“I know.” My fingers tighten on his arm. “I’m not asking you to change. I’m asking you to let me stand beside you while you stay exactly what you are.”
We move through the ash storm without the usual buffeting. My magic steadies.
“The strike teams are waiting.” His voice has roughened, layers of control straining against whatever he’s holding back.
“Let them wait.”
“The nexus requires assessment?—”
“Let it wait.” I close the remaining distance between us. “This conversation has been delayed long enough.”
His hand tightens around mine. The pressure is significant—not painful, but undeniably possessive. A dragon’s grip on a treasure he’s decided to keep.
“You’re injured.”
“Temporary.”
“You need medical attention.”
“Later.”
“You’re being reckless.”
I laugh—an actual laugh, surprising us both. “That’s your concern? After everything?”
“I am concerned about everything regarding you. Constantly. It’s exhausting and irrational and shows no sign of diminishing.” His free hand rises to my jaw, his palm cupping my face with careful pressure. “You have disrupted every protocol I have established for myself. You have compromised my judgment, mydiscipline, my ability to function as an effective operative. You are the single most destabilizing element I have encountered in centuries of existence.”
“And yet you came for me.”
“I will always come for you.” Each word lands with the force of certainty. “Whether you want me to or not. Whether it serves tactical objectives or not. Whether it’s wise or rational or defensible. You are no longer a variable I can factor out.”
I should be concerned by that. By the totality of his claim, the permanence of his intention, the way his words close doors I might want open later.
I’m not concerned.
I’m relieved.
“Then stop analyzing it.” I press forward until no space remains. “And show me.”
His mouth finds mine before I finish speaking.
The kiss is not gentle. It’s claiming—possessive and demanding, his lips moving against mine with the same deliberate intensity he applies to violence. His hand tightens in my hair, tilting my head, and I open for him without hesitation.
This is what I’ve wanted since the Dead Roads. Since the shelter. Since the moment he emerged from the ash storm and ended my attackers with silent, surgical efficiency.
Not safety. Not protection.
Him.
When he pulls back, his breathing has gone ragged. His eyes have darkened—not with the void of his Oblivion domain, but with desire. Primal and focused. The hunger of a dragon denied what he wants for too long.
“The strike teams.”
“Fuck the strike teams.”
His laugh is unexpected—a low, rough sound I’ve never heard from him. “That is not tactically advisable.”
“I don’t care.”
