Page 68 of Fated in A Time of War
“You did that?” he asks.
“Knocked him clean out with a med kit,” I say, smirking. “He had two bars and the IQ of a sand flea. Wanted us to evac without the civvies. Said they were ‘acceptable losses.’ I disagreed.”
A low sound rumbles from Krall’s chest. Not a growl. Something else. Something almost like… pride?
“League space isn’t perfect,” I say, voice softer now. “But it’s far from the war. They don’t ask questions. They don’t care if you’re not exactly regulation material.”
Krall’s thumb brushes over the back of my hand. It’s absent-minded, maybe, or maybe deliberate. I don’t care.
“Even someone like me?” he asks, and the way he says it—quiet, cautious—makes my throat tighten.
I nod. “Especially someone like you.”
He’s quiet again, but it’s a different kind of silence. Thoughtful. Considering. The sky above us is choked with cloud and smoke, but a few stars bleed through, dim and trembling.
“I don’t know if I could live like that,” he says finally.
“Like what?”
“Peaceful. Soft. Not… fighting.”
“You don’t have to be soft,” I say. “Just not at war.”
He turns toward me. “What would I even do?”
“Anything you want.”
“I don’t know what that is,” he admits.
I lean my head against his shoulder. He turns his face, and we’re kissing. He steals my breath, then seems to realize what he’s done. Krall stares at me hard. He tenses for a second. Just one. Then slowly—like the motion costs him—he leans back. His shoulder presses into mine. Solid. Warm. Real.
We make love without desperation, without fear. Things are different now. And I think I know why.
We finally allow ourselves to hope.
His hands are warm, rough—scaled and broad—and when he touches me now, it’s not with hunger, but reverence. He lays me back slowly, spreading out our shared blanket beneath the stars. The fire crackles a few feet away, casting everything in flickering amber light.
When his mouth finds mine again, it’s gentle, searching. His weight covers me without crushing, every inch of him dense and immense. But I never feel small. I feel claimed.
His claws trail carefully along my ribs, not scratching, just present. His breath is hot on my throat as he kisses lower, mouthing at my collarbone. My thighs part without thought, welcoming him closer. I can feel his cock—hot, heavy, thick—pressing against my hip. He’s holding back, and I can tell it’s costing him.
“I want to feel you,” I whisper.
He groans, a low, guttural sound, and kisses my breast. His tongue flicks over my nipple and I arch into him, clutching at his shoulders, his scales rough under my palms.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, voice strained.
“You won’t,” I answer. “You couldn’t.”
He shifts, aligning himself between my legs. His cock slides along my slick folds and I gasp—it’s bigger than I expected, thicker than anything I’ve ever taken. But my body responds, wet and open.
He enters slowly. Excruciatingly slow. Inch by thick inch until he’s fully seated inside me. I cry out, more in shock than pain, overwhelmed by the sheer fullness.
“Fuck,” I gasp, hands digging into his back. “Krall?—”
“I’m here,” he says. “You feel like heat. Like home.”
He starts to move, slow at first. Every thrust is a stretch, a promise. My pussy clenches around him, greedy and pulsing. His hips grind deeper and I cry out again, pleasure spiking as he finds the perfect angle.
