10: A Predator’s Claim

Blaire barely had time to catch her breath. Her entire body ached from the brutal fight, her limbs trembling as she forced herself to stand tall despite the lingering pain. The taste of blood still clung to her tongue, metallic and bitter, but she swallowed it down, refusing to show weakness.

She had won.

She had survived.

The cheers and murmurs of the crowd faded into background noise as she exhaled, rolling her sore shoulder. The sting of exhaustion settled into her muscles, but she ignored it. Instead, a strange unease crawled up her spine, the unmistakable sensation of being watched.

Slowly, she lifted her gaze.

And her breath hitched.

Larkin.

He leaned against the far wall of the training hall, arms crossed over his broad chest, exuding effortless ease. But there was nothing casual about the way he was staring at her. His crimson eyes burned, intense and unreadable, like a predator locking onto prey.

A slow, cold dread curled in her stomach.

There was something about the way he looked at her—not just amusement, not just intrigue. Something deeper. Something darker.

Blaire's instincts screamed at her to move.

Without a second thought, she turned sharply and strode toward the exit. Her body protested with every step, muscles sore and burning, but she didn't care. She needed to get away. Away from him.

The moment she stepped into the cool, empty hallways of Silvercrest, she let out a slow breath, trying to steady herself. The dimly lit corridor stretched ahead, silent and still. Her footsteps echoed against the stone floor as she moved quickly, desperate for distance.

But then

Footsteps.

Slow. Unhurried.

Following her.

Blaire's stomach tightened. She didn't need to turn around. She already knew who it was.

Larkin.

Her pulse spiked. She quickened her pace, forcing her aching legs to move faster.

The hallway stretched endlessly before her. No one around. No escape.

And then—

A hand shot out, grabbing her wrist.

Before she could react, she was pulled back, her body colliding with solid heat.

Larkin.

His grip was firm but not painful, his touch impossibly warm against her skin. His scent hit her like a drug—dark, woodsy, something primal mixed with something sharper, like a storm brewing beneath the surface.

"Running away?" His voice was low, edged with amusement.

Blaire jerked her wrist, but his hold didn't budge. "Let go."

Larkin's lips curled into a smirk. "You should be more careful, Delphine. Walking alone after a fight like that?" He tilted his head slightly, his crimson gaze flickering over her face. "It's almost like you want to be caught."

Blaire glared up at him. "You're insane."

His grip tightened—a fraction, just enough to remind her that she wasn't going anywhere until he decided to let her.

Then—his expression changed.

His nose twitched. His smirk faded.

His gaze darkened.

Blaire barely had time to process it before his grip shifted.

Faster than she could react, he pressed her against the wall, caging her in with an arm braced beside her head.

Blaire sucked in a sharp breath, her heart slamming against her ribs.

What the hell is he doing?

Larkin leaned in, his face inches from hers. His nose skimmed along the side of her neck as he inhaled deeply.

And then—

He growled.

Low. Deep. A sound that sent an involuntary shiver down her spine.

"You smell like him."

Blaire froze.

Dion.

The realization hit her like a slap. His scent must still be on her—his sweat, his blood from the fight.

Larkin's fingers brushed against the curve of her throat, his touch deceptively soft. His crimson eyes burned into hers, something unreadable flickering in their depths.

"I don't like it."

Blaire barely had time to react before he leaned in closer.

His lips hovered just above her skin.

And then—

His tongue flicked out, slow, deliberate, tracing the sensitive spot at the base of her throat.

Blaire's entire body locked up.

Heat flooded her veins, a traitorous shiver running through her. The sensation was intoxicating—warm, possessive, almost reverent.

Her lips parted in a sharp inhale, her mind momentarily blanking at the unexpected intimacy of it.

It wasn't just a touch.

It was a claim.

Her pulse roared in her ears as reality crashed down on her. She shoved against his chest, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Her voice was breathless, laced with both shock and something she refused to acknowledge.

Larkin didn't move far. He studied her, his crimson eyes gleaming with something unreadable.

A slow smirk curled his lips.

His thumb traced along her jaw, his touch featherlight. "You smell incredible.You taste as good as you smell."

Blaire's stomach twisted.

Her body was betraying her, reacting to something it shouldn't be reacting to.

And then, his earlier words sank in.

Mine.

She stiffened.

Her pulse pounded as fear crept up her spine, not because of what he had done—but because of what it meant.

She wasn't just a person to him.

She was prey.

Larkin tilted his head slightly, watching her, as if waiting for something.

Then, he leaned in one last time, his breath warm against her ear.

"You should rest up, Delphine." His voice was soft, but it carried weight. "I have a feeling I'll be seeing a lot more of you."

And just like that—he was gone.

Leaving Blaire pressed against the cold wall, her heart hammering, her body burning, and her mind spiraling with a terrifying realization.

Larkin Ashborne had set his sights on her.

And she had no idea how to escape.

Blaire barely registered the sound of approaching footsteps until Lydia's voice cut through the thick haze of her thoughts.

"Blaire? Are you okay? Let's get you to the infirmary"

Blaire blinked, her head snapping up. Lydia was standing in front of her, her brown eyes filled with concern.

She swallowed hard, forcing a quick nod. "Yeah. Just… tired."

Lydia didn't look convinced. Her gaze flickered between Blaire and the direction Larkin had disappeared. "Are you sure? You look—" She hesitated. "Flushed."

Blaire cursed inwardly.

She forced a scowl, shoving away the lingering sensation of Larkin's touch. "It's nothing."

But even as she said it—

She could still feel the ghost of his fingers against her skin.

The burn of his words.

The weight of his claim.

And the worst part?

She wasn't sure if she hated it as much as she should.