“I’m yours,” I whisper, the truth spilling before I can think better of it.
“Treasure,” he rumbles, then his lips crush against mine, sealing the words in fire.
The world tilts, spins, narrows until there is only this—his weight over me, the scrape of his scars against my skin, the rumble in his chest that answers the frantic thrum of my heart.
I don’t think. I can’t. My body moves before my mind catches up, arching into him, clutching him closer as though I could fuse us together and never let go. His hand slides down my side, rough palm spanning my waist, pulling me tight to the unyielding lines of him.
The kiss deepens, claiming and giving all at once. His tail coils more firmly around my thigh, his chest presses to mine, his tongue strokes mine until I’m dizzy with the taste of him. The storm, the bones, the hunger, the fear—everything falls away.
Mine.
His mouth trails down my throat, tracing fire across the curve of my neck. I gasp, breathless, clutching at his shoulders, my nails digging into his scars. He growls at the sting—not in pain, but in something darker, hungrier—that makes heat flood low in my belly.
“Mine,” he rasps against my skin, teeth grazing where my pulse hammers.
“Yours,” I shiver, my whispered answer torn from me before I can stop it.
His arms crush me close, his mouth claiming mine again, harder this time, as if sealing that truth. The kiss spirals—deeper, hotter—until I know where this leads, and I don’t stop it. I don’t want to.
The rest comes in flashes—heat, touch, the rasp of his voice, my name on his lips. A blur of fire and surrender and the raw strength of his arms holding me like I’m the most precious thing he’s ever touched.
And then—darkness takes the edges of it, soft and safe. The world blurs into sensation and need, until there’s no more space for thought, only him.
34
KARA
equestion hang between us. For a long time there’s only the whistle of wind across the open desert.
“I can wait,” I say quickly, the words tumbling out. My chest knots with guilt. “If it’s too much?—”
“No.” His voice rumbles deep, cutting off mine. He doesn’t look at me. His eyes stay pinned on the horizon, but his hand shifts, brushing the back of mine—not quite holding. “You should know.”
My throat goes tight. I let the silence stretch, giving him space, until at last he speaks again.
“He was older.” The words are low, raw, like they scrape him on the way out. “Stronger. Everything I wanted to be. We fought together when the Perixians came—you humans call them the Invaders. The last time I saw him?—”
His voice breaks, sharp as a crack in stone. He swallows hard, his hand clenching and unclenching at his side. I remember the Invaders. I was in my teens when they came in earnest. Monstrous aliens that wanted to wipe out all life on Tajss. I’dheard the stories—that they were part of the Devastation that destroyed the planet before we humans crashed here.
“The last I saw him, he stood against them alone. He bought me seconds—only seconds—to crawl from the blood and sand. Seconds I wasted. I should have gone back. I should have died with him.”
The air leaves my lungs like I’ve been struck. His scars, his silence, all the weight he carries—it crashes into place, and I can barely breathe under the force of it.
“He died?” I ask, forcing the words past the lump in my throat.
“Our city was under siege,” he says, eyes narrowing as if he’s seeing something more than the empty desert stretching ahead of us. “It was a desperation move. Attack because if we didn’t, we were dead anyway. Food and supplies were running out. We figured it was better to die fighting. Trying.”
The ache in my chest deepens. I want to stop marching, wrap my arms around him, and hold him until the pain eases. But he doesn’t slow, so I don’t either.
“This was before…” I trail off, not wanting to say the word, the Devastation.
It’s always said by the Zmaj with a capital D—the event that destroyed Tajss. From all the stories I’ve heard, I don’t think Tajss was ever hospitable, but it was less harsh. And there were female Zmaj. And children. Cities full of them before that world-ending event.
It was similar to what happened to us humans—crashing onto Tajss and losing the only home we’d ever known. Our generation ship was the only reality we’d ever known. The generation beforemine—and mine—were never meant to walk on a planet. Our intended home is still far, far away, being terraformed for my grandkids or great-grandkids or something like that. The math was never my strong suit because I never cared. Even as a small child, I knew my life was meant to be on the ship and only on the ship. The idea of a planet—of real suns overhead, real sky, fresh air—was too unreal to comprehend.
“Yes,” he says. The long delay in his response, the distance of his stare—all of it indicates his thoughts are far away from our trudging across the endless sand dunes.
“Did it… work?”
