Hair spilled across Lykor’s eyes as his chest heaved against Jassyn’s, but he didn’t move. The wind calmed. Only the grind of his wing talons, locking tighter around Jassyn’s, broke the quiet.
Smoke rose from Lykor’s shoulders, the scent of scorched leather thick in the air. He hadn’t flinched, wings flared to take another strike—as if the Maw would have to unmake him, piece by piece, to break through.
Breath shallow, Jassyn’s wings twitched, every nerve shuddering with an aftershock the air no longer carried. Panic scraped his ribs, yet beneath it, something more dangerous stirred.
Their eyes met—Lykor’s faintly glowing—and the pull snapped taut.
He couldn’t look away.
Beastblood coiled, feral and restless, urging him to reach. Each heartbeat pushed him closer, as if nearness itself meant he had the right to claim the one who’d protected him.
Jassyn swallowed hard, choking back the darker current that beckoned him to drown the terror. Forge it into fire. Blur fear into desire. Trembling into ache. But he stopped himself, because all he’d ever learned of touch was how easily it could destroy.
And perhaps the bitter truth was admitting that he longed for someone he wasn’t sure he could trust himself to hold. Not when beastblood distorted everything, confusing desire with care. Not when his scars remembered possession as pain, not closeness. And not when Lykor—carrying just as many wounds—was the one he feared he might break, even by wanting too much.
The storm folded back into the sky, but Jassyn’s body hadn’t stilled. He’d forced the beastblood down, yet his pulse raced, breath catching ragged, muscles twitching as though lightning cracked in his veins.
His awareness slipped from Lykor to the height gaping open around them. The vastness struck all at once. The ledge beneath him no longer felt like ground at all—only a strip of stone hung in the sky, nothing below but the endless fall.
Jassyn’s balance swayed. With a gasp, his wings vanished. He couldn’t bear the stretch of membrane, the threat of lift. Not when the thought of flight made his stomach clench.
He lurched sideways out of Lykor’s gravity, the motion too desperate to mask as anything but fear. Wings and scales retreating, Lykor stepped away and let him go.
Stone grated beneath Jassyn’s boots as he stumbled. His legs buckled, his knees crashing against rock.
The sky reeled, tugging like a riptide. He squeezed his eyes shut, gasping on air that vanished as fast as he found it.
Hands closed on his shoulders—firm, burning with strength.
“Jassyn.” Lykor’s voice struck through the wind. “Breathe. Look at me.”
He couldn’t. The world spun too fast behind his closed eyes, the gale shrieking through his ribs.
Jassyn felt Lykor drop beside him. Steady hands cupped his face, cradling him as if he might break. A touch that didn’t command, didn’t push, didn’t make him flinch.
“Breathe,” Lykor said again, quieter this time. “You’re here. You’re not falling.”
“I can’t—” Jassyn shook his head, the plunge clawing at the back of his eyes. “We’re too high. I can’t— Stars, you could’ve been killed. Why didn’t you warp?”
His voice broke. Unable to open his eyes, he clung to Lykor’s wrists like they were the only solid thing left.
“I’m sorry,” Jassyn whispered. The words tumbled out, one fear bleeding into the next. “I should’ve stopped the lightning. Should’ve known Essence would call it.”
He’d never be able to stand beside Lykor and face the storm. Always a burden to shield.
“What’s wrong with me?” Jassyn choked out. “I’m never going to fly.”
“You will,” Lykor said, his voice forged in conviction, not comfort. “You’re the strongest person I know.”
Jassyn shook his head, a disbelieving laugh scraping loose, sharp as a sob. But Lykor didn’t relent.
“Shift your eyes to dragonsight,” he urged. “They’re made for this. For distance. For sky. So are you.”
Clenching his jaw, Jassyn trembled as beastblood slid hot through his veins, restless and aching to rise.
It didn’t feel like strength. Not when every heartbeat thrashed, sharpening his emotions until they cut. Panic flared into aggression, care twisted into possession, hunger wore themask of need. He hated it—hated how even desire turned dangerous in its grasp.
Control had always been fragile, slipping like sand. Lost to Stardust. To fear. To the hands that had once stripped him bare of choice.
