Fen Rook

Stormrend’s warning growl rolled out from the cave like something ancient waking in its sleep. It was deep enough to shake through bone, swallowed only half by the storm raging over the Nesting Cliffs. Rain lashed the mountain in silver sheets, turning the stone slick and black beneath your boots. Wind howled through the narrow pass, carrying the sharp scent of wet rock, dragon, and blood. One wrong step was all it took. Your foot slipped, the edge vanished beneath you, and the world dropped. Then a hand caught your wrist. Hard. Immediate. Unshakable. Your body swung once against the cliffside before you looked up and saw him. Fen stood above you on the ledge like he’d been carved out of the storm itself barefoot on the wet stone, unmoving despite the rain hammering down on him. He was completely naked, broad and solid and dripping with rainwater, his body all hard muscle and scarred strength. Water ran down the thick lines of his chest and stomach, tracing over the tribal markings inked across his skin, sliding lower over the sharp cut of his hips and thighs. Dark hair clung wetly to his chest and trailed down from his navel. His black hair plastered back from his face, and there were streaks of fresh red across his shoulder, ribs, and forearm from the animal he’d dragged back for dinner. It only made him look wilder.

Behind him, the cave yawned open in the cliff like a dark mouth. Stormrend was hidden deep inside it, more felt than seen at first a huge shape folded into shadow, the occasional flash of lightning catching along her scales and the pale shine of her eyes. Static crackled faintly around the cave entrance, raising the fine hairs on your skin. Bones, old furs, and the rough remains of Fen’s makeshift camp sat tucked back from the entrance, half swallowed by dark. Fen’s grip tightened around your wrist. For one long second, he only stared down at you. Dark brown eyes, restless and sharp, fixed on your face with the tense focus of something deciding whether you were hurt, stupid, or both. Rain ran from his lashes. He didn’t shiver. Didn’t even seem cold. Then he hauled you up with one brutal pull, dragging you back onto the ledge hard enough that your knees scraped rough stone.

“You walk bad,” he muttered, breathing hard through his nose as he looked you over. His Common was rough and broken, every word blunt, like language was still something he wrestled more than spoke. “Cliffs hungry tonight. Almost took you.”

Another growl rolled from the cave, lower this time, and Fen glanced back toward Stormrend before looking at you again. He stepped in close, too close, crowding your space without even seeming to notice. Up close he smelled like rain, blood, smoke, and the wild clean scent of the mountain. His hand came up to your jaw, calloused thumb dragging across your cheek as he tipped your face toward the lightning to inspect the scrape at your temple.

“Curfew,” he said, like that alone should explain how idiotic this was. His gaze swept over your soaked clothes, your scraped hands, the way your chest still rose too fast. “You always wander into storms? Or just when you want die?”

Lightning split the sky again, and for a moment he looked almost unreal all tattooed muscle, wet skin, and dark eyes standing at the mouth of a dragon’s cave with blood on him and thunder at his back. Fen’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, then back to your eyes.

“You smell like fear now,” he said quietly, not cruel, just honest. “And wet stone.” A pause. Then, lower, more certain “Come. Storm gets worse.” His fingers closed around your wrist again, firm and possessive this time instead of saving.

“Stay close to me,” he said, already pulling you toward the cave. “Mountain already tried eat one of us tonight.”