“Draven,” Valerion finally said, his deep voice breaking the silence, though it was not a greeting—it was a statement, a test.
“Valerion,” Draven responded, his tone just as measured.
The two men studied each other for a moment longer, as if waiting to see who would make the first move. It was Valerion who turned first, pivoting sharply and disappearing into the massive tent behind him without another word. A silent command for Draven to follow.
Cyrus shot a glance at Draven, a wordless question. Draven gave a subtle nod, and together they stepped forward, past the guards, past Raphael—who muttered something under his breath as he turned and followed as well.
Inside the tent, the air was thick with incense, the low glow of candlelight illuminating the large space. And there, on a grand but simple bed, lay Azrael.
Draven’s breath stilled.
She was deathly pale, her skin almost as white as the sheets she lay upon. Her dark lashes fluttered slightly, her chest rising and falling so faintly it was barely perceptible. He had seen her battle, had fought against her strength firsthand. This was not the Azrael he knew.
Valerion moved to her side, his large hand once again wrapping around hers, his thumb brushing over her cold skin. For the first time since they arrived, Draven saw something in Valerion’s expression that was not sharp edges and cold calculation. There was something raw there, something unspoken.
“She stirred briefly before you arrived,” Valerion said, eyes still on his daughter. “She spoke your name.”
Draven’s jaw clenched. He didn’t know why that affected him, but it did.
Cyrus remained silent, observing everything, while Raphael stood with his arms crossed, looking at Draven like he was something vile beneath his boot.
“What exactly do you want from me?” Draven asked finally, voice even, restrained.
Valerion exhaled sharply, straightening. “To uphold your end of the bargain.”
A cold, humorless smirk twitched at Draven’s lips. “And what bargain would that be?”
Valerion’s gaze snapped to his. “Don’t play games with me, wolf. You know why you’re here. My daughter is dying.”
“And you think I can save her?”
Valerion didn’t blink. “You will save her.”
Silence stretched between them again, heavy and suffocating. Draven took a slow step forward, his eyes never leaving Valerion’s. “And if I don’t?”
Raphael let out a sharp breath, already looking ready to rip Draven’s throat out. But Valerion remained composed, though his grip on Azrael’s hand tightened.
“If she dies,” Valerion said, his voice dangerously low, “then I will kill you with my bare hands.”
Cyrus stepped forward but Draven signalled him to back off.
“I will make every moment slow and painful until you take your last breath.” Valerion finished.
Draven tilted his head slightly. He expected threats, but there was something about the way Valerion said it—something about the quiet certainty in his tone—that sent a sharp thrill of warning through his instincts.
Draven stood still, his breathing steady, his face unreadable. But inside, his wolf howled in agony.
Azrael’s scent filled the tent—faint but unmistakable, weaving through the space like a siren’s call, pulling him in. He turned back, his eyes landing on her fragile form lying motionless on the bed.
A growl rumbled in his chest, low and dangerous.
***MINE.***
Without looking away from her, Draven gave a single order. “Leave.”
Silence.
Raphael was the first to move, casting one last glance at his sister before stepping out. Cyrus hesitated, his sharp gaze flicking between Draven and Valerion, but after a tense pause, he followed.
Valerion lingered. His crimson eyes bore into Draven’s, sharp and knowing. There was something unspoken in his gaze—something ancient and dangerous. But then, finally, he turned and swept out of the tent.
The heavy drape fell behind him.
And now, they were alone.
Draven stepped forward slowly, his movements deliberate. He kneeled beside Azrael’s bed, hovering just above her. His hand trembled slightly as he reached out, hesitating for a breath before his fingers brushed against her skin.
Cold.
Too cold.
A growl built in his throat, but he swallowed it down.
He traced his knuckles down her cheek, then brushed her lips with his thumb. Soft. Still full of life, even in her unconsciousness. His wolf stirred, restless, desperate for more.
Draven bent down, pressing his face into the curve of her neck—right where he had marked her.
The scent of her overwhelmed him, igniting something deep and primal in his core.
The mate bond flared.
A surge of warmth rippled through him, traveling from his mark straight to his heart. His fingers tightened on her jaw, his lips brushing against the delicate skin of her throat. His wolf demanded he take more. That he claim what was his.
And he couldn’t resist.
He crushed his lips against hers.
At first, there was nothing—just the cold stillness of her body. But then, something shifted.
A spark. A tremor.
Her body stirred beneath him. The mate bond pulsed, spreading through his veins like wildfire. Her heartbeat strengthened, her chest rising in a slow but steady rhythm.
Her eyes fluttered open.
Golden. Luminous. Staring straight into his soul.
Draven exhaled sharply, his thumb stroking her jaw. Weakness still lingered in her gaze, but she was awake. She was looking at him.
She didn’t fight him.
She didn’t push him away.
Her lips parted slightly, and in a voice so soft it was barely above a whisper, she breathed his name.
“Draven.”
A single tear slipped from the corner of her eye.
Draven’s heart clenched. He wiped it away with his thumb, his voice rough. “It’s okay. I’m here now.”
Then he kissed her again.
This time, she responded.
Her lips moved against his, hesitant at first but quickly deepening. Draven growled low in his throat, his hands sliding over her body, feeling every delicate curve beneath his calloused fingers.
The fire inside him burned hotter.
He climbed onto the bed, bracing himself above her. His hands roamed her body, his lips devouring hers, their breaths mingling in the heat between them. His fingers tangled in the fabric of her clothes, desperate, impatient.
Too slow.
Too much in the way.
With a frustrated snarl, he grabbed the front of his shirt and tore it open, fabric ripping beneath his grip. His bare chest pressed against hers, skin to skin, heat to cold.
It wasn’t enough.
He needed more.
His lips left hers, trailing down her throat, across her collarbone. He kissed every inch of exposed skin, worshipping her with his mouth, his hands.
Azrael let out a soft moan, her fingers threading through his hair. That sound—gods, that sound—made his blood burn.
He slid his hands under her dress, gripping the fabric. With one smooth motion, he pulled it over her head, baring her fully to him.
He sucked in a sharp breath.
She was perfect.
Pale, luminous skin stretched over a body sculpted by battle and royalty alike. She was a queen, even in her vulnerability. Even as she lay beneath him, staring up at him with heavy-lidded golden eyes.
Draven growled, his mouth finding hers again as his hands explored her. He cupped her breasts, his thumbs teasing her nipples, drawing soft, breathless moans from her lips.
Then he took one into his mouth, flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud while his other hand toyed with the other. Azrael gasped, her back arching into him.
He was losing himself in her.
And he didn’t care.
His lips traveled lower, down the ridges of her stomach, until he reached the apex of her thighs. He parted her legs, his nose grazing against her most intimate place.
His growl vibrated against her skin.
Her scent—gods, her scent—was intoxicating.
He inhaled deeply, letting it consume him before he finally dove in, his tongue flicking over her sensitive bud.
Azrael jolted, a gasp tearing from her throat.
He pinned her hips down with his hands, keeping her still as he worked her with his mouth. His tongue teased and tortured, his lips sucking, his teeth nipping just enough to make her cry out.
He shoved two fingers inside her, curling them, feeling the tight, wet heat around them.
“Draven,” she moaned, her hands gripping the sheets.
The sound of his name on her lips drove him wild.
He pushed her to the edge, dragged her over it, and when she shattered beneath his tongue, he surged back up to claim her lips, letting her taste herself.
Then he positioned himself at her entrance.
His gaze locked onto hers.
Her eyes were dark with desire, her lips parted, her breath shaky. She reached up, cupping his face.
And then, in a whisper that sent a bolt of pleasure straight through his spine, she said, “Draven… fuck me.”
A snarl tore from his throat.
He thrust into her in one smooth, deep stroke.
A choked gasp escaped her, her nails sinking into his back.
She was so tight. So warm. A sharp contrast to her normally cold exterior.
Draven’s forehead pressed against hers, his breath coming in ragged pants. He pulled out and thrust back in, setting a slow, torturous pace.
Azrael whimpered, her legs wrapping around his waist.
“More,” she gasped.
His control snapped.
He pounded into her, rough and desperate, claiming her completely. The sounds of their bodies meeting filled the tent—skin slapping against skin, moans and growls tangling in the air.
His mark burned against her throat, calling to him, demanding he finish what he started.
Draven snarled, his grip tightening on her hips as he slammed into her one final time, his release shattering through him.
And as he came, he sank his teeth into the mark on her neck, sealing their bond completely.
Azrael gasped, her body arching against his, the pleasure consuming them both.
For a long moment, there was only silence, only the sound of their ragged breaths, the feel of their bodies pressed together.
Draven slowly lifted his head, his hands still cradling her hips as he softened inside her. His gaze searched hers, and for the first time, there was no anger, no war between them—only the weight of what had just happened.
Azrael looked up at him, her golden eyes filled with something he had never seen before. Vulnerability. Wonder.
Her fingers trembled as they reached for his face, brushing against the stubble on his jaw. “Draven…” she whispered, his name like a secret on her lips.
His heart clenched.
There was no anger. No look of regret.
Draven exhaled shakily, leaning into her touch, pressing a soft kiss against her palm. He ran his hand through her hair, smoothing it away from her face before kissing her forehead, his lips lingering there.
He kissed her cheek next, then her jaw, slow and reverent, savoring the feel of her beneath him. He wanted her to know this wasn’t just possession. This wasn’t just instinct.
This was her.
His mate. His other half.
Azrael’s hand curled around the nape of his neck, pulling him down until their lips met again—gentler this time, softer, but no less consuming.
When they finally parted, their foreheads pressed together, their breaths mingling in the space between them, she spoke first.
A whisper. A confession. A truth neither of them could deny.
“…Mate.”
His chest tightened. He swallowed hard, then breathed the word against her lips, sealing it between them.
“Mate.”
No longer an enemy. No longer just a rival.
She was his. And he was hers.
There was no turning back now.