Chapter 21
Nadia
It’s three in the morning. I haven’t slept. My wolf should be settling soon. The heat cycle is waning. I can feel it fading the way a fever breaks, slow but inevitable. Four or five days, I told Mara. It’s nearly day six.
Maybe by tomorrow it’ll be gone completely.
Maybe by tomorrow I’ll think clearly again. See this situation for what it really is—biology responding to extreme stress, not genuine mate recognition. A heat cycle triggered by survival circumstances, not an actual bond.
Maybe.
I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at the door. Viktor’s restriction doesn’t confine me to quarters—I’m not the one under probation. I can move freely through Aurora. I just can’t seek out Jericho.
Which should be fine. Should be easy. Two days of voluntary distance should have made the pull lessen, should have given me clarity.
It hasn’t.
The ache in my chest has only intensified. My wolf prowls endlessly, circling the same tight loop of frustration and need. There’s this persistent sense that something vital exists within reach, and I’m choosing not to reach for it, choosing to ignore what my instincts insist is necessary.
I stand abruptly. Staying in this room won’t help. Won’t quiet my wolf or exhaust my body enough to sleep. I need physical activity, something to burn off the restless energy that’s been building since Viktor ordered separation.
Training. That’s what I need.
I change into workout clothes—sports bra, tank top, fitted pants that allow movement. Pull my hair back into a tight ponytail. Step into the corridor.
The facility at night is different. Quieter. Darker. Most operatives are either nocturnal by nature or choice, and the ones who aren’t are sleeping. The few people I pass nod but don’t stop me. No reason to. I’m not restricted. Not confined. Just… avoiding.
The training facility is at the far end of level two. A large open space with equipment, mats, punching bags, free weights. Soundproofed walls so people can train at any hour without disturbing residents. I’ve spent countless hours here over the years. It’s familiar. Safe.
I approach the door and reach for the handle. And then inhale.
His scent stops me cold.
My wolf howls in desperate recognition. Not the distant awareness I’ve been fighting for two days. This is immediate. Concentrated. Right on the other side of this door.
He’s here.
My hand freezes halfway to the handle. Every logical thought says turn around.
Walk away. Go back to my quarters and wait until he’s gone.
Viktor’s order wasn’t a restriction on my movement, but it was clear about intent: stay away from Jericho until the Council determines his reliability, and my judgment regarding him can be trusted.
Dammit, Nadia. Leave!
I open the door.
The training facility is dimly lit—emergency lighting only, the kind that creates more shadows than illumination. One person inside.
Jericho.
He’s working a heavy bag in the far corner.
Shirtless. Sweat gleaming on skin that looks almost golden in the low light.
Each strike is controlled violence—fists connecting with precise force, the bag swinging with impact, his body moving with the kind of fluid economy that comes from centuries of practice.
I can see every detail from here. Biceps flexing and bunching with each strike.
The defined muscles of his back moving smoothly beneath his skin.
The scars that mark him—some straight and clean like blade cuts, others rougher, possibly burns or claw marks.
His shoulders are broad and powerful. His arms corded with muscle.
His lower back disappears into workout pants that hang low on his hips.
He’s beautiful in the way most killers are beautiful. Dangerous and lethal and absolutely overwhelming.
The smell of him fills the space. Not just dragonfire anymore—this is pheromones thickened by exertion, male and heat. Primal in a way that makes my mouth water and my wolf claw at my ribs with frantic need.
He stops mid-strike. Goes completely still. Then turns.
His eyes find mine across the room. Pale gray in the dim light. Startled. Wary. He opens his mouth—
My wolf doesn’t wait for words.
She doesn’t surge. She explodes outward with such force that conscious thought simply ceases to exist. One moment, I’m standing in the doorway with some fragment of control.
The next thing is that there’s nothing but wolf and overwhelming need and the absolute certainty that my mate is right there and I have to claim him now.
I cross the distance between us. Don’t remember the steps. Don’t remember deciding to move. Just suddenly I’m there, hands fisting in his sweat-damp hair, pulling his mouth down to mine.
God, he’s tall. So tall. So big…
My wolf wants to rub against him and get his scent all over us.
He tries to speak against my lips. “Nadia, wait—”
I don’t let him finish. Just kiss him with all the desperate hunger that’s been building between us. My wolf is in complete control, and she knows exactly what she wants.
Him. Ours. Mate. Now.
He holds still for maybe half a second. I feel his attempt at discipline, the way his hands stay carefully at his sides, the way he’s trying to maintain the iron control that defines him.
Then something breaks.
He kisses me back with matching ferocity.
His hands come up to grip my hips and pull me flush against him.
I can feel how hard he is through the thin fabric of his workout pants.
Can feel the heat radiating from his skin—dragonfire barely contained beneath the surface, making him burn hotter than any human could.
My hands explore his bare chest. Sweat makes him slick beneath my palms. I explore the thick muscle, the hard planes of his pectorals, the defined ridges of his belly, the slight hollow at the base of his throat where his pulse flickers visibly.
When I drag my nails down his sides, I feel them lengthening into claws, scratching, marking him with thin red lines.
He groans into my mouth. The sound is inhuman. Dragon rumble from deep in his chest that I feel more than hear.
His hands move from my hips to my ass, gripping hard, lifting me. My legs wrap around his waist instinctively. He turns and starts walking, carrying me toward the back of the facility where equipment storage rooms offer privacy.
We’re kissing the entire way. Hard, desperate, teeth and tongue, and neither of us is gentle. His mouth moves from my lips to my jaw to my throat. When his teeth graze my pulse point, I gasp because they’re sharper than they should be. Not fully dragon fangs, but changed, elongated, dangerous.
My hands find his shoulders. Grip hard enough that my claws dig in. I feel him shudder against me. Feel the way his fingers tighten on my ass, almost bruising.
We reach the equipment room. He pushes the door open with his shoulder, carries me inside, kicks it closed behind us. The space is small. Dark. Private. Lined with mats, weights, and resistance bands hanging from hooks.
He sets me down, but we don’t separate. His hands are already pulling at my tank top.
I help, yanking it over my head. Sports bra next.
He doesn’t wait for permission, just reaches behind me and unhooks it.
It falls away, and then his mouth is on my breast, his tongue circling my nipple, his teeth grazing just enough to make my back bow.
I pull at his workout pants. Get them down his hips enough to free his cock. He’s thick and hard, and when I wrap my hand around it, he makes that dragon sound again—rumbling and possessive and barely human.
His hands find the waistband of my pants.
He doesn’t bother with careful removal. Just grips the fabric and yanks them down around my knees, and then his hands are on my bare skin—hips, thighs, everywhere.
His palm slides between my thighs, cupping my mound, a thick finger slipping along the seam of my pussy before plunging in.
“Yes!” I hiss, a whine moving up my throat as he pumps into my wetness, slick noises surrounding us as I drench his palm with my juices.
We’re both making sounds that aren’t quite human. My growls. His rumbles. The scrape of claws on skin. The sharp edge of fangs testing skin without breaking.
I can see his eyes now in the darkness. They’re shifting. Gray bleeding to silver with vertical pupils. Dragon sight. Fully present.
Mine must be changing too because the dim room looks different.
Sharper. Clearer. Colors more vivid. I can see him in detail—the way scales are starting to ripple beneath the skin of his forearms, the way his chest is heaving with his ragged breathing, the way his cock is thick and flushed and leaking.
“Nadia.” My name is rough in his throat. Strained. “Fuck. I need you—”
I don’t answer with words. Just turn. Drop to my hands and knees on the mat-covered floor. Mating position. Primitive and instinctive, and exactly what my wolf demands.
He makes a sound that’s pure anguish. Half groan, half dragon rumble. I can hear him fighting for control. Fighting to maintain some semblance of reason. Then he drops behind me, his hands on my hips. Gripping tight—too tight. And I love it. I know it’s going to leave marks.
I feel the heat of him behind me; the thatch of hair surrounding his cock brushes against my ass, and I mewl. The anticipation is overwhelming. The head of his cock presses against my entrance, and I spread my thighs in unmistakable invitation.
“Yes. Now. Please!” I’m pleading and totally unashamed about it. I’m so wet that when he pushes forward, there’s no resistance. Just slick heat and the perfect stretch of him filling me.
He moves slowly at first. Too slowly. My wolf snarls in violent protest.
“Harder,” I growl, body taut with want.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he grits out. The restraint in his voice is tangible.