Chapter 32
KARA
The fire hisses low, its light spilling unevenly across the rocks. Beyond the flickering flames, the desert stretches endlessly—dark and unknowable. But here, in this circle of warmth, the world narrows to just him and me.
He sits across from me, lochaber at his side, wings folded tight, the fire painting harsh shadows across his scarred scales. He hasn’t moved since the stone fell. His stillness should feel cold, distant, but instead, it’s warm and comfortable.
My throat tightens. The words I swallowed earlier still press against my tongue. My chest aches with them. Every time his gaze flicks to mine—steady and black as the deep of night—my pulse skips. I grip the edge of my thin blanket until my fingers ache.
“You called me Kara.” My voice sounds too soft, too small, but the sound carries in the quiet.
His eyes shift to me fully, catching me in their weight, but he doesn’t speak.
“You know my name,” I say, breath shaking, “but I don’t know yours.”
The fire pops, a spark spiraling upward and fading into the night.
He leans slightly forward, bracing his elbows on his knees.
Firelight dances along the scars on his jaw.
For a long, unbroken silence, he looks at me—not like he’s searching for words, but like he’s measuring me, deciding if I’m strong enough to hear them.
My stomach knots. I want to look away, but I don’t. I hold his gaze because I need this. I need something real, something that belongs only to him and me. At last, his lips part. The sound is low, rough—more growl than word.
“Drazan.”
The name hangs between us, heavy as a vow.
Something twists deep in my gut, fierce and sharp. His name. His truth. Not just warrior, not just shadow—but Drazan.
“Drazan,” I whisper.
His eyes narrow slightly, but not in anger. His nostrils flare, wings flex once—slow, deliberate. The sound of my voice wrapping around his name changes the air between us, making it thicker, hotter, more dangerous than any fight.
“Tell me…” I swallow hard, pulse hammering in my throat. My voice falters, but I push on. “The scars. How?”
For the first time, his gaze drops. Not long, not weak—just once, like the question cuts sharper than any blade. When his eyes rise again, they burn hotter than the fire itself.
“Tomorrow,” he rumbles.
Not refusal. A promise. His name lingers on my lips with a burning sensation I can’t stop repeating in my head.
Drazan.
The syllables are rough, heavy, made for a growl—his growl. The sound of it still vibrates in my chest, even though he’s silent now, watching me from across the fire.
I want to say it again, out loud, just to feel it on my tongue—to hear the way it shifts the air between us. His name makes him real. Not just the scarred warrior who’s shielded me, not just the Zmaj who stepped in when no one else did. Not a stranger.
Drazan.
My pulse stutters each time I whisper it in my thoughts. The name fits him the way his hand fits mine—unexpectedly, inevitably.
He doesn’t fidget under my gaze or look away. He lets me look, lets me trace the ridges of his scars, the breadth of his shoulders, the scars across his wings—and know that this name belongs to all of it.
The fire pops. Shadows dance across his face, softening nothing, only sharpening what was already carved there by pain and survival. My chest aches with the thought of asking again—about the scars, about what carved him down to this hardened shape—but his promise echoes in my ears.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow isn’t far away, yet it feels like forever.
I realize my blanket has slipped low on my shoulder.
I pull it up, tugging it tighter, cheeks heating—not because of the night chill, but because of the way his eyes linger.
They aren’t hungry, not the way the men back at camp looked at a woman.
His gaze is deeper, heavier, like he sees more than I’ve ever let anyone see.
My throat tightens, but I don’t shy away. Not this time. I straighten, letting the firelight trace me too. Not beautiful the way other women might be—not perfect. But I want him to see me. To know me the way I want to know him.
“Drazan,” I whisper again, the sound almost stolen by the wind.
His nostrils flare. His claws flex against the sand. His wings shift, half-opening before settling again. The smallest signs, but they tell me enough. My voice saying his name does something to him too.
The silence between us hums, thick and charged. I should look away, should let the fire lull me to sleep—but I can’t. My chest aches with the weight of what isn’t spoken.
For the first time in my life, I don’t feel small. I don’t feel pushed aside or forgotten. His name has tethered us together, and I don’t know if I’ll ever let it go.
The fire burns low until little is left but embers smoldering red against the dark. The desert night presses close—cool and vast—and for once, the silence isn’t full of menace. It’s full of him.
I curl onto my side, tugging the blanket high. The sandy stone beneath me is hard and unyielding. My body aches from the climb, from the fight, from every desperate hour we’ve survived. But it isn’t exhaustion that keeps me awake—it’s the steady weight of his gaze.
I feel him move before I see it—a shift in the sand, the faint rustle of wings settling. Then his presence floods closer until the coolness of him slides under my blanket and brushes against my back. My breath catches, sharp and trembling.
He doesn’t ask. He never asks. He just is. His arm slides over me, scaled and scarred, heavy across my waist—claiming, protecting. I stiffen for only a moment, then melt under the weight of it.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but I can’t stop a shiver from running through me. Not from fear—from something hotter, sharper, aching. His chest settles against my spine, solid and cool, the rhythm of his breath syncing with mine.
And beneath that—his hearts.
Two of them, beating steady, one faster, one slower, together a rhythm that drowns out the night. I press my lips tight to stifle the sound that wants to escape. The steady thrum fills me, reverberating through my bones, until my pulse falls into step with his.
His horns graze the top of my head as he lowers his face toward the crook of my neck. Not close enough to touch, not close enough to kiss, but close enough that every breath stirs my hair. His smallest movement makes my skin burn at every point of contact.
The arm around me tightens, claws curving against my hip—not cutting, not careless. Careful. A warrior who could crush me in a blink holds me instead with terrifying gentleness.
I bite down on a whimper. My body aches for more, but this—this is enough. More than enough. His protection isn’t a shield thrown over me; it’s a vow written in touch and silence.
I close my hand over his forearm. The scales are smooth and cool, ridged with scars that catch against my fingertips. My chest swells with something I can’t name—too sharp to be safety, too deep to be lust alone.
Love.
The word stirs—fragile and dangerous. I shove it down, but it lingers anyway, stubborn as the man holding me.
The night stretches long, but I don’t drift. Not fully. I stay awake, listening to him breathe, feeling the press of him, memorizing the rhythm of his hearts.
For the first time, the desert doesn’t feel endless. For the first time, I’m not alone.