Page 101 of Fated in A Time of War
CHAPTER 30
ALICE
The morning light spies through the clinic window like a soft brushstroke. I kneel beside a sprouting vine, its tendrils curious and alive in hand-built troughs outside the entrance. The air tastes of earth and new growth—a contrast to war-torn memories that still linger deep in my bones. Krall moves behind me, glancing over my shoulder. When the comm panel pings—clear and sharp—it cuts me in two.
It’s cryptic, encrypted Alliance clearance. Routed through back channels. Something meant for his eyes. He pauses in the doorway, stilled by its glow flickering in his chest. I watch, heart tightening.
I don’t need to say anything.
He reads the message, jaw tightening. Then, without breaking our quiet, he folds it and tosses it into the planter. The paper curls into the soil, forgotten seed of a world neither of us wants to return to.
“Recruitment,” he mutters, voice low, cold. “Reactivation.”
My fingers still on the vine, I look at him head-on. “And?”
He shrugs, but it’s a half shrug—not complete. Wounds waver. “They don’t own me anymore.”
A bubble of tension holds between us. It tastes metallic, like smoke just before it vanishes. I sense the fear: that the war will never let him go. That the ghosts of commands and duty can still snap like canine teeth, drawing us both back under.
I slide off the planter, soil cracking beneath my knees. I draw in a breath rich with growing things.
“I’ll tend them,” I say—meaning the vines, meaning everything he’s trying to protect. It’s hope as small as a green shoot, and as big as freedom.
He watches me, and in his eyes I catch the reflection of renewal. Not just for the vines, but for both of us.
That night, I light candles. Not mourning. Not forgetting.
Protection.
The quiet reverence of the flame fades beneath the growing heat of his body near mine. His breath, thick and warm, brushes my cheek before I feel his lips again—gentle, not rushed, but carrying the full weight of his words.
“I love you, Alice,” he’d said.
Now his hands—calloused, massive, scaled in deep crimson—trace reverently down the side of my face, and every place he touches sparks a new ache inside me. I press into him without hesitation. My mouth finds his again, our lips dragging together with hungry softness, that edge of restraint just barely holding back the storm.
He exhales hard through his nose, nostrils flaring, eyes flickering gold in the candlelight. “Are you sure?” he rasps, voice low, raw with the need he’s not yet unleashed.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” I whisper, voice trembling.
The words loosen something in him. He rises to his feet and brings me up with him, lifting me easily with those powerful arms. I hook my legs around his waist and bury my hands in the thick, dark ridges of scales at his nape. The way his claws cradlethe backs of my thighs, holding me without harming, makes my stomach clench with want.
Krall carries me with careful urgency to the thick furs beside the hearth, laying me down like I’m more precious than anything he’s ever known. The fire casts gold over his red-scaled body, making him look molten—every black swirl along his skin moving with each breath he takes.
He kneels between my legs and runs a hand down my body, pausing to cup my breast gently, his thumb brushing my nipple until it pebbles tight under his attention. “So soft,” he murmurs, his golden eyes taking in every reaction. “You’re like nothing on my world.”
“And you’re exactly what I want,” I breathe.
He lowers his head, tongue flicking out to circle my nipple before sucking it into his mouth. I cry out, arching into him, my body already pulsing with anticipation. The heat of his tongue, the faint drag of teeth—everything about him is heat and contrast and worship.
His hands roam lower, taking his time. When his fingers dip into the waistband of my pants, I lift my hips in silent permission. He removes them slowly, reverently, baring me inch by inch until I lie naked beneath him, breathless.
“Goddess,” he murmurs. “You’re already wet for me.”
His clawed fingers slide through the slick heat of my pussy, circling my clit with shocking gentleness. My hips buck at the contact, and he growls low, deep in his throat—a sound of pleasure, not control.
“I need to taste you,” he says, and lowers his head between my thighs.
The first flick of his tongue makes me sob, and when he starts sucking on my clit with slow, devastating purpose, I nearly lose all sense of where I am. His scales scrape against the inside of my thighs—just enough pressure to remind me of what he is—ofthe danger and power he carries with every touch. But none of it feels threatening. Only reverent. Worshipful.
