he didn’t pull away.
“You came for me.”
“Always,” he rumbled, his voice low and rough.
The ache inside me loosened, the last of the fear, the last of the shame, finally beginning to recede. I wasn’t hiding behind him. I was standing with him.
I stayed by his side as he recovered, a silent, stubborn presence. I helped him drink water, the coolness of the ceramic mug sweating against my hand as I lifted it to his lips. I adjusted the blankets around his shoulders, tucking one edge over the jagged line of a fresh wound. Each act was small, ordinary, buttogether they felt monumental, a rebuilding in miniature, the slow, careful architecture of trust.
We didn’t talk much, not about what mattered, anyway. We just breathed together, letting the silence spread and settle, not absence, but comfort. Even in the silence, I felt the bond humming, an unbreakable thread that tied us, more powerful than language, more dangerous than pain. There was something deeply right about not needing to fill the air with words.
The world faded, the pain faded, everything but him faded. I let myself lean into his heat, my shoulder pressed to his arm, feeling the steady thrum of his pulse under scales marked by more scars than I could count. Each one a story. Each one a survival.
Nyx eventually made his way over, his stride lazy, his eyes glinting with mischief and a rare, dangerous kind of respect.
“As touching as this is, the Council will want a report. Try not to get into any more trouble before I get back.” He gave Omvar a look that was almost respect. “Good kill.”
He didn’t look at me, not directly, but the ghost of a smirk slid over his lips before he turned away. Some perverse instinct made me want to stick my tongue out at his retreating back, the small, childish urge almost strong enough to cut through the haze of pain.
As Nyx left, Mysha returned, carrying two steaming mugs in her scaly, unhurried hands. The scent reached me first: sharp, pungent, bitter as defeat, with an undercurrent of something sweet and dangerous. I took the offered mug with both hands, the warmth soaking into my bruises like the promise of waking up whole.
She handed one to Omvar without ceremony. “Drink. It will help with the pain.” She looked from me to Omvar, a faint, grudging approval in her old eyes.
“I want you both to rest. And take it easy.” She paused, and the corner of her mouth twitched. “Not that patience is a virtue found in most mated pairs.”
I couldn’t help it, a laugh escaped, raw and battered, too small to be real, but alive all the same. Omvar’s mouth curled at one edge, the motion barely there but unmistakable. We sat side by side, battered, silent, our hands cradling hot mugs. The world shrank to the slow, steady thrum of our breathing, the aching, impossible comfort of belonging.
For the first time in a long time, I let myself believe in it.
25
OMVAR
Peace.
The word was foreign on my tongue, a concept I’d only ever understood by its absence. For two days, there was peace. My wounds still ached, a dull, persistent fire beneath my scales, but it was a clean pain. An honorable pain. It was the price of her safety, a cost I would pay a thousand times over.
But now we were finally back in our quarters.
The thought sent a jolt of possessive satisfaction through me, so potent it felt almost like a physical blow. The air was warm, thick with the scent of healing herbs and the sweetness of her skin.
She was there. She was whole.
I let that truth fill me, staring at the low, golden flicker of heat crystals embedded in volcanic rock. Shadows clung to the corners and pooled under the battered table where a mug still waited, half-filled with bitter, cooling herbal slurry.
The quiet between us was charged, heavy with unspoken things, the violent memory of the battle and the shared aftermath of the healing caverns. Every time my gaze met hers, a current arced between us. It had been too long since I’d tasted her.
I watched her as she moved about the room, her small human frame dwarfed by massive stone furniture. She was restless, her hands fiddling with the hem of her tunic, her eyes darting to the door and back to me. The memory of the attack was still a ghost in the room, a shadow at the edge of her vision.
I wanted to erase it. To burn it away with a different kind of fire.
So I waited. I sat on the edge of the sleeping platform, claws curled inward to keep myself from reaching for her, biting back the raw need that stretched my patience closer to breaking than any wound ever had. I drank her in—every flick of her fingers, the subtle shift of her hips in my space, the way she looked at the room now, comfortable, not like she was planning her escape route.
A bitter smile twisted the corner of my mouth.
