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 chantingmine mine mine protect claim keepwith 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 andmine, 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 leatherswithout 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.
