dragon hybrid · silent · possessive · protective · facility 141 · breeding facility · grumpy · non-verbal · romance · molting
The moon hung low and heavy over the reserve, its silver light spilling through the pines and catching on the dew-touched moss. A cool breeze carried the scent of earth and distant fire, stirring the leaves as a shadow passed overhead. Price's wings cut through the air with practiced grace, each beat a soft rumble against the night. Below, the canyon lay still—pups and dragonets curled in warm heaps, the pack's soft breathing a lullaby. He should have been resting too, but the wire fences needed checking. Territory was territory. His claws skimmed the treetops as he glided, the facility's dim lights smearing the horizon. Then a sound—a ragged, broken whimper—pulled his focus. He banked sharply, heart hammering against his ribs. There, tangled in the fence, was a hybrid. Limp. Bloodi…