Chapter 19 Rhystan
Rhystan
I smell it the moment she enters the courtyard.
Her scent—blood and wilderness and burning cedar—has changed. Something new threads through the familiar notes, something richer and sweeter that makes my dragon surge to attention in a way it hasn't in three hundred years.
Mine, it rumbles, the word echoing through my bones. MINE. Protect. Keep.
I'm watching her train from the shadows of the armory entrance, have been for the better part of an hour.
She's sparring with Carter again, wooden practice swords blurring through the afternoon light.
She moves faster now than she did even days ago, the contamination accelerating her transformation with each passing sunrise, making her stronger and deadlier and more beautiful.
She lands a strike on Carter's shoulder—would have been a killing blow with steel instead of wood. He yields with a rueful laugh, and she grins, fierce and sharp and utterly magnificent.
The wind shifts.
Her scent hits me full force and my dragon roars.
Pregnant.
The knowledge slams into me like a physical blow, driving the air from my lungs. My mate is carrying my young. The scent must have been building for days—weeks, maybe—but now it's unmistakable, ripe and sweet and screaming life to every dragon instinct I possess.
My rut ignites like dry kindling catching flame.
One moment I'm standing in the shadows, human and controlled. The next I'm moving toward her with single-minded focus, my dragon chanting mine mine mine protect claim keep with every step.
She sees me coming. Her practice sword lowers as confusion crosses her face, then wariness, then something else entirely as she reads whatever's written on mine. I watch her nostrils flare, scenting me, and her pupils blow wide.
"Rhystan?" Her voice comes out breathless. "Oh. Oh."
I'm on her before she can say more. Hands gripping her hips, pulling her against me, burying my face in the curve of her throat and breathing deep.
Gods, her scent—sweet and rich and mine, carrying the unmistakable signature that every dragon instinct in me recognizes as young, as future, as everything I've wanted for three centuries and never dared hope for.
"Mine," I growl against her skin. Can barely form words past the need flooding my veins. "Mine."
"I'm not in heat," she says, but her hands are fisted in my shirt, gripping rather than pushing. "But gods, you smell—what is happening?"
Rut. Pure alpha rut, triggered not by her heat but by what's growing inside her. I can feel the pheromones flooding off me, can see her responding even without biology driving her—pupils dilated, breathing quickened, body pressing closer to mine.
"Need you," I manage. "Please, Kess. Need—"
"Yes." No hesitation. She inhales against my throat like she's trying to breathe me in. "Not here though. Too public."
Right. The training courtyard. Carter has already disappeared, smart enough to recognize a feral alpha and get clear. But other guards are watching from a safe distance, carefully not looking directly at us.
Her chambers. Close. Private. Safe.
I sweep her up before she can protest, and she makes a startled sound but doesn't fight—just wraps her arms around my neck and holds on as I carry her toward the castle with strides that eat the distance.
"Your eyes are glowing," she observes, voice remarkably steady for someone being carried by a half-feral dragon. "The gold thing they do during rut."
"Yes."
"But I'm not in heat."
"No."
"So why—"
"Something changed." Not quite a lie. "Your scent. Triggered my beast."
She's quiet as I carry her through corridors, servants scattering from our path like startled birds. I'm barely maintaining human form—my dragon wants to shift, wants to fly her somewhere high and unreachable, wants to build a nest and guard her until the young are born.
I force myself to keep walking. Keep human. Keep the feral instincts leashed even as they scream at me.
Her chambers. Finally.
I kick the door shut and she's on me before I can set her down properly, mouth on mine, kissing me with a hunger that has nothing to do with heat and everything to do with choice.
This is different. No heat driving her, no biology forcing surrender. Just want—pure and fierce and freely given.
I back her toward the bed, hands everywhere, needing to touch every inch of her. She strips off her training leathers without breaking the kiss, efficient and impatient, and I follow suit—tearing at my own clothes like they've personally offended me.
When we're both bare I push her down onto the mattress. She goes willingly, eyes dark with desire, and I follow her down but don't cover her yet.
"Rhystan—"
"Need to taste you first." The words scrape out rough. "Need to make sure you're ready. No heat means no slick—I won't hurt you."
"I'm ready," she protests, but her breath catches when I kiss down her throat, between her breasts, across the flat plane of her stomach.
I pause there. Press my lips to the soft skin below her navel, where my child is growing. She doesn't know yet. Can't know what this kiss means to me.
"Let me," I say against her skin. "Please, Kess. Let me worship you."
She shivers at the word but spreads her legs wider, giving me access. "Fine. But don't take forever—I need you inside me."
I don't rush.
I take my time, licking through her folds, tasting the wetness already gathering there. She's aroused but not soaked the way heat makes her—this requires more care, more attention. I work her with tongue and lips, feeling her grow wetter with every pass, every circle around her clit.
"Fuck," she gasps when I seal my mouth over that sensitive bundle of nerves. Her hands tangle in my hair, holding me in place. "Yes. Like that. Don't stop."
I add a finger, sliding into slick heat, curling to find the spot that makes her curse. Her hips buck against my mouth and I add a second finger, stretching her, preparing her while my tongue keeps working.
"More," she demands. "Rhystan, I need—I'm going to—"
"Then come." I double my efforts, fingers thrusting while I suck gently at her clit. "Come for me, Kess."
She shatters with a cry, thighs trembling around my head, her release flooding my fingers. I work her through it, drawing out every wave until she's pushing at my shoulders.
"Enough," she gasps. "Need you. Now."
I pull back and she's beautiful like this—flushed and panting, wet and ready for me. When I slide my fingers free they're slick with her arousal.
"Now," she demands, reaching for me, pulling me up her body. "Claim me properly."
I position myself at her entrance. She's ready now—soaked from her orgasm, her body welcoming as I push inside in one long stroke.
We both groan at the sensation. She's still tight but takes me easily, no resistance, just heat and pressure and perfect friction.
"Yes," she breathes. "Fuck, yes."
I start slow, savoring the feel of her around me, but she's having none of it.
"Harder." Her nails dig into my shoulders. "I'm not made of glass. I can take it."
That permission breaks something loose in my chest.
I pin her wrists above her head with one hand—the rut demanding dominance, possession, complete control—and drive into her with everything I have. Deep, punishing thrusts that make the bed frame groan against the wall.
She doesn't fight the restraint. Just wraps her legs around my hips and meets me halfway, arching into each thrust, making sounds that drive me absolutely feral.
"Touch yourself," I growl, releasing her wrists. "Want to feel you come around me."
Her hand slides between us immediately, fingers working her clit while I fuck her. The sight of it—her pleasuring herself while I'm buried inside her, the desperate need carved into her expression—gods, I'm not going to last.
"Close," she gasps. "So close—"
"Then come." I shift angle, driving deeper. "Come for me."
She does, crying out, her inner walls clenching around me in rhythmic waves. The sensation triggers my own release—I thrust deep and come with a groan that's more animal than human.
My knot swells while I'm still pulsing, locking us together, trapping everything inside her. She makes a satisfied sound as it stretches her, settling into place.
But the release doesn't stop.
The knot pulses again. Another surge of seed. Then another. Each one triggered by the way her walls keep clenching around me, milking more from my body than I knew I had to give.
"Fuck," she gasps, hands gripping my shoulders. "You're still—how much—"
"Dragon biology," I manage through gritted teeth. "Thorough."
She laughs, the sound breaking into a moan as another pulse floods her. I can feel her belly pressing against mine, swelling slightly with the sheer volume. Too much. Always too much with me.
Her walls clench again and I groan. The pressure triggers another release, smaller now but still there. Still filling her.
"I can feel every time you—" She breaks off with a gasp as I shift my hips, grinding the knot against that spot inside her. "Oh gods. Do that again."
I grind against her and we both shudder. The movement wrings another pulse from me, another clench from her. Pleasure feeding pleasure in a loop that seems endless.
She comes again—sudden and sharp, triggered by the fullness and the pressure. Her orgasm makes her clench harder around my knot and that pulls another release from me, and we're caught in a cycle neither of us can break.
"Rhystan." My name broken on her lips. "I can't—it's too much—"
"One more." I shift angle, grinding the knot against her sweet spot. "Give me one more."
She shatters, crying out, nails raking down my back hard enough to draw blood. And I follow her over, the final release flooding deep as her walls pulse and milk me dry.
Finally—finally—it stops.
The pulses slow, fade, cease entirely. We collapse together, both shaking, both struggling to breathe.
I roll us carefully so I'm not crushing her, keeping us locked together, her body draped across mine like a blanket made of warmth and satisfaction.
"That," she says after a long moment, voice wrecked, "was intense."
I start scenting her without thinking—nuzzling into her throat, behind her ear, the hollow of her collarbone. Marking her with my scent while the knot keeps us joined.
"The scenting thing is new," she observes. "You've never done that before."
"Mine," I murmur against her skin. Can't help it—the word rises from somewhere deep, somewhere primal. "Need everyone to know. My mate. My omega. Mine."
She shivers. "Say that again."
"My omega." I kiss the words into her pulse point. "My mate. Mine."
"Fuck." She pulls me closer, fingers sliding into my hair. "I shouldn't like that as much as I do."
"But you do."
"Yeah." Her voice goes soft. "I really do."
The rut lasts three days.
Three days of claiming her without heat to match, her warrior body handling my demands with fierce enthusiasm. Three days of scenting her obsessively, marking her skin with bites and bruises, making sure every inch of her smells like me.
Three days of knowing she's pregnant and not telling her.
On the fourth morning, when the rut finally breaks and leaves me hollowed out and human again, she's curled against my chest, tracing idle patterns on my skin.
"That was intense," she murmurs. "Three days of you barely letting me out of bed."
"Dragon biology." I press a kiss to her hair, breathing in her changed scent. "Rut makes me... possessive."
"I noticed." She tilts her head up to look at me, amber eyes soft in the morning light. "Not complaining. Just observing."
I should tell her now. Should explain why the rut hit so hard, why I couldn't stop scenting her, why my dragon has been rumbling protect, keep, mine for days straight.
Instead I say, "I'll bring your tea. You should drink it while it's warm."
She nods, stretching, and I slip out of bed to retrieve the cup I prepared earlier.
The bond-weakening herbs are still in it. Have been this whole time.
I pause in the doorway, looking at the tea, then back at her—my pregnant mate, carrying my child, trusting me completely.
The herbs weaken the bond. I've been telling myself that's necessary—that the bond puts strain on her transforming body, that weakening it gives her the best chance to survive. But now there's a child to consider. My child, growing inside her while I feed her herbs designed to fray our connection.
What if the herbs hurt the baby?
The thought freezes me in place. I don't know. The texts don't say—warrior omega pregnancies are barely mentioned, just fragments and speculation. I'm acting blind, making choices that could destroy everything.
But if I stop giving her the tea, the bond will strengthen. Her body will have to sustain the transformation AND the growing bond AND the pregnancy. Too many demands on a system already pushed to its limits.
The tea is still the safest choice. For her.
I have to believe that.
I bring her the cup and watch her drink it, my chest tight with secrets.
"The nausea's almost gone," she says, setting down the empty cup. "Whatever's in this, it's helping."
"Good." The word tastes like ash. "That's good."
She studies me, amber eyes too sharp. "You've been strange since the rut. Guilty-looking. Like you're carrying something heavy."
"I'm afraid," I say—truth, if not the whole truth. "Of losing you. Of getting used to having you here and then watching you die like all the others. The rut made it worse—made me realize how much I need you. How empty everything would be if you were gone."
Her expression softens. "I'm not going anywhere."
"You can't promise that."
"No." She reaches across and takes my hand. "But I can promise I'm going to fight like hell to stay. I'm not the gentle omegas they sent you before. I'm not going to break."
"I know." She's the strongest person I've ever met. "Doesn't make me less afraid."
"Fear is just love with teeth," she says quietly. "Means you have something worth being scared to lose."
The words hit me somewhere deep. She's right. This terror that's been living in my chest since the rut—since I smelled what's growing inside her—it's love. The most dangerous kind.
I pull her close and kiss her, soft and desperate, trying to pour everything I can't say into the press of our mouths.
She's pregnant with my child.
She doesn't know.
And I'm going to have to tell her eventually.
Just not today.