The wound is worse than she told me.
Much worse.
She spins. Drops the bandages. Her eyes go wide when she sees my face—when she sees whatever expression is written there that I can’t feel through the rage flooding my system.
“Izan—”
She stands her ground as I reach her, and that stubborn refusal to cower makes everything worse because it makes mewanther more.
“I’m handling it.”
“You’re handling it badly.” My hands find her waist. Move her shirt aside to see the full extent of the damage. The touch is clinical. Professional. The assessment of a soldier evaluating an injury.
My body’s response is anything but.
Her skin feels like a brand, a heat that demands I bite down and mark it as my own. My teeth ache with the need to taste the copper of her blood—not to hurt her, but to ensure every drop is filtered through my own fire. This isn’t touch; it’s a siege. It makes the dragon howl with need I’ve spent decades learning to silence.
“This should have been stitched.” My thumb traces the wound’s edge. “This should have been treated by a healer, not dismissed so you could face it alone.”
“I’ve survived worse.”
“I don’t care what you’ve survived.” The admission tears out of me with more force than I intend. “I care about what happens next. What happensnow. I care about the fact that you’re standing in front of me with a wound that should have been properly treated hours ago.”
“Izan, I’m fine?—”
“You’re not fine.” I step closer. Press her back against the wall with my body. My hands are still on her waist, her shirt still hiked up to expose the wound, and some rational part of me knows I need to stop. The distance I’ve carefully constructedover weeks of proximity can’t be dismissed. I’m the Enforcer of the Cinder Flight, and she’s a tactical asset, and this is inappropriate on levels I can’t even begin to calculate.
That rational part is losing badly.
“You could have died.” A snarl, barely governed. “In that alley. Against those odds. With your magic dampened and no backup, and a wound you didn’t evenfeelbecause you were too busy surviving to notice you were bleeding out.”
“I wasn’t?—”
“Don’t.” I brace one hand against the wall beside her head. Lean in until my forehead nearly touches hers. “Don’t tell me it wasn’t serious. Don’t tell me you had it under control. Don’t tell me any of the lies you tell yourself to keep functioning, because I canseeyou, Alerie. I see everything you try to hide.”
Her eyes are dark. Dilated. Her pulse races against my palm where it rests on her ribs—rapid, uneven, a rhythm that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the same consuming need that’s currently destroying my self-discipline.
“What do you want me to say?” Her voice drops low. Rough.
“I want you to understand what it would do to me if you died.”
The words land in the space between us and stay there.
I watch them hit. Watch her process them. Watch her eyes widen as she grasps what I’m admitting—what I’ve never admitted to anyone, including myself.
“Izan...”
“I’ve built empires on control.” My free hand rises to her face. Cups her jaw. Tilts her head so she can’t look away from whatever’s burning in my expression. “I’ve maintained order in a city that should have torn itself apart centuries ago. I’ve kept the dragon leashed through situations that would have broken lesser beings. And none of it—noneof it—matters when you’re bleeding in front of me.”
Her lips part. An invitation I don’t have the strength to refuse.
I close the distance.
TWENTY-TWO
IZAN
The kiss isn’t gentle. Can’t be gentle, not with the dragon surging against my restraints and her body pressed between me and the wall and the need howling through me to claim, mark,take. My hand fists in her hair—the dark strands she keeps pinned so carefully, controlled, perpetually contained—and I ruin that discipline with a single grip. The other hand stays on her hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, holding her in place while I devour her with all the desperation I’ve been choking back for weeks.
