11. Dren
11
DREN
F rom my position against the rough cave wall, I watch Eira stir from her sleep. Her eyes flutter open, adjusting to the dim light of our makeshift shelter. The dancing flames paint shadows across her face, highlighting the delicate curve of her cheekbone, the subtle tremble of her lip.
Murok's cloak drowns her small frame as she pulls it tighter, wrapping her arms around her knees. Her gaze fixes on the fire, lost in thoughts I can only imagine. The weight of our escape, the blood on her hands – I recognize that distant stare. I've worn it myself.
"So much fight in such a small thing," I whisper to myself, the words barely a breath in the cave's silence.
The firelight catches on her pale hair, turning it to molten gold. Something pulls at my chest when she absently tucks a strand behind her ear, her fingers lingering on her neck.
Outside, Grash's heavy footsteps mark his patrol route. Inside, Murok's steady breathing joins the crack and pop of burning wood. But it's her silence that speaks loudest to me. The way she holds herself – straight-backed despite her exhaustion, alert despite her vulnerability – tells stories of survival.
"Dangerous," I murmur, more to myself than anyone. Not because she poses a threat, but because of how she makes me feel. This urge to protect, to shelter, to... claim. My fingers flex against my thigh, remembering the satisfaction of breaking that human's wrist when he dared touch her.
The fire reflects in her green eyes, and for a moment, I see flames of a different kind – the burning determination that drove her blade into that guard's throat. She's more than what they made her to be. More than a slave, more than a survivor.
My muscles tense as a shiver runs through her small frame. The instinct to go to her, to wrap her in my arms instead of just that cloak, is too overwhelming. I suddenly push off the wall and walk across the cave to the fire.
I settle beside her by the small fire, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her small frame but not close enough to touch. My fingers itch to pull her against me, to wrap her in the protection of my arms, but I keep them firmly at my sides for now.
"You're quieter and calmer than the others," she murmurs, studying me with that penetrating gaze that seems to strip away layers.
I give a slight nod, swallowing back the words that threaten to spill out. What could I possibly say? That I've ended more lives than I can count? That watching her kill that guard awakened something primal in me – not disgust, but pride? That seeing her strength, her survival, makes my chest ache with emotions I don't understand?
The firelight catches on a fading bruise along her collarbone, and my jaw clenches. Every mark on her skin is a testament to what she's endured, what she's survived.
She shifts slightly, and Murok's cloak slips from her shoulder. My hand twitches with the urge to fix it, to let my fingers brush against her skin, but I remain still. She's not ready for that – maybe she never will be.
"Some things don't need words," I finally manage, my voice rough from disuse.
The cave falls silent again, filled only with the crack of burning wood and Grash's steady footsteps outside.
Her body soon sways, and before I can process what's happening, she's leaning against me, her slight frame pressing into my side. The contact sends a jolt through my system, like lightning striking deep in my core. My arm moves of its own accord, wrapping around her shoulders.
She fits perfectly against me. Her head finds the spot between my shoulder and chest as if it was made just for her. Her breath evens out, warm against my skin. The scent of her – spring rain and something uniquely her – fills my lungs.
"So small," I whisper into the cave's darkness, marveling at how fragile she feels beneath my touch. "Yet so fierce."
My thumb traces small circles on her arm through Murok's cloak. Each point of contact burns like a brand, marking me as surely as any battle scar. Her hair spills across my chest, catching the dying firelight.
"Sleep, little warrior," I murmur, tasting the endearment on my tongue. "I have you now."
She burrows closer, seeking warmth or comfort or both. My grip tightens instinctively, protectively. The urge to gather her fully into my lap, to wrap her completely in my embrace, nearly overwhelms me.
Instead, I remain still, becoming her anchor in sleep as she was mine in waking. My free hand rests on my blade, ready. Nothing will reach her here. Not while I draw breath.
"Mine to protect," I breathe into her hair, the words both a promise and a prayer. "Mine to keep safe."
She sighs in her sleep, one small hand curling into my shirt. Trust. Raw and pure and completely unconscious. It steals the air from my lungs.
The cave's shadows dance across her sleeping face, and I memorize every detail. The slight furrow between her brows that even sleep doesn't completely smooth. The faint scar near her temple. The way her lashes fan across her cheeks.
I will keep this vigil. She will not wake alone. Not ever again.
Suddenly, my name falls from her lips like a prayer, soft and yearning in her sleep. The sound strikes me harder than any blade, sending a shockwave through my body. My arm tightens around her, pulling her closer against my chest.
"Dren," she whispers again, her fingers curling tighter into my shirt.
Her pale hair spills over my arm like liquid moonlight. Every point where her body touches mine burns with an intensity that threatens to consume me.
"What are you doing to me, little one?" I murmur, trailing my fingertips along her arm. The contact sends electricity through my veins. "You should fear me. Run from me. Not whisper my name like that."
She shifts in her sleep, pressing even closer. Her breath fans across my chest, warm and sweet.
My free hand clenches into a fist. The urge to claim, to mark, to possess crashes over me like a tidal wave. I want to wake her with my touch, to hear her say my name while conscious, to watch those green eyes darken with desire.
"Mine," I growl softly, the word rumbling deep in my chest. "You're already mine, aren't you? Even if you don't know it yet."
She moans softly in her sleep, and the sound shoots straight to my core. My body responds instantly, hardening with need. I grit my teeth, fighting for control.
"Sleep, precious one," I whisper. "I'll keep these thoughts to myself. For now."
But I know the truth now. I'm lost to her. Completely. Irrevocably. This fierce need to protect has transformed into something deeper, something primal and possessive. Something that demands I make her mine in every way possible.