Tonight.
THIRTEEN
DRAYKE
I’ve made my decision.
No more waiting. No more excuses. Veylor could arrive any moment, and an unclaimed mate is a dead mate. My dragon has been roaring the same truth since I left my brothers in the forest: claim her or lose her.
So I’ll claim her. Tonight. And pray to every god I’ve ever cursed that her fire is strong enough to survive mine.
The walk back from the eastern ridge feels longer than usual. My boots crunch over pine needles, but my mind is already at the cabin, running through how to tell her. What words to use.
The claiming could kill her. That truth hasn’t changed. But leaving her unclaimed guarantees her death—slowly, painfully, at Veylor’s hands. Between a chance of survival and certain torture, the choice is clear.
Selene is curled on the couch with her grandmother’s journals when I return. Firelight plays across her features, catching the determined set of her jaw. She looks up as I enter, gray eyes searching my face.
“You look like you’ve decided something.”
“I have.” I cross the room. Kneel in front of her so we’re eye to eye. “Selene, I need to claim you. Now.”
Her breath catches. She sets the journal aside slowly, carefully. “You’ve been fighting this for days. What changed?”
“Veylor is coming. Soon. Maybe tonight. And an unclaimed Fire-Bringer—” I force the words out. “They can use you against me. Compel you. Drain you. The claiming mark protects you in ways I can’t.”
“And if it kills me instead?”
The question hangs between us. I don’t look away from her eyes.
“Then at least it will be quick. Merciful.” My voice cracks on the word. “Not what Veylor has planned. Not hours of—” I can’t finish.
She reaches out. Cups my face in her hands. Her palms are warm, steady—steadier than mine.
“I found a journal,” she says quietly. “A hidden one. I know what the claiming requires. Trust. Complete surrender.” Her thumbs trace my cheekbones. “I’m not afraid, Drayke.”
“You should be.”
“Probably.” A ghost of her usual humor flickers in her eyes. “But I trust you. Completely. And I’d rather die in your arms than survive without you.”
My dragon roars triumph and terror in equal measure. She means it. Every word.
“If I lose control?—”
“You won’t.” She stands, pulling me up with her. “I’m a Fire-Bringer. Fire can’t burn fire.” Her hands slide down to grip my shirt. “Now stop stalling.”
I carryher to the bedroom.
She protests—“I can walk”—but my dragon won’t allow it. Not for this. She’s mine to protect, to worship, to claim. The short distance from couch to bed feels sacred, ceremonial.
I lay her on the mattress and stand over her, drinking in the sight. Chestnut hair spread across the pillow. Gray eyes bright with want and trust. The racing pulse at her throat that calls to every predatory instinct I possess.
Four hundred years I’ve waited for this. Four hundred years of control, of restraint, of believing I was too dangerous to claim a mate.
“You’re sure.” One last chance for her to change her mind. One last moment of sanity before I lose myself in her completely.
“Get down here.” She grabs my shirt and yanks.
I go willingly. Cover her body with mine, brace myself on my forearms so I don’t crush her. Her legs wrap around my hips immediately, pulling me closer, and the heat of her through our clothes makes my dragon roar.
