And walking away is killing me.
I push to my feet, determination building. “Where is she now?”
“Armory,” Dorian says, a hint of satisfaction in his amber eyes. “Prepping gear.”
“I need to—”
Caleb nods, the faintest smile touching his usually stoic features. “Go. We’ll handle briefing updates.”
I hesitate, fear gripping me again. “What if she won’t listen? What if I’ve already—?”
Dorian grins, a flash of fire in his smile. “Then you fight for her the way she’s been fighting for you.”
“And if she’s really your mate?” Caleb adds, his cool composure a counterpoint to Dorian’s fire. “She’ll forgive you. Eventually.”
I don’t wait to hear more. I’m already running toward the armory, my heart pounding with a desperate rhythm that sounds suspiciously like her name as my dragon surges forward with renewed purpose.
I’m going to claim my mate.
Chapter 34
Luke
I sprint through the compound, barely registering the startled faces of other dragons as I pass. Guards at the southern post exchange knowing glances. A group of younger shifters training in the courtyard pause their drills to watch me sprint by, whispering as I shoot by.
Every instinct I possess screams in a singular chorus:
Find her. Claim her. Make it right.
The bond I’ve been denying pulls taut like a physical tether, directing me toward the armory with unwavering certainty. Each step brings a clarity I’ve been fighting for too long.
I’m done running.
The armory door looms ahead, its heavy wood reinforced with dragon-forged steel. I don’t slow down, don’t pause to collect myself. I push through with enough force to make the hinges groan in protest, the sound echoing off the walls.
Two junior weapons masters look up from their inventory, eyes widening at my abrupt entrance. They take one look at my face and make hasty excuses to leave, the door closing behind them with a heavy thud.
Good.
The scent hits me first: gun oil, metal polish, dragon-forged steel with its distinctive metallic-ozone tang, and beneath it all, her. Smoke and determination, wild magic with undercurrents of vanilla and fire, a scent that makes my dragon rise closer to the surface.
Ember stands at the weapons bench, her back to me, methodically loading magazines. Her movements are deliberate but unpracticed, a warrior still learning her craft.
She doesn’t turn at my entrance, though I know she recognizes me instantly.
“Ember.”
“I’m busy.”
“We need to talk.”
“I said I’m busy, Luke.” Her voice carries an edge that cuts straight through me; hurt disguised as indifference. The bond between us pulses with her suppressed pain, discernible even in its incomplete state.
“I know,” I say, my voice harsh with emotion I no longer care to hide. “But I need you to hear this.”
Ember’s shoulders tense, the line of her spine going rigid, but she still doesn’t face me.
“There’s nothing left to say. You made your choice.”
