Page 49 of Fated in A Time of War
I let her take it.
Careful. Gentle. Like if I squeeze too tight, she’ll break. Like she’s made of light and I’m nothing but shadow. My people don’t value gentleness. Vakutans don’t cradle, don’t stroke. We grip, we seize, we hold with force. But with her… gods help me… I want to be soft.
Her eyes find mine in the glow of the lamp. Wide, unguarded. She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t smirk. Just looks. And it’s enough to burn the breath right out of me.
I lean in first. Or maybe she does. Doesn’t matter. Our lips meet in the dark, and it’s like static ripping across raw nerves. The first time had been tentative, accidental almost. This—this is fire. It deepens fast, charged with hunger, with need I didn’t know I was carrying.
Her mouth is warm, alive, tasting faintly of the ration bar we split hours ago. Her fingers clutch my jaw, and I growl low, not in warning but in want. My hands find her waist, then her back, pulling her against me. The rusted hull around us echoes with our breathing, harsh and ragged, like the Graveworks themselves are eavesdropping on our sin.
She gasps my name. Soft. Desperate. And it nearly undoes me.
I’ve touched women before. In barracks, in cities, in the blur between deployments. But never like this. Never with patience. Never with reverence. I trace the curve of her spine like it’s sacred. Memorize the shape of her shoulder, the slope of her neck. She shivers under my claws and presses closer, and I realize—for the first time—I’m not touching her like a prisoner. Not like a soldier.
But like something else.
Something I don’t have a word for.
I shift over her, positioning my massive frame with slow, deliberate care. Her thighs part for me, welcoming me in with the kind of trust I never expected to earn. I brush the length of my cock against her pussy, feeling the slick heat of her. Her breath catches—sharp and sweet. She arches under me, small hands gripping the thick scales at my back like anchors.
“Krall,” she whispers, voice trembling, “please…”
That word nearly breaks me. I line myself up, grip her hips firmly—but not hard—and begin to push inside. Her pussy stretches around my cock, tight and hot and so achingly human. I go slow, slower than I’ve ever gone, until I’m buried in her to the hilt. Her cry is part pain, part pleasure—and all of it trust.
I still inside her, letting her adjust, letting me adjust.
She feels right around me.
I move. Slowly. Each stroke long, measured, deliberate. Her nails drag across my back, and I shudder. I brace one hand beside her head, the other cradling her thigh as I thrust again—deeper, harder now. She moans, head falling back.
“You feel like you were made for me,” I growl.
“Don’t stop,” she gasps. “Don’t ever stop.”
I don’t.
We fuck like we’re rewriting something—every thrust a declaration, every breath a vow. Her pussy clenches around me as I speed up, hips rolling into her. The sounds she makes—raw, honest, *mine*—ring in my ears like music.
When she comes, it’s not silent. She cries out, body seizing beneath me. I hold her through it, still moving, chasing my own end. It takes only moments more.
With one final thrust, I bury myself deep and come—roaring low, teeth bared, every scale burning. It feels like the war breaking, the world splitting open—and then quiet.
We collapse into each other, tangled and slick with sweat. The Graveworks groan in the distance, but in here, it’s quiet. My chest heaves. Her head rests against it, hair damp, cheek pressed to the place over my heart.
I expect the old tension to crawl back in. The regret. The walls. But nothing comes. Just… stillness.
Her breathing evens. Sleep takes her fast, like she trusts me to guard her dreams.
And me?
I stare up at the cracked metal ceiling, waiting for the nightmares—the fire, the screams, Lakka’s face. But they don’t come.
For the first time in longer than I can remember, I don’t dream of war.
I dream of peace.
And of her.
CHAPTER 16
