The fabric at the entrance stirs as he lifts it, warm air spilling out to meet us. Inside, the space is dim and spare. A low palletlayered with hides. A few personal items arranged with careful order. It smells like him. Sun-warmed scales, desert wind, something deeper and steadier that settles instantly under my skin. He pauses at the threshold, hand still holding mine.
“This is mine,” he says quietly. Careful—not possessive, but informative. An invitation. “If you would rather?—”
“I do not,” I say at once, surprised by the certainty in my voice. I squeeze his fingers. “I want to be here.”
Something in him loosens. I feel it through his hand, through the way his shoulders drop just a fraction.
“Then, please, come in,” he says.
The tent closes behind us with a soft whisper. The sounds of camp dull, becoming distant and unimportant. For a moment we just stand there, facing each other in the half-light, as if neither of us wants to be the first to move.
Up close, everything about him feels more real. The faint nicks along his scales. The controlled power in the way he holds himself still. The care—always the care—in his eyes.
My pulse stutters.
“You are shaking,” he says softly.
“So are you,” I reply.
That earns me a quiet huff of breath that might be a laugh. He lifts one hand, slow enough that I can stop him if I want to. I do not. His fingers brush my cheek, warm and rough and infinitely gentle.
“I do not take lightly what this means,” he says. “If I cross this line with you, it is not… temporary.”
My throat tightens. “Good.”
His eyes darken, molten and intent. He leans his forehead against mine, horns angled carefully away, his breath mingling with mine.
“I have fought beside many,” he murmurs. “I have protected others. But choosing you—” He exhales. “That is different.”
“It feels different,” I whisper. “Being chosen.”
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. The tension between us is not frantic, but it is dense—coiled, full of promise instead of fear.
Rakkh’s arms slide around me, not enclosing, not trapping. Holding. I melt into him without thinking, my hands fisting lightly in the fabric of his pants, pressing my cheek to the solid coolness of his chest. His hearts beat slow and powerful beneath my ear.
“You are safe here,” he says again, and this time it is not reassurance. It is a vow.
I tilt my head back, meeting his gaze. The air between us feels charged, fragile, like the moment before lightning strikes. I want him to kiss me, but he does not. Yet.
Instead, he rests his brow against mine once more, breathing me in, grounding us both. Letting this moment exist without rushing it into something else. And somehow, that restraint—chosen, deliberate—makes everything that comes next feel inevitable.
30
LIA
The quiet stretches, but it’s not awkward or heavy—just full.
Rakkh shifts first, guiding me gently toward the pallet. He doesn’t pull. He doesn’t lead without checking. Every movement is an invitation awaiting my response; I answer each one without hesitation. When we sit, he remains close but not crowding, his knee warm against mine, his presence as steady as gravity.
“This is not how I imagined my claiming,” he says softly, eyes lowered for a moment as if choosing the words with care. “There was supposed to be ceremony. Witnesses. A formal declaration.”
I smile, a little crooked. “Sorry to disappoint.”
He huffs out a breath—almost a laugh.
“You do not.” His gaze lifts to mine again, intent and unguarded. “This is better.”
Something in my chest aches at his words. I reach for him this time, fingers brushing the edge of his jaw, feeling the faintridges of scale beneath my thumb. He stills completely, as if he’s memorizing the sensation.
