Chapter 15
T he fight dragged on, brutal and ugly.
Klari took another punishing blow that drove him to one knee, blood streaming from the gashes across his ribs and thigh.
The rival pressed the advantage instantly, slamming his heavier frame down and pinning Klari to the coral ground. Claws dug into Klari’s throat, pressing just hard enough to draw fresh blood while the silver-marked male snarled inches from his face.
“Mine,” the rival hissed, voice thick with triumph. “She’ll scream for me before the night cycle ends.”
Greta’s stomach lurched. Without thinking, she snatched a jagged chunk of loose coral from the overhang floor and hurled it hard. It struck the rival’s shoulder with a sharp crack—not enough to injure, but enough to startle.
His head snapped toward her for a single, fatal half-second.
Klari moved.
Cold. Precise. No wasted rage.
He twisted, drove his claws up under the rival’s jaw, and wrenched. Cartilage and scale gave way with a wet crunch. Before the rival could recover, Klari rolled them, reversing their positions in one savage motion. He didn’t roar. He didn’t hesitate.
He simply locked one powerful arm around the rival’s head, braced his knee against the male’s spine, and pulled.
The snap echoed through the clearing.
The rival’s body jerked once, then went limp.
Klari held the grip a moment longer, making certain. Only then did he release the body and sit back on his heels, chest heaving. Dark blood tracked down his indigo scales in thick rivulets—from the deep gashes in his side, the slashes across his chest and shoulder.
His breathing was labored but controlled. He had won by being colder, more methodical.
He had done this before. Many times before.
Greta emerged slowly from the overhang, bare feet silent on the coral. She stopped a few paces from the body, eyes moving from the broken form to Klari. He was watching her watch him, golden eyes guarded, waiting for the flinch he clearly expected.
She didn’t flinch.
Instead, she crossed the short distance and crouched directly in front of him, close enough that her knees nearly brushed his. The leaf coverings shifted against her skin as she moved, but she paid them no mind. Her gaze dropped to the worst wound along his ribs—jagged, deep, still oozing.
“How bad?” she asked quietly.
“Manageable,” he rumbled, voice rough from the fight.
She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t lie to me, Klari.”
He exhaled through his teeth, the sound almost a sigh. “Bad enough. Not fatal.”
Satisfied with the honesty, Greta reached for one of the broad waxy leaves hanging nearby—the same kind he had offered her earlier.
She tore a long, flexible strip with steady hands, the glowing sap leaving faint teal streaks on her fingers. She wasn’t squeamish; she had wrapped worse cuts in the lab when students sliced themselves on sharp drone components or when she’d burned herself soldering at 3 a.m.
She pressed the leaf strip firmly over the deepest gash on his side.
Klari hissed at the contact but didn’t pull away.
His scales were warm now, heated from exertion, slick with blood.
The contrast between her soft human palms and his armored body sent a quiet thrill through her that had nothing to do with fear.
He watched her hands as she worked—intently, the guarded look in his eyes cracking into something raw and unguarded. His breathing had slowed, but the rise and fall of his chest brought him fractionally closer with every inhale. The air between them thickened, charged.
“Does it hurt?” she murmured, voice softer than she intended.
“Yes.”
“Good,” she said, pressing another strip over the slash on his shoulder.
He looked at her quizically.
“Means you’re not in shock.”
A low, rough sound escaped him—half laugh, half groan. When she finished securing the makeshift bandages, she sat back on her heels but didn’t move away.
Their faces were only inches apart now. She could see the faint golden flecks in his slit pupils, the way sweat and blood had darkened the scales along his jaw. He smelled of brine, copper, and something undeniably male that made her pulse quicken .
The moment felt unbearably intimate. Quiet. Real.
Her hands, still stained with his blood and glowing sap, rested lightly on her thighs. His clawed fingers twitched as if he wanted to reach for her but held back.
The sexual tension hummed between them like a live current—subtle, undeniable, built from shared survival and the raw closeness of the moment.
She was achingly aware of her own bare skin beneath the inadequate leaf coverings, of how close his powerful body was to hers, of the heat radiating off him.
Her want felt thick in her throat.
“Two left,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.
“Two,” he agreed, the word low and rough. His gaze dropped for a moment to the curve of her throat, then back to her eyes.
She glanced toward the water visible through the breaks in the vegetation. The sounds from below had changed—sharper clicks, agitated thrumming that carried new urgency.
The blood would have been noticed. The remaining rivals now knew exactly where they were. The island was no longer neutral ground; it was a confirmed battlefield.
Spilled blood meant injuries. And injuries meant easier prey.
“How long before they come up?” she asked.
Klari looked toward the sea, jaw tight. “Not long. I’m injured. Tired. I can take one more—maybe. Not both.” His eyes returned to hers, honest and heavy. “If I lose… one of them claims you. Fully.”
Greta nodded slowly, absorbing the weight of that. Then, very quietly, she asked the question that had been burning beneath everything else .
“Tell me what mating actually does. What happens afterwards.”
Klari held her gaze for a long moment, the air between them thick with tension and unspoken want. His voice, when it came, was low, intimate, and carried the raw edge of truth.