Daring the Drakarn Warrior Lord

The clang of training blades rang in my ears.

My muscles burned. Sweat dripped down my spine, soaking
through the thin shirt I wore. But I didn't stop moving. Couldn't stop. Not
when Darrokar circled me like this, wings half-spread, golden eyes tracking
every shift of my weight.

I lunged.

He parried, the screech of metal on metal singing through
the cavern. The impact jarred up my arms, but I used the momentum, spinning
away before his tail could sweep my legs. The heat crystals overhead cast
everything in shades of fire and shadow, turning the smooth patches of floor
into mirrors of light.

"Better," he said, voice rough. "But
predictable."

I bared my teeth. "Then stop me."

He moved.

God, he was fast for someone his size. Seven feet of
scaled muscle and lethal grace, closing the distance before I could blink. I
brought my blade up, angling it to redirect rather than meet his strength
head-on. The training sword was blunted, but still heavy as hell and it slid
along his with a shriek that made my ears ring.

Then his free hand caught my wrist.

I twisted, using a joint lock I'd drilled a thousand
times, but his grip was iron. Scaled, heated iron that sent sparks racing up my
arm. Not pain. Something else entirely. Something that made my breath hitch
even as I drove my knee toward his midsection.

He blocked with his thigh, and suddenly we were
grappling, blades forgotten as we fought for position. His chest pressed
against mine, and I could feel every breath he took, every rumble building in
his throat. The scent of him, smoke and stone and mine flooded my
senses.

I hooked my foot behind his ankle and shoved.

It almost worked.

Almost.

But then his wings flared, balance perfect, and he turned
the momentum against me. The world spun. My back hit the floor, firm enough to
knock the air from my lungs. His weight followed, pinning me, one hand catching
both my wrists and pressing them above my head.

"Yield," he growled.

I bucked against him, testing his hold. Solid. Unmoving.
Heat radiated from every point of contact, seeping through my clothes, into my
skin. My heart hammered against my ribs, and I couldn't tell if it was from
exertion or the way he was looking at me.

Like he wanted to devour me.

"Make me," I said.

His eyes flashed. The hand not restraining my wrists slid
down my side, claws catching on fabric. Not tearing. Not yet. Just a promise of
what those talons could do.

"Careful what you demand, luvae."

The endearment wove around me tight. Low and possessive,
wrapped in that gravelly tone that made my stomach clench. I should have been
thinking tactically, looking for an escape, a reversal. Instead, all I could
focus on was the press of his hips against mine, the way his scales felt
against my overheated skin.

"I'm not afraid of you," I said, and it was
true. I'd never been afraid of him. Not even in the beginning.

"I know." His head dipped, breath hot against
my throat. "That's the problem."

Then his mouth was on my neck, fangs grazing the
sensitive skin there. Not biting. Just pressure, just the threat of it, and a
sound escaped me that was definitely not tactical.

Screw it.

I arched into him, and his grip on my wrists tightened.
The rumble in his chest deepened, vibrating through me. His tongue, long and
clever and absolutely sinful, traced the line of my pulse, and I felt the exact
moment his control started to fray.

"Terra." My name sounded wrecked. "We’re
supposed to—"

"Shut up and kiss me."

He did.