Chapter 14 Kragna
KRAGNA
The sun hasn’t even climbed all the way up, and already I want to fight something.
Not because I’m angry.
Because I’m restless.
Because my skin still remembers hers—every inch. Every gasp. Every shiver. I can still taste her sweat on my lips. Still feel her heartbeat under my palm, wild and steady like a war drum wrapped in silk.
We ride hard through the outer fringe of Kyrdonis, leaving its teeth behind. The stink of Lowtown fades, replaced by sporadic forest and dry wind. But no matter how far we get, I can’t shake the smell of her off me. It’s soaked into my bones. Branded into the backs of my eyelids.
I glance over at her, riding just ahead. She’s quiet, but not stiff. Eyes sharp, posture relaxed—but not loose. Like she’s thinking about too many things at once and trying not to show it.
She hasn’t brought it up. Last night.
Neither have I.
But it’s there. Between us. A live wire buzzing under the saddle leather and the crunch of hooves on dry earth.
Every time she shifts, her scent catches the wind and hits me like a punch. Salt, heat, faint lilac, and her. I want to pull her off that horse, lay her out in the tall grass, and do it all over again until neither of us can stand.
But that’s not why I’m jumpy.
It’s everything else.
I sniff the air again. Nothing. Just dry brush, horses, and her. But I do it anyway.
She doesn’t miss it.
“You’re sniffing again,” she says without turning around.
“Could be an ambush.”
“It’s always an ambush with you.”
I grunt.
She smirks. “You growled at a bird earlier.”
“It was circling too low.”
“It was a sparrow.”
“It was suspicious.”
She laughs under her breath, and damn me, it’s the best sound I’ve heard since she moaned my name.
But underneath her teasing, there’s something taut. Her hands are too tight on the reins. Her eyes flick to the horizon more often than usual.
She’s shaken.
And that… does something to me.
Because I’m not used to seeing her like that. Not River. She’s always been steel and stone, sharp edges and sharper words. The kind of woman who can burn down a kingdom with a glance.
Now, she’s just a little too quiet. A little too careful.
I rein in closer.
“You alright?”
She doesn’t look at me. “Fine.”
“Didn’t ask if you were fine. Asked if you were alright.”
There’s a difference. One she knows damn well.
She sighs. “Just thinking.”
“About?”
She hesitates. “Everything.”
Not a lie. But not the full truth either.
I don’t press.
Because I know that look—lips pressed thin, jaw clenched. It’s the one she gets when she’s trying not to feel too much. When she’s afraid that if she starts talking, she might not stop.
So instead, I stay close. Close enough that my horse’s flank brushes hers. She lets it happen.
It’s not enough.
Nothing is.
My mind replays last night in pieces. Her hands in my hair. Her thighs around my waist. The way she looked up at me—saw me—not just the monster or the muscle or the weapon, but the man.
No one’s ever done that before.
Not really.
Not and meant it.
I’ve f*cked, sure. Fought. Bled. But I’ve never… mated. Never let anyone that far in. Never wanted to.
Now I’m remembering the exact pattern of freckles across her shoulders. The sound she makes when I kiss just under her jaw. The way her body curls around mine like it was meant to.
And it’s driving me insane.
I catch myself scanning the trees again, sniffing the air, ears pricked like an animal. I want to blame instinct. I want to say it’s because we’re in enemy territory.
But the truth is simpler.
I’m protective.
Of her.
And I don’t know what the hell to do about it.
She shoots me a sideways glance. “You’re twitchier than usual.”
“Too quiet.”
“We’re in the middle of nowhere.”
“That’s when it’s worst.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re like a feral dog guarding a bone.”
I grin. “Only because someone might try to steal it.”
She goes still for half a beat. Then says, “I’m not something you can own, Kragna.”
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“So do I.”
She exhales, but it’s not annoyed. More like… relieved.
And that makes something loosen in my chest.
I ride beside her the rest of the way, quiet but alert, cataloging every scent and sound. Every change in the wind. Every shift in her scent—when she’s tense, when she’s distracted, when she glances at me and her breath speeds up just a little.
By the time the outskirts of Rizzo’s camp come into view, I’m half out of my mind.
I want her again.
Not just her body.
Her.
The way she grips the reins with calloused hands. The scar on her hip she tries to hide. The way she doesn’t flinch when I bare my teeth at the world.
I don’t know what that means.
But gods help anyone who tries to take her from me now.
Because I’m not letting go.
Not ever.
The trouble starts at the ravine.
River slows her horse. I do too, without thinking. My skin prickles. Not from cold—there’s heat in the rocks still—but from presence. Like the land’s holding its breath.
I sniff once. Again. Something’s off.
She turns in the saddle. “What is it?”
I lift a finger. Still. Listen.
Then I hear it—just behind the breeze. Metal sliding against leather. Soft, but not soft enough.
“Incoming,” I growl.
She doesn’t ask how I know. She trusts me. Just draws her blades and kicks her horse forward.
They come out of the rocks fast—half a dozen, maybe more. Faces hidden by ragged scarves and broken helms. Not soldiers. Not bandits, either. Too clean. Too focused.
Mercenaries.
Paid to intercept.
Paid to kill.
I drop off my horse before it finishes its startled whinny, boots slamming into the dirt as I roll and come up crouched. Axe out. Blood humming.
The first one lunges. He’s big. Quick. But sloppy.
I catch the swing of his sword on the haft of my axe, spin inside his reach, and slam my elbow into his jaw. Bone cracks. He stumbles. I bury the axe in his thigh, twist, and rip it free.
Screaming starts.
Not mine.
I feel my body shift—subtle at first. Skin thickening. Nails lengthening. My mouth stretches, sharpens. My bones don’t crack when they change anymore. They just reform, smooth and fast like pressed iron. Strength floods my limbs.
Another merc comes at me—daggers raised.
I let him get close.
Too close.
Then I grab his wrist, twist it until he squeals, and slam his head into my knee hard enough to drop him. He twitches once. Then nothing.
Behind me, I hear River’s blades singing—two fast strikes, a pause, a grunt. She’s holding her own. Good. I don’t have time to babysit.
Two more circle me. One on each side. Coordinated.
I grin.
“Want to see something scary?” I growl.
They don’t answer. Just attack.
I let the beast take more. Not all of it—not yet. But enough.
My muscles ripple, shoulders broadening. My eyes burn gold. My vision sharpens until I can see the sweat on their foreheads, the hesitation in their grips.
I move faster than I should.
I slam into the left one with my shoulder, drive him into the rock wall, and feel ribs snap like dry twigs. The other slashes at my back—I twist, catch the blade in my palm, blood hissing between my fingers—and then I break his arm. Just grab and twist and feel the bone give under my grip.
They scream.
They always do.
I don’t stop. I can’t.
This is what I am.
This is what I was made for.
By the time I’m done, the ground’s wet and dark. The last one’s crawling away, whimpering. I don’t chase him. Let him tell the others what he saw.
River stands a few yards away, breathing hard. Her hair’s loose, cheek smeared with blood that isn’t hers. Her blades drip crimson. She’s staring at me like she doesn’t quite recognize what she’s looking at.
I breathe heavy. Not from effort. From holding back.
“Didn’t even get your boots dirty,” she says, voice hoarse.
I glance down. She’s right. Not a speck.
“That’s what happens,” I mutter, “when you finish quick.”
She sheathes one blade, keeps the other in hand. “You changed.”
“Only a little.”
“Wasn’t little from where I stood.”
I wipe my axe on one of the bodies and sling it back across my shoulder. “You scared?”
She’s quiet.
Then: “A little.”
It shouldn’t gut me.
But it does.
I walk toward her slow, careful. Like I’m approaching something fragile. She doesn’t back up. Doesn’t flinch. Just watches me with those stormcloud eyes.
“I would never hurt you,” I say.
She nods. “I know.”
“But seeing it is different than knowing it.”
Another nod. This one slower.
I stop a foot from her. Reach up and brush a lock of hair from her cheek. She leans into the touch, even if just a little.
“I’ve killed before,” I say. “Too many times to count.”
“I’ve seen you kill,” she answers. “But this was… more.”
I don’t deny it.
Because she’s right.
When I’m in that state—half-shifted, blood-high—I’m a thing most people wouldn’t want near their door. Let alone their bed.
But she came back to mine. Again and again.
She lifts her chin. “You didn’t have to tear that last one’s arm off.”
“He stabbed my horse.”
She blinks. Then says, “Fair.”
I bark a laugh, rough and fast. Some of the tension breaks.
The wind shifts. I sniff again, but there’s nothing. Just blood, steel, and her.
Always her.
She steps forward, lays her hand on my chest. “You scared me,” she admits. “But not because of what you did. Because of how easy it was for you.”
I cover her hand with mine. “It’s always been easy.”
She doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t look away either.
“Guess I need to get used to that,” she says.
“Guess you do.”
We stand like that for a long moment—surrounded by bodies, blood drying on our skin, hearts pounding for different reasons.
Then she steps back.
“We should move,” she says. “Before someone checks on them.”
I nod. “You ride. I’ll scout ahead.”
She doesn’t argue.
But as we ride out—fast and quiet—she keeps glancing back at me. Not like she’s afraid I’ll turn on her.
More like she’s trying to understand what it means to walk beside something that can kill so easily.
And what it means that she wants to.