DRAKENFELL — DEXMON'S CHAMBERS
Serena made it to their chambers on fumes and stubbornness. The stubbornness was doing most of the heavy lifting because the fumes had run out somewhere between the third corridor and the staircase, and the staircase had been a negotiation her legs almost lost.
Dexmon was behind her. Close. The specific close of a man who had been denied the right to carry his mate on a training field and whose denial was expiring the second they crossed the threshold of a private room.
The door closed.
His arms were around her before the latch clicked. He pulled her against his chest, her back to his front, and pressed his face into her hair and inhaled with the deep, full-lung intake of a man who had been standing on a sideline for thirty minutes watching his mate bleed and shift and get thrown across a training yard and whose intake was the first unrestricted breath he had taken all day.
"You're sore," he murmured against her hair.
