The Dragon's Claim

Chapter 2

Sasha

I've been running and walking in turns for the last five hours, ever since the first pale light of dawn.

My chest burns.

My legs feel like they're splintering with every step.

But I do not stop. I can't stop.

Terror presses against my ribs harder than exhaustion ever could. If they catch me—if he catches me—there will be no mercy.

I have no idea what the General has planned for me, but I know better than to believe it will be anything good.

He might not know I stole data from his computer, but he knows I'm gone. He also knows I took his map. That I defied his direct orders to stay locked in my quarters like a good little pet.

If he finds out everything—the betrayal, the stolen files, the lies—I can’t imagine what he’ll do.

My heart twists sharply in my chest, a sting deeper than the strain of running. The betrayal hurts more than anything.

I was such a fool.

I wanted so badly to believe he loved me.

I needed it. I craved it. The tiniest scraps of affection he threw my way—I clung to them like they meant something.

But it was never love.

It was never even protection.

It was control. Domination. Possession.

I used to make excuses for him. I told myself he was overbearing because he cared.

But now I see it clearly—see the ugliness for what it is.

I was never a cherished daughter.

I was a pawn. A weapon. Nothing more than a tool in his war against the shifters, forged and hidden away until he could unleash me.

The realization scorches through me, the way it has been for weeks.

Each secret revealed another c***k in the rosy view I had of him.

And yesterday... yesterday shattered it for good. The final truth.

He's been lying to me my entire life—about everything.

Who I am. What I am.

If I didn't look so much like him—his skin tone, his eye color—I might even wonder if he's my father at all.

How could he be so cruel? The thought threatens to drown me. But I shove it away. Not now. Not here.

Heartbreak is a luxury I can't afford.

Not when every breath, every step, is about survival.

Later, I can fall apart. Later, I can scream and rage and break. Right now—I have to keep running.

I slow down, breathing heavily. I pull the General's map from where I hid it under my hoodie. I scan it, my vision blurring at the edges from exhaustion. If I'm reading it right, the reserve should be a couple of miles west of here.

I shove the map back into my hoodie, clutching it tightly—and then I freeze.

The hair on the back of my neck rises.

A shiver snakes down my spine.

Someone is watching me.

I glance around, trying to be casual about it, but the forest is still and silent. No movement. No sign of anyone.

But I know; I can feel it.

Someone's here. Panic rises.

No, no, no. Not now. Please not soldiers. Please don't take me back.

I bolt, pushing myself into a desperate sprint towards a line of trees for cover. I feel like I'm being hunted. I hear breathing close behind me. Then, before I can turn, something hits me hard from behind.

The impact knocks every molecule of air out of my lungs. My ribs scream in protest.

I'm yanked upward, my hoodie ripped back and spun around so fast that the world tilts.

A sharp gasp escapes me, and I am released. I stumble backwards, trying to regain my balance.

I jerk my head up—and my heart nearly stops.

Familiar golden cat-like eyes stare back at me, wide with disbelief.

Eyes I thought I would never see again.

My mouth drops open.

"How?" I croak, my voice breaking on the word.

The massive dark shifter in front of me looks as stunned as I feel.

"Tiny?" he rasps, staring at me like he can't quite believe what he is seeing.

I stand there, frozen, blinking up at him.

"Pan?" I finally whisper. My throat tightens painfully. "I thought you were dead?"

He steps closer and holds my face gently in his rough hands. His thumb wipes away a tear I didn't know had fallen. His touch is so achingly familiar that it rips my heart wide open.

Standing in front of me is Pan.

The shifter my father brought home when I was a little girl. My brother. My protector. My hero.

Life after him had been... miserable.

I instinctively take a step towards him—and hiss in pain, my ribs lighting up in agony. I had almost forgotten how hard he tackled me.

Immediately, Pan grabs my arm, his face twisting with guilt.

"I'm sorry, Tiny. I didn't know it was you. I swear. I never would have—" he stammers, the words tumbling out in a rush. "Please, let me help. I can... with my powers."

Powers? Another bombshell to unpack later.

But right now?

I'll take anything to dull the hellish pain.

I lift my hoodie without a word. The ugly purple bruises on my ribs are clear. Pan flinches when he sees them.

"May I?" he asks, his voice low and careful, golden eyes locking onto mine, contrasting with his dark skin. He still looks like my Pan, but not at the same time. Older, stronger, wiser. His once short, clipped hair now falls from his head in dreads.

I nod quickly, hardly daring to believe any of this is real.

He hovers his hand over the bruises, his face tightening in concentration. A soft warmth radiates from his palm, sinking into my skin. I suck in a sharp breath at the sensation, but the pain immediately begins to ease. My body unwinds and I let out a deep, shuddering sigh of relief.

"Thanks, Pan," I whisper, my voice cracking.

He gives me a small, wounded look and pulls me into a hug. When was the last time someone hugged me? It must have been two years… when I thought I had lost him forever.

"I'm sorry, girl. Had I known it was you, I never would've..."

"I know," I interrupt quickly, forcing a tired smile. He healed me, for crying out loud. He didn't deserve to beat himself up over this.

His warrior face slides back into place. Alert. Sharp. Protective.

"What are you doing out here, Sasha? What happened?" he asks, scanning the trees around us. "It's a long story," I mutter, feeling exhaustion catch up to me all at once. "I need your help, Pan. I'm in serious trouble."

He doesn't hesitate. He gives a short nod and grabs my fallen backpack in one hand and my hand in the other. His grip is firm, steadying, and comforting.

"It seems we both got explaining to do," he says gruffly. "But first, we get you to safety."

He starts pulling me forward, all business.

"Uhm... Pan?" I ask, almost laughing from sheer emotional overload. "Where exactly are we going?"

He glances down at me, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

"Home," he says simply.

And somehow, for the first time in what feels like forever, I believe him.

Dorgan

I'm savoring the last minute of silence in my office. The Boss's Nest they call it now. Off-limits to the public. My sanctuary. My war room.

The name?

Probably born from a joke, a whisper-turned tradition. Every group has its pranksters. I can smell mischief a mile away, and in my inner circle, it walks on two legs and smiles too widely.

Being thrust into leadership wasn't a choice I made. It was a necessity. Hundreds of displaced shifters across three reserves looking to me, expecting miracles.

Expecting me to be invincible.

I never asked for this crown. It was forged in blood and shoved onto my head before I even knew what it meant.

And it costs. Every damn day, it costs.

I fought hard for this reserve, these havens of safety—

I close my eyes for a second. One second.

Let the noise swirl outside my walls. Let them live, laugh, forget for a moment the sharp edge we're all dancing on.

I'll carry the weight for them. I always have.

And when the attack war comes—and it is coming—I'll be ready.

The low thud of boots and the rowdy burst of voices outside my office tells me one thing—the team's back.

Judging by the energy buzzing through the walls, it was a good supply run.

Then the door slams open so hard that the cupboard rattles and a dusty folder dive-bombs to the floor.

I don't even flinch. Just sigh, long-suffering, as Kuma barrels in, big as a mountain, sheepish as a puppy.

His eyes go wide and he tosses up his hands. "Ah, not again! Sorry, amigo!"

The corners of my mouth twitch upward, betraying me. I wave it off lazily. If I got mad every time Kuma underestimated his own strength, I'd have died of a stroke years ago.

He flops onto the couch across from my desk with the heavy thud of a man who doesn't know the meaning of "delicate." My furniture whimpers under his weight.

Before I can even get a word out, Myan and Dael slip in, a whole different vibe. Myan glides in with smooth, lazy grace. Dael is more reserved. His sharp eyes scan the room for threats that he knows aren’t there.

"That was our best run in a while," Myan cheers, his golden cat eyes shining like he found a treasure map. He slouches next to Kuma, limbs loose and cocky.

"Pan spotted this warehouse a while back on one of his scouting missions," he continues. "It's in the middle of nowhere. Overgrown. Forgotten. Probably meant as an emergency stash."

Dael leans against the wall, arms folded, a rare smirk flickering across his face. If Dael's smiling, it's a good haul.

Kuma, eager to join the chat, lumbers over. He drops a couple of Glocks and two-way radios, along with some tech gear, onto my desk. It’s like a kid showing off their art projects. "And we've scored a few ATVs too. Pain in the ass to get to the place, but so worth it. Also found these two beauts... and some toys for Buba."

He says it casually like he's not dropping a grenade.

Good grief, Kuma.

There it is—the nickname that should've died quietly years ago. I can already hear the lecture coming when Bellamy gets wind of it. A six-foot-eight dragon shifter, 24 years old, throwing a toddler tantrum over being called "Buba" is one of my top five guilty pleasures.

Worth it. Every time.

I glance at Kuma and he's trying, badly, to suppress a grin. Teddy bear body, prankster soul.

"Good job, guys," I say instead of letting them see me laugh. Professionalism, right? Totally keeping it together. "My, could you go get the gear organized? I need a quick meeting with Dael and Kuma about some new intel Bells intercepted. Then we can give him his new babies."

I shoot off a quick message to Bellamy, telling him to head over. He'll be drooling when he sees the new tech.

"Sure thing, boss man." Myan leaps up so fast you'd think the couch burned him, all that lithe tiger energy in motion. He’s out the door before I finish the sentence. He’s probably glad he avoided another meeting.

Can't blame him. The guy's allergic to sitting still longer than a heartbeat.

Myan's also my number one suspect behind naming our HQ the "Boss's Nest." Still denies it with a straight face every time I try to corner him, the little s**t.