Chapter 33
KARA
The suns haven’t crested yet when I wake. A soft gray light spills across the sand. Almost kind—as if, for this brief moment, the desert has no teeth.
Warmth anchors me: his arm is draped across my waist, his body curved close against mine, the slow rhythm of his hearts beating against my back.
I lie still, savoring this rare calm. His breath fans over the nape of my neck, deep and even, and every rise of his chest stirs the fine hairs along my skin.
I should shift away, slip free before he realizes I’m awake. But I don’t. I curl back into him. This is where I belong.
His arm tightens, almost imperceptibly, pulling me closer. My breath catches, a little sound escaping. I feel the rumble low in his chest in answer—not a word, not even a growl, just awareness—him.
The temptation to close my eyes and let myself stay here forever is intense. The memory of last night—our fight, our survival, the heat between us—burns through my chest. This morning feels different. Quieter, and somehow more real.
When I finally roll over to face him, it’s careful, slow. He stirs but doesn’t move away. His black eyes catch the dim light as they open, sharp even from sleep. His gaze sweeps over me, unreadable but unwavering, before it lingers—long enough that my skin heats under the weight of it.
“Morning,” I whisper, voice rough.
His hand lifts, brushing a strand of grit-clumped hair from my cheek.
“Kara,” he rumbles; the way he says my name is a vow and a claim.
I don’t need more. The moment stretches until my belly betrays me with a loud, hollow growl.
He shifts, rising in one smooth motion, replacing the blanket over me as he exits.
His shadow stretches across me as he gathers the beast’s hide bundle.
The scent of musk and sand clings to him as he moves, filling my nose with the heady odor of him.
His scars catch the first pale gleam of dawn.
I push up, brushing grit from my arms, moving stiff but determined.
“We should eat before we walk,” I say.
He inclines his head once, then crouches and, with quick efficiency, carves strips of meat, arranging them on a flat piece of stone. I busy myself building a small pile of dried brush, hands trembling more from nerves than effort. The intimacy of the morning lingers—raw and fragile.
When I fumble for my flint, he places his clawed hand over mine, and I look up.
He shakes his head, a faint smile playing across his lips.
I shrug, and he leans over the kindling I built in the center of the rocks.
He takes a deep breath, then exhales sharply.
A ball of flame roils from his mouth and catches the tinder.
“Show off,” I murmur, half-laughing.
The faint smile becomes real, and my heart lifts, speeding up.
Smoke curls upward as he sets a thin stone with the meat over the heat.
The smell rises—strong, rich, overwhelming after so much hunger.
My mouth waters, and for a moment I forget everything but the crackle of flame and the promise of food.
Then my gaze drifts back to him. To the scars carved across his chest and side, made starker by dawn’s gray. Rows of them, ragged, uneven—some crossing in jagged arcs, others smooth as if polished by time.
I’ve seen them before. Touched them. But in the quiet morning, they demand more. My hand curls in my lap. My heart pounds. I want to ask. I need to ask. And he promised.
He glances up then, meeting my stare across the fire. His eyes narrow, unreadable. For a long beat, neither of us speaks. Then his jaw shifts, and he says in that low rumble,
“You would know.”
The words aren’t quite a question—more an acknowledgment. An opening. My throat tightens. I nod once, unable to speak.
The fire crackles low, fat spitting from the meat and popping into the air. Smoke drifts toward the pale horizon, carrying the scent of survival. He sits across from me, crouched low, wings half-folded against his back, lochaber laid within reach, though no danger prowls this morning.
For a long time, he says nothing—just watches the flames, the light flickering across the planes of his face, his scars carving deeper shadows. I want to fill the silence, to tell him he doesn’t have to—but something in the way he holds himself stills my tongue.
At last, he speaks.
“Zmelja.” One word, ground out rough as stone, but it shivers through me.
My eyes snap to his, wide. “The sand worms?”
He nods once, slow, deliberate.
“It took me. Teeth like rows of blades, closing around. Dragging me down.” His claws flex, curling against his thighs as if memory alone can pull him back into the pit. “I was… gone. I fought, but my claws… it was too late.”
My breath snags. The scars—the endless lines across his chest and side—come alive in my mind. Not battle wounds from other Zmaj. Not accidents. Teeth. A monster trying to devour him whole. His gaze doesn’t waver from mine.
“My brother leapt onto the beast, driving steel into it over and over. It thrashed, rolled. Nearly crushed us both. But he fought until it let go.” His jaw tightens, the tendons standing out in sharp cords. “He saved me.”
The fire pops. I can’t look away.
“And the scars…” My voice breaks before I can finish.
“Are what it left behind.” His tone is flat, but not empty. Heavy. Full of everything he won’t say.
I shiver—not from the morning chill, but from the picture his words paint: him, torn and broken, carved open by rows of teeth. Blood in the sand. His brother standing against something no Zmaj should dare face.
“But you lived,” I whisper.
He inclines his head, eyes black and fathomless.
“I lived. Because he was stronger. Because he was there.” His voice roughens, like gravel dragged across stone. “And I carry it. Every scar, a mark of his strength. Of my weakness.”
My heart twists. I shake my head hard, words tumbling before I can stop them.
“No. That’s not weakness. You survived something that should’ve killed you. You—” My throat closes, heat stinging my eyes. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.”
His gaze sharpens, pinning me in place. For a moment, I think he’ll argue—that he’ll throw my words back like stones. But he doesn’t. He only watches, firelight flickering in his dark eyes. Slowly, deliberately, he presses his palm against his chest, over the ragged map of scars.
“These are not strength.” Then he leans forward, closing the space between us by half, his hand falling from his chest to hover just above my own. “But this—” his claws graze the air near my bandaged arm, my trembling fingers, my racing heart “—this is.”
The words hit harder than any strike. My breath falters, chest tightening, as if he’s carved something inside me open—something I didn’t know I carried.
I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to breathe under the weight of it. All I can do is hold his gaze and hope he sees the truth in mine—that I don’t see weakness when I look at him. Only survival. Only him.
The silence swells again, but this time it’s different. Not heavy. Not sharp. Full.
And for the first time, I don’t feel like a girl chasing scraps of approval. I feel… chosen.
Smoke curls in thin ribbons and drifts into my eyes, stinging, but it isn’t what’s making them water. It’s him. The weight of his gaze. The raw honesty in his words.
I reach out, hand trembling, and lay it flat against his chest—over the ridges of scar tissue he just touched. The scales are uneven, hardened by pain and survival. I trace the longest line, following its jagged path down toward his ribs.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t draw back. His breath deepens, chest rising slow beneath my palm, as if giving me permission to read the story carved into his body.
“These aren’t weakness,” I whisper, saying it again, willing him to believe me. My voice shakes. “They’re proof you survived. Proof of what you endured.”
His eyes narrow slightly, as if weighing my words.
He doesn’t break the silence; instead, he shifts closer, the space between us closing until his knees brush mine.
His hand lifts, clawed fingers curling around my wrist—light, careful—as though he’s holding something fragile. My pulse stutters under his touch.
“I… want to see as you do,” he murmurs, voice low, edged with something rougher.
My chest tightens.
“You can.” I tilt my head back, forcing myself not to shy from the darkness in his gaze. “Because I don’t care what others see. I care what you are.”
The fire pops, sparks spiraling upward. His hand slides from my wrist to my hand, slow, deliberate. He presses my palm harder to his chest, over the steady thrum of his heartbeats.
Two rhythms, mine and his, tangled under my skin.
“Kara,” he rumbles, my name curling in his throat like a vow. The sound shivers through me, low and hot.
I don’t look away. I can’t. His scars burn under my hand, his heart hammering against my palm, and the realization swells so sharp I can barely breathe—I don’t want distance. I don’t want walls. I want him. All of him. Scarred and silent and unyielding.
The fire sputters, but I only feel the bond pulling tight, as if the desert itself is stitching us together. He leans in, his forehead brushing mine. I close my eyes as my breath catches—not in fear, but in surrender. Not weakness, but something stronger.
And in that moment, wrapped in silence and scars, I know.
He isn’t just survival. He’s mine.
His heartbeats pound against my palm, steady and strong beneath the scars. I should pull away. I should let the silence stretch and give myself a chance to breathe.
Instead, I tilt my chin—a fraction. His eyes catch the motion, lock with mine, black and fathomless. The world narrows to that look—hungry, claiming, raw in a way that makes my stomach twist and my skin flush at the same time.
He leans in first, or maybe I do. I’ll never know, because when his mouth meets mine, everything else ceases to exist.
It’s not gentle. It’s not cautious. His lips press firm, demanding, his tongue sliding against mine with a hunger that steals the air from my lungs.
My fingers fist on the strap of his lochaber, dragging him closer until his body pins mine to the warmth of the sand.
His weight is solid, overwhelming in a way that makes me shiver with aching need.
He tastes of smoke and musk and something I can’t name but that is only him.
His claws trace the line of my jaw—rough and deliberate—tilting my head back so he can claim the kiss deeper.
I gasp into him, and he swallows the sound, growling low in his chest. The vibration rolls through me, sinking into bone and blood.
My hand slides up from his chest to the side of his neck, fingers tangling in the coarse braid of his hair. He groans when I tug, low and primal, and the sound sparks heat through every nerve in my body.
The kiss builds—slower, then harder—as though neither of us can get enough. His teeth graze my bottom lip, a scrape that makes me arch against him, desperate. His tail curls around my thigh, possessive, anchoring me to him as though he’ll never let me go.
When his mouth finally tears from mine, it’s only to drag hot across my cheek, down to my throat. His breath scalds against my skin, his lips brushing over the pulse hammering in my neck.
“Kara,” he growls, my name rolling rough and reverent from his chest.
I shudder, clinging to him, half-wild with the force of it.
“I’m yours,” I whisper, the truth spilling before I can think better of it.
“Treasure,” he rumbles, then his lips crush against mine, sealing the words in fire.
The world tilts, spins, narrows until there is only this—his weight over me, the scrape of his scars against my skin, the rumble in his chest that answers the frantic thrum of my heart.
I don’t think. I can’t. My body moves before my mind catches up, arching into him, clutching him closer as though I could fuse us together and never let go. His hand slides down my side, rough palm spanning my waist, pulling me tight to the unyielding lines of him.
The kiss deepens, claiming and giving all at once. His tail coils more firmly around my thigh, his chest presses to mine, his tongue strokes mine until I’m dizzy with the taste of him. The storm, the bones, the hunger, the fear—everything falls away.
Mine.
His mouth trails down my throat, tracing fire across the curve of my neck. I gasp, breathless, clutching at his shoulders, my nails digging into his scars. He growls at the sting—not in pain, but in something darker, hungrier—that makes heat flood low in my belly.
“Mine,” he rasps against my skin, teeth grazing where my pulse hammers.
“Yours,” I shiver, my whispered answer torn from me before I can stop it.
His arms crush me close, his mouth claiming mine again, harder this time, as if sealing that truth. The kiss spirals—deeper, hotter—until I know where this leads, and I don’t stop it. I don’t want to.
The rest comes in flashes—heat, touch, the rasp of his voice, my name on his lips. A blur of fire and surrender and the raw strength of his arms holding me like I’m the most precious thing he’s ever touched.
And then—darkness takes the edges of it, soft and safe. The world blurs into sensation and need, until there’s no more space for thought, only him.