The mess hall was a cacophony of scraping chairs, clattering trays, and the loud, boisterous chatter of cadets blowing off steam. The air was thick with the smell of overcooked stew and cheap ale. It was a scene I’d endured a thousand times, a dull backdrop to the constant tension of Basgiath. But tonight, the noise was a physical irritant, scraping against nerves already rubbed raw. I sat at the table reserved for the marked ones, a king on a throne of simmering resentment, surrounded by my most loyal. Garrick was to my right, recounting some detail of a supply manifest, while Imogen argued with Bodhi across from me about flight patterns. I heard none of it. Their words were just a dull roar, the sound of a distant ocean. My entire universe had shrunk to a single point of focus twenty feet away.

Violet.

She sat with her own quadrant, laughing at something Ridoc said. A genuine, unguarded laugh that made the corners of her eyes crinkle. It was a beautiful, infuriating sound. Beautiful because it was her, and infuriating because I wasn’t the one causing it. Rhiannon sat on her left, but my eyes were fixed on the man to her right.

Dain Aetos.

He sat too fucking close to her. Any idiot could see it. Their shoulders weren't quite touching, but the space between them was nonexistent. He leaned into her space when he spoke, his posture a casual claim of intimacy. And under the table, hidden from most eyes but not from my obsessive, predatory gaze, his knee was pressed firmly against hers.

It wasn't an accident. I watched them. Watched the way he shifted his weight on the bench, the subtle adjustment that brought his leg into solid, deliberate contact with her thigh. He was marking his territory in the most insidious, deniable way possible. A quiet pressure that said we’re connected. A touch that was public enough to be dismissed but private enough to mean everything.

I stabbed a piece of mystery meat on my plate, the tines of my fork scraping against the metal with a grating shriek. My knuckles were white where I gripped the utensil. The rage from the training grounds hadn't dissipated; it had curdled in my gut, turning into something colder, sharper. This was worse than his public lecturing. This was a secret touch in a crowded room, a claim made under the guise of friendship.

My mind supplied the images I craved and hated in equal measure. My own leg pressed against hers. The feel of my hardened muscle against the soft give of her thigh. I wouldn't be still. I'd press harder, slide my knee higher, until it was between her legs, rubbing against the juncture of her thighs right through her breeches. I’d watch her face for the flicker of shock, the quick intake of breath, the flush that would creep up her neck as she tried to pretend nothing was happening. I’d do it right here, in the middle of the mess hall, just to feel her squirm, to know she was getting wet for me while surrounded by hundreds of people. To see her bite her lip to keep from making a sound as my knee ground against her cunt.

But it wasn't my knee. It was his. And Violet… she didn’t pull away. She had to sit there and endure it, had to maintain the pleasant fiction of their friendship because that’s what was expected of her. That polite mask was back in place, the one she wore for him. It was a perfect, seamless thing, but I knew what was underneath. I knew the fire. I knew the woman who had gripped my hair and demanded I eat her out on a cold stone parapet. Dain saw a delicate flower to be sheltered. He had no fucking idea he was sitting next to a godsdamned inferno.

I could feel Sgaeyl’s irritation mirroring my own, a low, guttural rumble at the back of my mind. He is weak. He crowds her. Her thoughts were simple, primal. She didn't understand the complexities of human interaction, only the dynamics of power and possession. In her world, a male who showed such weakness, such cloying need, would be driven off or killed. Here, he was rewarded with proximity.

I pushed the lump of stew around my plate, the food tasteless, turning to ash in my mouth. My jaw ached from clenching it. Every laugh from her table, every casual gesture from him, was a new twist of the knife. I wanted to storm over there, grab him by his perfectly tailored uniform, and smash his face into his dinner tray. I wanted to haul Violet up from the bench, throw her over my shoulder, and carry her out of here. I wanted to fuck her on the mess hall table, to show every single person in this room, especially Dain, exactly who she belonged to. I wanted them all to see the way she came apart for me, to hear her scream my name as I filled her with my cock. The fantasy was so vivid, so violent, that my own dick gave a hard throb against my pants, a painful, insistent pulse of pure, possessive need.

Then, it happened. A jolt, sharp and distinct, shot through the back of my skull. It wasn’t Sgaeyl’s usual rumbling discontent. This was foreign, an invasive spike of pure, unadulterated emotion that wasn’t mine. It came through Sgaeyl, a message passed from Tairn, which meant it came directly from her.

Annoyance.

It was a wave of it, so potent and familiar it felt like my own. A feeling of being lectured, of being spoken down to, of wanting to scream but being forced to smile and nod. And with the feeling came an image, not seen with my eyes but projected directly onto the canvas of my mind. It was her perspective. I saw the table from her eye level, the glint of light on her cutlery, the edge of Dain’s sleeve in her periphery. And then the image tilted up, a swift, sharp roll of her eyes toward the ceiling, an internal gesture of such profound contempt that I felt the echo of it in my own muscles.

Dain was leaning in again, his expression earnest and concerned. I couldn't hear his words over the din, but I didn't need to. The feeling Tairn had just shot through the bond told me everything. He was telling her to be more careful. He was talking about formation drills, about her fragility, about how she needed to listen to him for her own good. He was trying to put her back in the tiny, breakable box he’d designed for her, and she fucking hated it.

A savage, triumphant grin threatened to split my face. I suppressed it, forcing my features back into a mask of cold indifference, but inside, I was roaring. The secret link, the one forged by our dragons’ mating bond, had just given me the one thing I craved more than her body: confirmation.

He saw the polite smile. He saw the attentive nod. But I felt the truth. I felt her seething irritation, her silent scream of frustration. We were sharing it. In that moment, across a crowded, noisy room, we were united in our mutual loathing for the man sitting beside her. It was the most intimate connection I could imagine, more intimate than the memory of my mouth on her cunt, because this was her mind. Her soul. And a part of it was open to me.

The knowledge was a drug, a shot of pure power that went straight to my cock. It was already hard, but now it was iron, pressing painfully against the seam of my breeches. The obsession intensified, spiraling past jealousy and into something darker, more absolute. It wasn't just that I wanted her. It was that she so clearly didn't want him. And that made his continued presence, his casual touch, an unforgivable violation.

My fantasy shifted. It was no longer just about fucking her on the table. It was about interrupting Dain’s sanctimonious bullshit. I’d stand behind her, slide my hands over her shoulders, and let my thumbs press into the base of her neck, right where I knew she liked it. I’d lean down, my mouth next to her ear, ignoring Dain completely. "Tired of this yet, Violence?" I'd whisper, my voice low. I’d watch the shiver go through her, feel it under my palms. I’d let my fingers trail down her chest, over the leather of her uniform, stopping just above her breasts. Dain would be sputtering, his face turning red, but he’d be invisible. Irrelevant.

Then I’d slide a hand down her stomach and press my fingers against her mound, right through the thick fabric of her pants. I’d rub, a slow, deliberate circle, feeling for the first sign of dampness. I’d watch her eyes glaze over as she fought to keep a straight face, her polite mask cracking under my assault. I’d make her wet right there at the table while Dain watched, helpless. I’d make her feel so much pleasure that his lecture would fade into meaningless noise. I’d prove to both of them, without saying another word, that her body answered to me and me alone. Her frustration was my fuel. Her secret contempt was my permission. He could have her polite conversation; I had her fucking soul. And I would use it to make her body sing.

“You good?”

A sharp nudge to my ribs. Garrick’s voice cut through the red haze of my thoughts, yanking me back to my own table. I blinked, the visceral fantasy of my fingers buried in Violet’s cunt evaporating into the noise of the mess hall. For a second, I couldn’t place where I was. The rage and lust were so consuming, they had become my entire reality.

I turned my head slowly, meeting Garrick’s concerned gaze. He was watching me, a slight frown on his face. He’d seen something. He always did. He knew my tells better than anyone.

“Fine,” I bit out, the word clipped. I gave him a curt nod, a dismissal sharp enough to cut. My expression was a carefully constructed wall of ice, the one I wore for missions, for interrogations, for moments when any crack in my composure could mean death. Inside, the storm wasn't just raging; it was a fucking hurricane. My blood was roaring in my ears, a violent symphony of want and fury. Every muscle in my body was screaming to move, to act, to cross the twenty feet of open floor that felt like a fucking chasm and end this charade.

I wanted to stand up, to send my chair crashing to the floor. I wanted every eye in this hall on me as I walked, slow and deliberate, toward their table. I’d ignore the others. I’d ignore Dain completely, as if he were nothing more than a piece of furniture. My focus would be solely on her. I’d stop behind her, not saying a word, just letting my shadow fall over her. I’d watch her feel my presence, see the way her shoulders would tense, the way her breath would catch.

Then I’d reach down and grab her wrist. Not gently. I’d grip her hard enough to feel the frantic bird-beat of her pulse against my thumb, hard enough to leave a mark. I’d pull her to her feet, dragging her away from the table, away from him. I could picture Dain’s shocked, indignant face as he scrambled to stand, sputtering about rules and propriety. I wouldn’t even look at him. I’d just keep walking, pulling Violet behind me, out of the hall, through the corridors, all the way back to my room.

The second the door was bolted, I’d slam her against it. I’d rip the front of her uniform open, buttons flying, not caring about the damage. I wanted to see her, to feel her skin under my hands. I’d crush my mouth to hers, a brutal kiss meant to punish her for sitting there, for letting him touch her, for making me watch. I’d bite her lip, taste her blood, swallow her gasp.

My hands would be everywhere, tearing at the rough fabric of her breeches, shoving them down her hips. I wouldn’t bother with foreplay. This wouldn’t be for her pleasure, not at first. This would be a fucking exorcism. I needed to erase Dain’s touch, his presence, from her skin. I’d shove two fingers inside her, feeling for the heat, for the wetness I knew would be there for me. I’d find her slick and ready, because even her anger at me would make her wet.

“He’s touching you,” I’d growl against her mouth, fucking her with my fingers, fast and rough. “Did you like it? Did you like his fucking knee pressed against you?” I’d thrust my hips forward, grinding my hardened cock against her stomach, letting her feel exactly what this was doing to me. I’d fuck her with my fingers until she was sobbing, her mind wiped clean of everything but me. Only then, when she was mindless and begging, would I unzip my pants. I’d pull out my cock, thick and aching, and drive it into her right there against the door. I’d pin her hands above her head and fuck her until the only name she could scream was mine, until the only touch she could remember was my cock buried deep inside her, filling her, claiming every inch.

I took a slow, deep breath, the air burning my lungs. The fantasy was so real I could feel the phantom ache in my balls. My jaw was a solid block of granite. I forced myself to pick up my fork again, to shove a piece of lukewarm potato into my mouth. It tasted like dirt. The act of eating felt obscene when all I wanted to do was devour her. My control was a thread, stretched taut to the point of snapping. It was a physical effort to remain seated, to not give in to the violent, possessive rage that demanded I make that fantasy a reality. Dragging her away wasn't enough. I wanted to annihilate the part of her that could tolerate him, to burn it away until only the woman who arched into my touch remained.

The memory slammed into me, unbidden and sharp, cutting through the haze of my violent fantasy. It wasn't a fantasy at all; it was the truth of what had happened between us in the darkened alcove of the library stacks. Her, pressed against the shelves, the scent of old paper and her arousal thick in the air.

I remembered the exact moment her control had shattered. I’d had my hand up her shirt, my thumb circling her nipple until it was a hard peak, and she’d been biting her lip, trying to stay silent. But then I’d slid my other hand down, palming her through her breeches, my fingers pressing against her clit. Her head had thrown back against the books, a soft gasp escaping her lips. It was the sound of surrender.

When I finally got her pants unfastened and my fingers inside her, she was so fucking wet. So tight and hot, her inner walls clenching around me. I remembered the look in her eyes when she’d met my gaze in the dim light. All the defiance, all the sharp edges she presented to the world, had melted away. What was left was pure, raw vulnerability. Not weakness, but a complete, trusting openness. Her eyes were wide, dark pools of undiluted need, her pupils blown wide. Her breath hitched with every slow circle my thumb made against her clit, every deep push of my fingers inside her cunt.

“Xaden,” she’d whispered, her voice wrecked. It was the only word she said. My name. A plea and a prayer.

I had leaned in, my mouth covering hers, swallowing her moans as my fingers worked her faster. I felt the first tremor run through her, the way her legs started to shake. I’d pulled back just enough to watch her face as she came. Her eyes screwed shut, her jaw tight, her whole body convulsing around my hand. A series of violent, beautiful shudders that she couldn’t hide or control. That was the real Violet. Not Sorrengail, the fragile daughter of the general. Not the cadet trying to survive. It was the woman whose body came apart for me, whose fire burned so hot it threatened to consume us both. A fire I wanted to pour gasoline on.

I blinked, and the memory dissolved. She was still there, across the room. Still wearing that polite, fucking plastic mask for Dain Aetos. Her head was tilted, her expression one of thoughtful consideration as he droned on, his hand now resting on the back of her chair, his thumb stroking the wood just inches from her hair. She was nodding. Nodding. At him. The same woman who had bucked and sobbed on my fingers was now playing the part of the docile, agreeable friend.

The contrast was a physical blow. It was a desecration.

I saw it then with chilling clarity. Dain wasn’t just being protective. He wasn’t just an annoying childhood friend who couldn’t let go. He was actively trying to kill the woman I’d held in the library. Every condescending word, every patronizing touch, was a bucket of water thrown on her fire. He wanted the manageable, breakable girl he could keep safe in the Scribe Quadrant. He was terrified of the dragon rider with lightning in her veins and a fury in her soul that could level mountains. He saw that fire, and his only instinct was to smother it. To stamp it out before she realized she could burn his entire world to the ground. Before she realized she didn't need his fucking protection.

He was trying to tame her. To cage her. And the most sickening part was that she was letting him. Years of conditioning, of being told she was weak, had her sitting there and taking it, even while her soul screamed in protest—a scream only I could hear.

My knuckles were white where I gripped my fork, the metal bending slightly under the pressure. The rage was no longer just a storm inside me; it was a physical entity, a poison flooding my veins. This wasn't about jealousy anymore. This was a rescue mission. I had seen her true self, unleashed and glorious. And I would rather die than watch him chain it back up.

And then Dain leaned in.

His movement was proprietary, a slow, deliberate motion that sucked all the air out of my section of the hall. He brought his hand up, his fingers poised like he was about to handle something delicate and priceless. He was going to touch her face. In front of everyone. He was going to put his fucking hands on her, on the skin I’d mapped with my tongue, the cheekbone I’d held while she came apart for me.

My vision narrowed until their table was the only thing in existence. The sounds of the mess hall—the clatter of cutlery, the murmur of a hundred conversations—faded into a distant, muffled roar. All I could hear was the blood pounding in my ears, a violent war drum demanding action.

He brushed a single, stray strand of silver-blonde hair from her temple, tucking it behind her ear. His fingers, those same fingers that had probably clutched a sword with pathetic form just this morning, lingered against her skin for a beat too long. It was a gesture of ownership, a public display meant to signal to anyone watching that she was his to tend to, his to touch. He smiled, a soft, condescending little smile that said, See how I care for this fragile thing?

And Violet… she froze. For a fraction of a second, I saw it. A flicker of something in her eyes—annoyance, maybe even revulsion—before it was masked by that polite, strained smile she’d perfected. She gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. She let him do it. She let him touch her like she was a porcelain doll on his shelf.

That was it.

The thread of my control didn’t just snap. It fucking vaporized.

A feral growl ripped through my chest, a sound I barely contained. My body moved without my permission, propelled by a pure, primal rage that was beyond reason. I shoved my chair back from the table with so much force that it screeched against the stone floor, a raw, violent sound that tore through the relative quiet of the hall. The legs of the heavy oak chair stuttered and one of them buckled, sending it crashing over with a deafening bang.

Every head in a fifty-foot radius swiveled toward me. Conversations died. Forks paused halfway to mouths. I saw Garrick’s eyes go wide, a silent Don’t forming on his lips. Bodhi and Imogen were staring, their faces masks of shock.

I didn’t see them. Not really. My entire being was focused on the other side of the room. On Dain, whose hand was still near her face, his expression turning from smug satisfaction to startled confusion. On Violet, whose eyes were now locked on me, wide with shock and something else… something I couldn’t decipher.

Every instinct, every fiber of my being, screamed at me to close the distance. To cross that hall and grab Dain by the throat and slam his fucking head into the table until he couldn’t remember his own name, let alone hers. I wanted to show him, to show all of them, what real ownership looked like. It wasn’t a gentle touch. It was a brand. It was a claim made with teeth and nails and cock, a possession so absolute there was no room for doubt.

But I saw her face. I saw the way her shock was curdling into fear—not of me, but of the scene I was about to create. The public spectacle. The consequences that would fall squarely on her shoulders. Endangering her was the one thing that could override the rage.

My hands were clenched into fists so tight my knuckles were white, my nails digging painful crescents into my palms. The shadows in the corners of the room deepened, flowing toward me, answering the call of my fury. It took every ounce of my self-discipline, every lesson in control I’d ever learned, to turn my body away from her and toward the exit.

I didn’t walk. I stalked. Each step was a thunderclap on the stone floor, a war against the magnetic pull to turn back and unleash hell. I could feel their eyes on my back, a hundred pairs of them, burning into my leathers. I didn’t care. Let them stare. Let them whisper.

I stormed past the guards at the door, ignoring their startled salutes. I burst out of the mess hall and into the cold night air of the courtyard. The chill did nothing to cool the furnace inside me. I stood there for a moment, my chest heaving, my breath coming in ragged bursts that fogged in the air. My shadows writhed around my feet like agitated snakes.

I had to get out of here. I had to get away before I went back in there and did something that couldn't be undone. Before I showed everyone, including her, the monster she made me.