29. Drasuk

29

Drasuk

The last stubborn spike comes free with a satisfying pop. I toss it into the water with the others, watching it disappear in a swirl of bubbles.

Relief washes over me, doing nothing to crowd out the desire that simmers beneath the surface each time I brush against her.

Kira, still submerged in the water, is a vision of raw vulnerability.

Her face, usually adorned with a mask of defiance, is etched with pain, her breathing ragged. Yet, even in this state, she exudes an undeniable strength, a quiet fire that burns brighter than anything I've encountered on this terrible planet.

As I reach out to offer her a hand, a niggling urge takes hold.

My fingers, rough from years of combat, brush against the cool smoothness of her exposed stomach. It's a fleeting touch, almost an afterthought, but the jolt that runs through me was immediate, a spark igniting a bonfire within.

So much for finding relief.

Kira's breath hitches. Her eyes shoot up to meet mine, a mixture of surprise and indignation flaring within them. Before she can protest, I retract my hand, the phantom warmth of her skin lingering on my fingertips.

There is a satisfied cant to my spines, I'm sure of it. It isn't just the thrill of successfully navigating the treacherous terrain or the adrenaline rush of the fight that still pulses through me. This is something altogether different.

A yearning that goes beyond mere survival.

Something forbidden.

"There's a lot more of you I wouldn't mind seeing cleansed," I rumble, a playful lilt to my voice.

A snort escapes her nose, half in pain, half in amusement. "As much as I appreciate the offer, lizard man , I can handle the rest myself."

Despite her words, her eyes hold something else in them I don't know how to interpret.

I lean closer, relishing the earthy scent that clings to her damp skin. "Are you sure? You seem to be having quite a bit of trouble with remaining clothed."

My teasing only serves to deepen the flush creeping up her neck. "Don't push your luck."

The growl that escapes her throat, however, isn't entirely devoid of heat. It sends a delicious shiver down my spine.

Here is a woman who wasn't afraid to show her teeth, to meet me head-on. And for whatever reason, I keep seeking more.

"Rear wipe," she mutters, then her eyes widen. "Finally," she growls out, throwing her head back in laughter. "Something that properly translates. Well, sort of translates."

"It only took you an entire day. It's a simple language, Kira. Very straightforward, and yet you still manage to approach it like... What was your phrase? A fumbling fornicator."

My amusement falters at the icy glare she shoots my way. "Fornicate in your own hole," she hisses out.

"We clearly need to discuss our roles and holes. I know you have one. I can smell how much it wants me to fill it," I respond, my tone playful yet edged with seriousness.

She squirms away from me, grabbing her bag and knife with a determined look. Her movements are quick and precise as she cuts her hair again, the strands falling into the water. I watch, fascinated, as she tosses the hair into the stream.

I cannot help but make a game out of it, splashing into the water and attempting to catch and eat the floating strands. She stares at me, her expression a mix of incredulity and amusement.

"You're crazy," she mutters, shaking her head. "Do you want some of the rations instead?" she asks, a hint of concern in her voice.

"I will eat again in a few sun cycles," I say, dismissing the notion with a wave of my hand. "Food is not what I hunger for right now."

She narrows her eyes at me, but then softens. "You looked like a hatchling just now. I bet you were a terrible listener and drove your mother crazy."

"She was out protecting the city. Drakonid aren't raised by their parents, but in broods watched over by aged civilians. Hatchlings who show interest and ability later go to Maj'Ras veterans with an interest in young warriors. I was taught to hunt by the elders. Our prey was fierce and cunning, much like you."

I wiggle my spines at her, enjoying the way she rolls her eyes.

"I grew up as a military brat ," she shares. "My parents were always moving, always training. By the time I was ten, I could shoot better than most soldiers. It wasn't an easy life, but it made me strong."

Our eyes meet, and for a moment, there is an understanding between us.

"Tell me more," I urge, wanting to know everything about her.

She hesitates, then continues. "When I was thirteen, we were stationed in a war zone. It was the first time I saw real combat. My parents were on the front lines, and I was left to fend for myself. I had to learn quickly how to survive, how to fight, and how to protect those I cared about."

"Why would the young be so close to combat?"

She huffs out a breath. "It didn't use to be like that, but things are more desperate every year. I think they hope it will mean more of us will be warriors, and my parents agreed to it."

She smirks. "Believe it or not, it's also where I learned my first life skill."

I keep my gaze on her. "And what would that be?"

She snorts with amusement, "It's where I learned to cut my hair. It was a necessity. Long hair can be a disadvantage in a fight..." she tapers off, suddenly gaining a faraway look in her eyes.

"I, uh, learned that lesson the hard way after..." She shakes her head, letting the already regrowing pink threads fling water about. "It doesn't matter how. I've kept it short ever since."

I assume there is a very interesting story behind that, but I figure now is no time to pry.

I imagine how adorable she would be scrapping with someone and shrieking at them as they pull her threads.

Then my grin falls. Perhaps viewing this little human as cute is not a fair assessment.

Tiny as she may be, she was also raised into combat and pursued the same line as she got older. Just as I was, though in radically different environments.

"You are admirable," I say softly, then berate myself for saying something about such an obviously weaker species.

Why is she an exception? She is even weaker than a braceaaer. A genali, even.

She looks away, uncomfortable with the compliment. "I'm just doing what I have to do to survive," she replies uneasily.

"And you do it well," I say blithely before almost choking on a mix of my own words and a distressed groan of pleasure as an all too familiar sweet smell clogs up my airways.

It's that scent again. It might be the end of me, taking away my breath, causing a hitch that leads to a harsh cough that overtakes my body.