“I can feed myself.” The protest came automatically, even as warmth bloomed low in her belly.
“You can.” He didn’t withdraw. “But tonight, you won’t.”
Through the bond, she felt his intention—not control for its own sake, but grounding. Anchoring her in the present moment, in her body, in the reality of his care. Tomorrow would require every ounce of strength she possessed. Tonight, he was going to make sure she had it.
She opened her mouth and let him feed her.
The meat melted on her tongue—rich and savory and seasoned with something that tasted like home despite never having existed on Earth. Sylas watched her chew, swallow, and immediately selected the next piece. Patient. Methodical. Like tending to her needs was the most important task in his kingdom.
Elsa stopped fighting it somewhere around the third bite. Let herself sink into the strange intimacy of being cared for, of having someone else decide what she needed and provide it without asking permission. Her grandmother would have called it old-fashioned. Her colleagues at the Navigator Academy would have called it regressive.
She called it exactly what she hadn’t known she was starving for.
“The meeting went well.” Not a question—she could feel the answer through their connection. “You decided something.”
“I decided many things.” He held the cup to her lips, steadying it with claws that could tear through steel. “Rowan and Milo will be released from pit debt. Assigned roles. Monitored, but free.”
Relief washed through her so sharp it stung. Her crew. The people she’d failed to protect when the ship went down, the onesshe’d been fighting to save since she woke up in this frozen hell. “Really?”
“Mia stays with Yarx. She’s useful there, and he’s...protective.” Something almost like amusement flickered in his amber gaze. “Ari remains with Ryxin. He’d gut anyone who tried to separate them at this point.”
“And me?”
The amusement vanished, replaced by something hotter. Fiercer. “You become Luna. Tomorrow night, when I catch you under the Blood Moon, you become mine in every way that matters to my people.” His free hand found her jaw, tilting her face up. “And then I reshape this entire realm to keep you safe.”
The intensity of it stole her breath. Not a declaration of love—Sylas didn’t speak in those terms. But something deeper. Something that felt like vows written in blood and stone.
“That’s ambitious.”
“I’m the Alpha King.” His thumb traced her lower lip. “Ambition is expected.”
She laughed, soft and unexpected. It felt strange in her throat—when had she last laughed? Before the crash, maybe. Before this world of predators and politics and a male who looked at her like she was the answer to questions he hadn’t known he was asking.
Sylas’s expression shifted at the sound. Something hungry and wondering, like he wanted to bottle it.
“More.” He selected another piece of meat and held it to her mouth. “Eat.”
She ate. He fed her until she couldn’t manage another bite, until her stomach was full and warm and her limbs felt heavy with satisfaction. The fire crackled, casting dancing shadows across the stone walls. Through high thin windows, the last light of sunset faded into winter dark.
Tomorrow night, a different light would fill that sky.
“Bath.” Sylas rose in one fluid motion, pulling her up with him before she could protest. “Come.”
The bathing chamberwas warm with steam and Lux Tear light.
Sylas had bathed her before—after Vask, after the rescue, after her world had narrowed to violence and terror and his arms pulling her free. That had been clinical in its gentleness. Necessary. The care of someone putting broken pieces back together.
This was different.
He stripped her slowly, peeling away the thin shift like he was unwrapping something precious. His claws traced patterns on her skin—her shoulders, her spine, the curve of her waist—memorizing topography with touch. She shivered, and he made a low sound of approval.
“In.” He guided her down into water that embraced her like liquid warmth. Oils slicked the surface, releasing scents she was beginning to associate with ritual—Frosted Tears, something floral and sacred.
Elsa expected him to stay on the edge. To wash her from a distance, maintaining some barrier between their bodies.
Instead, Sylas stripped off his own layers and stepped into the pool behind her.
Heat. Fur. The hard press of his chest against her back as he pulled her into the cage of his body. His legs bracketed hers beneath the water, his arms circled her waist, and for a long moment he simply held her—chin resting on top of her head, breathing slow and deep like he was drawing her scent into his lungs.