I sank into the chair across from her. The fire cast long shadows across the floor.
She didn’t flinch from them.
46
Aurelia
The air felt warmer here.Maybe it was him. The scent of hearthwood and something herbal lingered—maybe sage, or juniper—and it wrapped around me like a shawl. The windows were open, letting in the sound of the falls. They didn’t roar like the cliffs back home. They sang.
“Someone made this for you,” I murmured, gesturing to the inside of the home. “Like they expected you to return.”
His jaw tightened. “It seems that way.”
But he didn’t move on. His gaze stayed pinned to the wall of portraits, the varnish still gleaming, the edges free of dust. Someone had cared for them. Someone had remembered.
“I don’t understand,” he admitted, voice low. “How all of this is here.” He stepped closer, fingertips ghosting the frame of his father’s portrait, then pulled back before he could touch it.
The question hung between us, not just about the paintings, but about loyalty, memory, and who still kept his family’s name.
I looked at the paintings again. “They must’ve loved you.”
“They did,” he said softly. “Even when I didn’t make it easy.”
A small smile tugged at my lips. “You? Hard to love? Never.”
I stepped toward the wide sill, placing my hand against the open window. The wind shifted, warm and damp from the falls.
He joined me there, close enough that I could feel the heat of him without touching. I turned toward him slowly. His hair caught the light. And his eyes, always watching.
“I’m tired,” I said. And I meant it in every way.
He nodded once and stepped back. Gave me the space I didn’t ask for but needed.
“You can rest here, I’ll wake you when it’s time to eat,” he said.
I watched him cross the room, watched the way he moved. He lit a small lantern near the hearth and pulled down a blanket, setting it neatly at the edge of the long, cushioned bench beside the fire.
“I’ll be just outside,” he added, pausing at the door. “If you need anything.”
“Malachi—” I said quietly.
He turned.
“Thank you.”
His gaze softened. And for a moment, just a breath, the edge in him dulled. He didn’t smile. But something warmer passed between us. Something that didn’t need a name. Then he nodded and stepped outside.
I stood there a long while, staring at the door after it closed. Then I sat on the bed, pulled the blanket around me, and let the sound of the falls lull me to sleep.
At first, there was warmth.
Warm familiar fingers ghosted over my skin. I didn’t open my eyes, I didn’t need to.Malachi.
He murmured something low and quiet into my throat, the sound of it lost in the press of his mouth. My breath caught. His hands were firm and claiming, trailing fire along the path of my hips, the curve ofmy stomach. My name was a whisper—little dove—as he gripped me, pulling me closer still as he aligned himself with my entrance. Slick with sweat, he eased into me, slow and punishing.
“Gods, you feel so good,” he groaned, voice ragged as he rocked into me, each thrust building in momentum. “Just like I knew you would.”
“You thought of me?” I asked, breathless, eyes fluttering shut at the next deep press.