Chapter 6
The world tilted sideways as Garruk hauled me up like a sack of grain—if grain could be mortified and aroused in equal measure.
My hands instinctively grabbed at his back for balance, fingers finding purchase in the fabric of his shirt while blood rushed to my head in a dizzying wave.
The position left me helpless, my ass in the air, the thin material of my pants doing nothing to hide the heat that had pooled between my thighs despite—or because of—the danger I was in.
"Don't struggle," he commanded, one arm banded around my thighs to keep me in place while his other hand pressed against my lower back. The casual display of strength made my insides clench with want even as my rational mind screamed that this was not the time for my body's betrayal.
Each step he took ground his shoulder deeper into my stomach, making breathing an effort.
But worse—or better, my traitorous body supplied—was how I could feel every shift of muscle beneath his shirt, the controlled power in his movements that spoke of barely leashed violence.
Through the bond, his emotions crashed into me like waves against stone: rage at the poachers who'd dared harm what was his, terror that still hadn't fully subsided from almost losing Pebble, fury at my disobedience that burned cold rather than hot, and underneath it all, a desperate, insatiable need.
We passed the thermal pools, and I smelled the lingering ghost of our earlier activities—my arousal mixed with his, the mineral-rich water, the phantom sensation of his hands in my hair as he'd washed me with such careful reverence.
My nipples hardened at the memory, pressing against my shirt in a way that made me grateful he couldn't see my face.
The training chamber came next, and gods help me, I could still smell us there too.
The musk of bodies pressed together, the sweet-sharp scent of precum that had leaked from his impossible cock when I'd ground against him, the way the air itself had seemed to thicken with our combined need.
My hips rolled involuntarily at the memory, and his grip on my thighs tightened in warning.
"Be still," he growled, but through the bond I felt his own arousal spike at my movement, the way my body responded to even this—being carried like a naughty child who'd broken the rules.
Because that's what I was, wasn't I? A little girl who'd wanted an adventure and had nearly gotten Pebble killed for it.
"Almost there," he said, though I couldn't tell if it was a promise or a threat.
His study door closed behind us with the finality of a crypt sealing.
He set me down with surprising gentleness, hands steadying me when my legs wobbled from the blood redistributing itself properly.
But the moment I was stable, he stepped away, moving to his desk where he placed both palms flat on the surface.
I watched the muscles in his back tense and release, tense and release, as he visibly gathered himself. The crystalline veins beneath his skin pulsed erratically, betraying the storm still raging inside him. When he finally spoke, his voice carried the weight of mountains.
"Tell me," he said without turning, each word carved from stone. "What would have happened if I hadn't felt your terror through the bond? If I'd been deeper in discussion with the Dragon Lords?"
The question hung in the air like an executioner's ax. I knew the answer—we both did—but saying it out loud made it real in a way that crushed something in my chest.
"Pebble could be dead," I whispered, the words scraping my throat raw.
"And you?" His voice ground like stone against stone, centuries of control barely containing whatever moved beneath.
I swallowed hard, tasting copper and shame. "Dead or taken."
He turned then, and the look in his eyes made my knees weak for entirely different reasons than arousal. I felt ancient grief, loss upon loss carved into his features.
"Do you understand now?" He moved toward me with deliberate steps, each one measuring the space between what he wanted to do and what he needed to do. "The rules aren't arbitrary. They're written in blood—some of it mine, most of it from those who didn't listen."
He sat in his chair—the first time I'd seen him use it rather than stand or kneel or loom. The action somehow made him more dangerous, not less. A king on his throne, preparing to pass judgment.
"Come here, little one." The command in his voice bypassed my brain entirely, my body already moving before the words fully registered. "It's time you learned the weight of consequences."
The space between us felt like miles and inches simultaneously. Through the bond, his need to discipline warred with his desire to protect—even from himself. But stronger than both was the absolute certainty that this lesson had to land, had to sink into my bones deep enough that I'd never forget.
The bond meant I didn’t have a choice. My feet carried me forward on autopilot while my heart hammered against my ribs like a caged bird.
Part of me wanted to run. Part of me wanted to throw myself at his feet and beg forgiveness.
But the largest part, the part the bond had awakened or maybe just revealed, wanted to submit to whatever came next.
Because I trusted him, I realized with startling clarity. Even knowing punishment was coming, even feeling his barely controlled fury through our connection, I trusted him to give me what I needed rather than what his anger demanded.
"Daddy," I breathed, the word slipping out without thought.
Something shifted in his expression—a crack in the mountain revealing molten core beneath. His hands flexed on the arms of his chair, and through the bond came a wave of possession so intense it nearly dropped me to my knees.
"Yes," he said, voice rough as quarry stone. "That's exactly what I am. And you're about to learn what that means."
His hands shook as they guided me across his lap, and through the bond I felt the war raging inside him—the need to teach battling the desire to shield me from all pain, even the necessary kind.
The position itself made heat flood my face—bent over his thighs with my ass raised, my hands bracing against his calf while my upper body angled down.
Vulnerable didn't begin to cover it. I could feel every breath he took, the way his thighs tensed beneath my stomach, and gods help me, the hard length of him pressing against my hip through his pants.
"Twenty," he said, voice steady despite the tremor I'd felt in his hands. "You'll count each one, and between them, you'll tell me which rule you broke and why it matters."
His palm came to rest on my bottom through the thin fabric of my pants, warm and heavy with promise.
The weight of it made me squirm, which only pressed me harder against his erection, which made us both catch our breath in a feedback loop of arousal that threatened to derail the entire punishment before it began.
"Be still, little one," he commanded, though his voice had roughened. "This is about learning, not pleasure."
But we both knew the two were becoming inseparable for us, woven together by the bond until punishment and pleasure, pain and care, discipline and desire all tangled into something neither of us fully understood but both of us craved.
The first strike came without warning.
The impact jolted through me—controlled force that stung but didn't damage, careful even in discipline. My body rocked forward from the blow, grinding against his cock in a way that made us both groan before I could form words.
"One," I gasped, my voice already betraying how affected I was. "I passed the singing stones when you told me not to."
His hand rubbed the spot gently, soothing the sting while somehow making it worse—the tenderness in direct contrast to the strike, keeping me off-balance. Through the bond, I felt his satisfaction at my compliance, the way my submission fed something ancient in him.
"And why does that matter?" His thumb traced a circle on the spot he'd just struck, and I had to bite my lip to keep from moaning.
The second strike landed before I could answer, catching the other cheek with the same measured force.
"Two!" The word came out higher than intended. "Because—because they mark the boundary of your protection."
"Good girl," he murmured, and those two words sent more heat through me than the spanking itself. His hand rubbed both spots now, fingertips barely grazing the crease where my ass met my thighs. "Continue."
The rhythm established itself with terrible perfection.
Strike, count, explanation, soothing touch.
Each impact pushed me forward, grinding my increasingly wet core against his thigh while his cock throbbed against my hip.
By the fifth strike, I was panting. By the seventh, soft moans escaped despite my efforts to contain them.
"Eight," I whimpered after a particularly firm strike. "I took Pebble outside when you said his wing couldn't handle it."
"And why does that matter?" His hand lingered this time, fingers spreading to cover more territory, possession in every touch.
"Because you know his limits better than—nine!—better than anyone."
The tears started at ten, but not from pain.
Each explanation drove deeper into my chest, the weight of my thoughtlessness crushing.
I'd wanted to show Pebble something beautiful, but I'd nearly gotten him killed instead.
The memory of his scream, the bolt in his wing, the blood pooling on stone—it all crashed over me as Garruk's palm connected again.
"Eleven," I sobbed. "I ignored your wisdom because I thought I knew better."
His hand stilled on my burning flesh, and through the bond came a wave of approval mixed with his own remembered terror. He'd thought he would lose us both. The image flashed between us—him finding our bodies, adding two more losses to centuries of accumulated grief.