My claws extend with a sharp click.
I clamp both of my fists down onto the cold stone behind her back to keep my hunting hands from moving. I lock every single muscle in my towering body exactly into place.
I am the dra-dam. I am control.
I lie wide awake in the dark for solmarks. It is simultaneously the absolute best and worst cycle of my agonizingly long life.
“How is she?” Rok asks quietly through a highly restricted frequency later in the cycle.
“Sleeping,” I project tersely back.
“And you?”
I do not answer him.
She stirsagainst my chest when the cavern quiets down for the mid-sol rest period. Her dark eyelashes flutter.
She wakes up slowly, her cheek still pressed flush against my scarred skin. The light filtering into the alcove illuminates every fragile detail of her face.
Her soft, uncarved skin is smooth against my rough chest. The curve of her cheek is soft, lacking the harsh, flat shape of a Drakav’s jaw. Above the full curve of her parted lips, the short slope of her nose is delicate. Even the fine, dark hairs fanning across her closed eyelids look defenseless.
She should look weak to me. Instead, mydra-kirthumps a fiercely possessive rhythm. She is the most beautiful creature I have ever laid eyes on. The urge to cage her entirely inside the shelter of my own body makes my claws flex into the stone.
The hot, sweet puff of her slow exhale hits my neck.
Her wet-sandy eyes open. She blinks, focusing blindly on the dark expanse of my chest directly in front of her nose.
She slowly tilts her head back and looks up. Our faces are mere breaths apart.
She goes perfectly still.
“How long was I out?” she rasps, her voice quiet and sleep-drenched.
I blink, my brow furrowing. I do not just hear the vocalization; Ifeelthe shape of the question. A shadowyunderstanding of her meaning drifts across the few inches of open air between us.
“Solmarks,” I project down at her, the intent forming smoothly in my mind.
She just stares at me blankly. She blinks slowly, oblivious to my projection. The bridge only works in one direction, it seems.
A deep rumble vibrates in my chest. I tilt my chin down, close the remaining distance, and press my hot forehead firmly against hers.
“Solmarks,” I project again. My mental voice is a low, dragging rumble.
She slowly registers her surroundings. The furs. My arms wrapped securely around her. And then her digits, resting against my chest, stroke the rough hide strip.
Her brow furrows, her gaze shifting around us before landing on my bandaged arms.
“What is this?” she asks, her voice losing the sleep-slurred haze and sharpening.
“Hide,” I project, maintaining the steady pressure of our foreheads.
“Take it off.”
I do not move. “It is?—”
“Take it off, Kol.”
She does not wait for me to comply. She breaks the mental bridge as she pulls back to reach down and tug the knotted end of the hide strip binding my right arm.
