Chapter 35
JOLIE
The safehouse doesn’t look like anything from the outside.
Just another fractured section of Myrza’s lower districts, buried under dust and neglect, the entrance half-swallowed by collapsed plating and rusted conduit that hums faintly with dying current.
The air smells wrong the second we slip inside—stale, metallic, layered with old smoke and something faintly chemical that clings to the back of my throat—but it’s quiet, and right now quiet matters more than clean.
“Clear,” Hrask mutters, sweeping the interior with a quick, practiced glance before stepping fully inside.
I follow, the door sealing behind us with a dull mechanical grind that cuts off the distant echo of alarms and pursuit. The sudden absence of noise hits harder than the chaos we just left, like my body doesn’t know what to do without something actively trying to kill me.
“Yeah,” I breathe, bracing a hand against the wall as I finally let myself stop moving. “This’ll do.”
The room is small but functional—low ceilings, reinforced walls, a central table scarred by use, and a corner stacked with old supply crates that look like they’ve been opened and resealed too many times to count.
A dim light flickers overhead, unstable but persistent, casting uneven shadows that shift every time it stutters.
“You’ve been here before,” I say, glancing at Hrask as he moves through the space like he knows exactly where everything is.
“Not this exact one,” he replies, checking a panel near the door before turning back to me. “But enough like it.”
“Of course,” I mutter, pushing off the wall and taking a few steps inward.
My leg nearly gives.
I catch myself before I hit the floor, but it’s not graceful, and the movement nearly steals the breath from my chest hard enough to make the room tilt.
“Yeah,” Hrask says immediately, crossing the space in two steps. “You’re done pretending that’s not a problem.”
“I’m fine,” I shoot back, even as my voice tightens.
“Yeah,” he mutters, sliding an arm under mine to steady me anyway. “You keep saying that like it’s convincing.”
“I made it here,” I counter.
“Barely,” he replies, guiding me toward the table. “Sit.”
“I’m not—”
“Sit,” he repeats, firmer this time.
I glare at him for a second, then drop onto the edge of the table with a sharp exhale.
“Happy?” I mutter.
“Less annoyed,” he says, crouching in front of me as he looks at my side.
“Still not the same thing.”
“Close enough.”
His fingers hover near the edge of the torn fabric, not touching yet—just assessing—and something about that restraint lands differently now. Not distance. Not hesitation.
Control.
“Don’t make it worse,” I say, my voice lower.
“I’m not,” he replies. “I’m trying to figure out how bad it already is.”
“You’re gonna hate the answer.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I figured.”
He shifts closer, more careful now as he lifts the edge of the wrap just enough to see underneath, and the air hits the wound in a way that makes my teeth grit.
“Still bleeding,” he says.
“Not as much.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It’s what you’re getting.”
He exhales slowly, then reaches for one of the supply crates, pulling it open with a practiced motion.
“You always carry a full med kit in these places?” I ask.
“People who use them tend to need one,” he says, already pulling out bandaging and a small injector.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “That tracks.”
He comes back over, kneeling in front of me again, and this time when his hands settle against me, they don’t hesitate.
“This is gonna hurt,” he says.
“Everything already hurts,” I reply. “You’re not introducing anything new.”
“That’s not how this works.”
“Do it.”
He does.
The pressure hits sharp, immediate, his hand steady as he resets the wrap, tightening it just enough to control the bleeding. My fingers clamp down on the edge of the table, breath catching despite myself, but I don’t pull away.
“Try not to move,” he says.
“Not exactly my strong suit.”
“I’ve noticed.”
The silence that follows isn’t empty.
It builds.
His hands stay where they are longer than they need to—firm, grounding, heat bleeding through the fabric between us—and my awareness of him shifts in a way that has nothing to do with the injury anymore.
Every point of contact feels sharper.
Closer.
“He killed him,” I say quietly, because if I don’t say it, it’s going to sit there and rot.
Hrask doesn’t look up right away.
“Yeah,” he replies.
“Just—” I exhale, shaking my head slightly. “Like it didn’t matter.”
“It didn’t to him.”
“It mattered,” I snap. “Dadams wasn’t clean, but he wasn’t—”
“I know,” Hrask cuts in, steady.
I swallow hard.
“I had him,” I say. “I had everything lined up, and then he just—”
“You got what you needed.”
“At what cost?”
He finally looks up.
“At the cost it takes.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“No,” he agrees. “It’s not. But it’s real.”
The words land heavy.
I look away, my gaze dropping to the uneven shadows on the floor, tracking the flicker just to have something to focus on.
“This is bigger than we thought,” I say quietly.
“Yeah.”
“They’re not just covering it up,” I continue. “They’re controlling it.”
“I know.”
“And you still want to take this off-world.”
“That’s the only way it survives.”
I look back at him, really look this time.
“You didn’t hesitate this time,” I say.
“No.”
“Why?”
He holds my gaze.
“Because I’m not making that mistake again.”
Something tightens in my chest at that.
“You already did,” I mutter.
“Yeah,” he says. “And I’m fixing it.”
I exhale slowly, tension shifting, reshaping into something that doesn’t cut quite as sharply.
He finishes his medical ministrations, the medigel quickly healing my injuries. Maybe Grolgath plasma really is better than dermal regenerators. Hrask puts his hand on my thigh, pats it, lingering just a second too long before he starts to pull back—
I catch his wrist.
“Hrask…” I whisper, my voice husky with need.
The space between us shifts. Not as volatile, but sharper, heavier than before.
I close the distance slowly, watching him the entire time, giving him every chance to pull back—every chance to break the moment the way we both have before.
He doesn’t.
His hand comes up to my side—not probing, not assessing now, just there, steady and warm—and I lean into it instead of resisting, letting the contact anchor me.
“You don’t get to leave me,” I murmur. “Ever again,”
“I’m won’t,” he says, quieter now. “Jolie, I love you.”
Warmth blossoms in my chest like the first verdant leaves of spring.
“Good.”
“I say I love you, and you say good?” he asks, half laughing, half incredulous.
“Hey, I didn’t say bad--”
He silences me with a kiss. Not as sharp or crashing, but something that builds on itself. I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him in tight, my clit already tingling with anticipation. Every nerve in my body is on fire and he’s the only thing that can quench it.
“Jolie,” he murmurs against my neck. He tugs my clothing away, baring my skin inch by inch. He tests every new exposure with lips and tongue. I groan, feeling the heat building in my core. God, I want him more than I did the first time, somehow.
His mouth envelops my breast, tongue teasing my nipple with adroit strokes. He’s so huge, a mountain of a man, but I have no compunctions about surrendering my body to him. I know he’d never use such control to hurt me. I know it in my soul.
Hrask trails kisses further down, and further, sliding my panties off while his mouth is on my belly. I gasp as he shoves my thighs apart and stares at my throbbing pussy with eyes full of need.
“I must taste you,” he says in a throaty growl, shoving his face into me. I lurch upward as he explores with his mouth, his tongue. He suckles the ample juices off my labia, one at a time--and then pulls his head back, stretching my pliant flesh. It feels incredible.
His tongue laps over my swollen clitoris, and I let out a guttural groan born of delight.
Hrask kneads my ass cheeks like he owns them while working me over with his mouth.
It’s so maddening, yet delicious. I fly over the apex of orgasm so quickly I barely have time to suck in a ragged breath--before letting it out as a piercing scream.
The outside world presses faintly at the edges—the hunt, the war, everything waiting for us the second we step back out—but in here, for this moment, none of it gets to matter.
He lifts his face, scales glistening with my juices, and shuffles up on his knees until his cock rests against my wide open petals. I arch my back as he glides into me, filling me up with his glorious, vibrating shaft.
Every thrust, every pump of his hips, pushes me along toward release. It’s never been this good with any human man before, but I get the impression it’s not his body that pleases me.
It’s his soul. The way he looks at me like I’m a revelation. Like all of his swagger and bluster disappear and he’s left with only pure desire--and the ability to act on it.
His claws rasp against my hips, controlling me with the goal of greater pleasure. I give in to him, utterly, and give in to this feeling in my chest at last.
Golden flashes of light pulse through me as I come, harder than ever before. I writhe beneath him like a fish pulled from an icy stream, barely conscious of anything except how good it feels to be in his scaled hands.
Later, as my sweat cools, we lay together, our breathing returning ot normal. He strokes his fingers through my hair and sighs“We move soon,” he says after a while, voice low.
“Yeah,” I reply, not pulling away yet.
“Off-world.”
“Of course,” I reply, nestling against him and sighing. “And Hrask?”
“Yes?”
“I love you, too.”
He snorts.
“Good.”
I lift my head and smack him on the arm, but all he does is laugh harder.
shifts