“Tyr—”
I silence her with my mouth.
The kiss is harder than the one earlier—rougher, more demanding. Days of fighting and dying and claiming have stripped away whatever patience I might have once possessed. She responds in kind, her teeth catching my lip, her body arching against mine with a force that has nothing to do with strategy.
I grip the backs of her thighs. Lift. She wraps around me without hesitation, legs locking at my back, her arms circling my neck. The position is tactical in its own way—complete contact, no distance between us, her body held entirely in my grip.
“Here?” She breathes the word against my mouth.
“Here.”
I lower us both to the frozen ground, her back against stone that would be painfully cold if either of us were paying attention to temperature. My body covers hers, blocking out the pale light, creating a space that contains only the two of us.
She doesn’t protest. I return the favor, stripping away layers until there’s nothing between her skin and mine.
The mark on her shoulder flares with heat as I cover it with my palm.
I give her what she wants. No restraint. No distance.
She shatters beneath me with a cry that echoes off the frozen ruins. I follow moments later, my roar half-human and half-dragon, a sound of possession and completion that the Arbiter itself will probably hear.
Let it. Let the gods hear. Let every divine construct in this realm register what their executioner failed to prevent and what it will cost them to challenge again.
Afterward, I pull her against me on the cold stone, my body blocking the worst of the chill from reaching her. Her breath comes in unsteady gusts against my throat. My hand rests on her hip—grip firm, hold absolute, unwilling to release her even for a moment.
“The Arbiter’s stronghold.” Her voice is rough from screaming. “That’s where we need to go.”
“I know.”
“It’s mobile. Won’t be where the records said. We’ll need to force it to manifest.”
“Kill enough of its soldiers, and it will come to us.” I press my mouth to the mark, feeling her shudder at the contact. “It takes the destruction of its forces personally.”
“Then we keep killing.” Her fingers slide into the hair at my nape, gripping with a possessiveness that mirrors my own. “Until it can’t ignore us anymore.”
“Yes.”
We don’t move for a long moment. The strategic part of my mind knows we need to get up, get dressed, continue the hunt. The Arbiter won’t wait forever, and every moment we delay gives it time to prepare.
But the dragon is satisfied for now. The claiming is renewed, the mate is safe, and we’ve proven we can destroy the Arbiter’s soldiers with casual efficiency. A few more minutes of holding her won’t change the outcome of the war.
I tighten my hold. Feel her relax into me despite the cold stone beneath her. Feel the bond between us—the certain knowledge that she’s alive, that she’s mine.
The Arbiter will come for us eventually. Divine authority doesn’t tolerate threats to its existence, and we’ve become the biggest threat this realm has seen in centuries.
When it comes, we’ll be ready.
The dragon who couldn’t be crowned has become the dragon who can unmake crowns. The witch who saw truth has become the witch who can weaponize it. And the mating that was supposed to be a desperate survival measure has become…
I don’t finish the thought. Don’t name what it’s become. Naming things gives them power, and some powers are better left unexamined.
But I don’t release her. And when she finally shifts, ready to stand, I keep her where she is.
The hunting can wait.
TWENTY-EIGHT
ZEPHYRA
