Chapter 2 #4
But more than that—and this made his pupils dilate until the copper was just a thin ring—he felt my body's response to him.
The liquid heat pooling between my thighs, the ache that had become almost painful, the way every nerve ending had oriented itself toward him like flowers turning toward sun.
Through the bond, he could feel what I felt—the hollow need to be filled, the desperate want to be held down and taken apart and put back together by someone strong enough to make me feel safe while doing it.
The pleasure that came with the bond's formation was almost unbearable.
Each new mark that appeared sent waves of sensation that weren't quite pain, weren't quite pleasure, but something that transcended both.
My back arched without my permission, pressing my chest forward, and a sound escaped me that would have been embarrassing if I'd had any control over it.
A whimper, a moan, something needy and raw.
I was clenching around nothing, my body confused by the intensity of sensation without stimulation.
Wetness soaked through my torn pants, and his nostrils flared as he scented it, as the bond let him feel the depth of my arousal.
My nipples were so hard they hurt, visible through my thin shirt, and when his eyes dropped to them for just a moment, the bond let me feel his response—a surge of want so intense it made us both gasp.
"No." The word came out rough, graveled, like he was talking to himself more than me. His grip on my wrist loosened but didn't release. "This isn't—I don't—"
He was trying to deny it, trying to rationalize what was happening.
But the marks kept spreading, his crystalline veins brightening until they cast shadows on the chamber walls, my mica freckles multiplying across my throat like scattered stars.
The bond was still forming, still deepening, and with each new thread of connection, I felt more of him.
His need was an ancient thing, refined by centuries of denial into something so pure it could cut. He wanted to possess, to protect, to claim in ways language couldn't capture. He wanted me under him, around him, filled with him until I couldn't remember what emptiness felt like.
But also—and this came through soft as whispers—he wanted to brush my hair.
Wanted to feed me with his own hands, watch me eat until my too-thin body remembered what satisfaction meant.
Wanted to wash the blood and dirt from my skin with careful gentleness, tend to my wounds, wrap me in warmth until I stopped shaking from years of cold.
The duality of it—the dragon's possessive hunger and the man's protective tenderness—made me sob. Just once, a broken sound that escaped before I could swallow it back. When had anyone ever wanted to take care of me? When had I ever been anything more than what I could steal, what I could survive?
But something was holding him back.
That wound.
His agony.
His lost love.
"You'll come with me," he said, voice strained like he was holding back an avalanche with his bare hands.
Through the bond, I felt his struggle—every instinct screaming at him to pull me against him, to complete what the marks had started, to claim what was now irrevocably his.
Only centuries of control kept him still, kept his grip on my wrist gentle when he wanted to be anything but.
"You're marked now," he continued, and I could feel him grasping for logic, for reasons that weren't just the dragon's roar of mine, mine, mine echoing through the bond. "Rovik and Solmar will know you witnessed this. They'll know you carry their documents. You're not safe anywhere else."
The drake chose that moment to emphasize his own claim, winding around my legs again with clear possessiveness.
He chittered at Garruk, a sound that somehow conveyed infinite smugness.
When Garruk tried again to nudge him away, the little drake planted himself firmly between us and hissed—not aggressive, but proprietary.
This one is mine, the gesture said. I found her first.
"You’re a stubborn little menace, Pebble," Garruk muttered, but through the bond I felt his real emotion—a deep, surprising tenderness for the small drake. Pebble. What a cute name. To my surprise, the Drake was centuries old. Unable to grow older. Stopped in his tracks by Garruk’s pain at losing his mate.
Centuries of companionship, of Pebble being his only constant through the loneliness. And now Pebble had chosen me, claimed me, decided I belonged with them.
The marks were settling now, the initial fire of their formation cooling to a constant warm pulse.
His crystalline veins still glowed but softer, like embers rather than flame.
My mica freckles caught the chamber's light and threw it back in tiny rainbows.
We were marked, bonded, tied together by something neither of us had asked for but couldn't deny.
"Can you walk?" he asked, and through the bond I felt what the question cost him.
Every instinct wanted to simply pick me up, carry me deeper into his territory where she'd be safe, where no one could threaten what was his.
But that centuries-old control held, giving me the choice even as dragon-thoughts prowled through the connection.
I tried to stand and immediately stumbled, my legs still weak from the chase, from the fall, from the overwhelming sensation of the bond.
His hand shifted from my wrist to my elbow, steadying me with careful strength.
The touch sent new sparks through already oversensitized nerves, making me bite my lip to keep from making more embarrassing sounds.
"I can walk," I lied, though we both knew better. Through the bond, he could feel my exhaustion, my hunger, the way my body trembled with more than just arousal.
"Hmm." The sound was skeptical but not unkind. "Pebble, lead the way. And stop being smug about it."
The little drake chirped happily and started toward one of the passages, his tail swishing with obvious satisfaction. He kept looking back at me, making sure I was following, his golden-green eyes bright with possession and joy.
"Where—" I started, then had to swallow and try again when my voice came out rough. "Where are we going?"
"Deeper," Garruk said, and through the bond I felt layers of meaning in the word.
Deeper into the mountain. Deeper into his territory. Deeper into something neither of us understood yet but couldn't escape.
"The Granite Sanctum proper. Where you'll be safe while we figure out what to do about—" He gestured between us, at the marks that proclaimed us as bonded whether we'd chosen it or not. "This."
This. Such a small word for something that had remade the world in a handful of heartbeats.