Zeidan doesn't need to be told twice.
We passthrough narrow passes and folded wards that feel less like barriers and more like gentle refusals, magic that asks intention rather than demanding proof. The land here feels quieter, not deadened, but resting. When we finally arrive, the buildings are small, stone and wood entwined, lanternlight warm against the encroaching dusk.
They give us a room without ceremony. It is simple. Clean. A bed large enough for two. A basin of water already warming by the hearth. No questions. No demands.
The door closes behind us and I feel my knees give.
Zeidan catches me instantly, easing me down onto the bed as if he has rehearsed this moment a thousand times in his head.He kneels in front of me, hands gentle as he cleans the blood from my arms, my shoulders, my throat. The touch is reverent, not because I am fragile, but because he knows exactly how close I came to breaking.
“I thought I lost you,” he says quietly, not looking up.
“I’m here,” I answer. “So are you.”
That seems to undo something in him. His hands still. He presses his forehead briefly against my knee, breathing as if grounding himself in the fact of me.
The tears come again, quieter this time. I let them. He does not stop me.
“I couldn’t save them all,” I whisper.
“No,” he agrees, voice rough. “But you saved who you could. And you didn’t lose yourself to do it.”
I reach for him then, fingers threading into his hair, pulling him up until our foreheads touch. The bond hums softly between us, not demanding, not burning. Simply present.
“I love you,” I say, because there is no point surviving if I keep lying to myself.
His breath leaves him in a slow, stunned exhale. For a heartbeat, he looks almost overwhelmed, like a man handed something precious without knowing where to put it.
Then he cups my face with both hands.
“I have loved you longer than I understood what it was,” he admits. “And I will not pretend otherwise again.”
We rest our brows together, breathing the same air, the world narrowed down to this room, this moment, this choice.
There is urgency when we come together after that. No magic surging. No power asserting itself. Just hands finding familiar places, lips moving.
It isn’t gentle.It is claiming. His tongue sweeps past my lips, demanding entry, and I give it, a moan trapped in my throat. His hands slide from my face, down my throat, his thumbs pressing against my frantic pulse before moving lower. He grips the neckline of my ruined dress and tears. The sound of ripping fabric is obscenely loud. Cool air hits my bare skin, my breasts exposed, my nipples hardening instantly into tight, aching points.
“Fuck,” he breathes, the word full of dark heat. His eyes are pure hunger, devouring me. “Look at you.”
My own hands are busy, fumbling with the laces of his tunic. The leather is tough, but I work it with frantic need. He lets me, his own attention fixed on my chest. He palms my breast, his cool skin a shocking contrast to my feverish heat. He rolls my nipple between his thumb and forefinger, a sharp, delicious pinch that makes my back arch.
“Zeidan!”
“Say it again,” he growls, lowering his head. His mouth closes over my other nipple, his tongue lashing the peak before he sucks, hard.
Pleasure, sharp and electric, shoots straight to my core. I cry out, my fingers finally yanking his tunic open. I shove it over the massive expanse of his shoulders. His skin is pale marble, etched with a history of violence in silvered scars. I don’t trace them gently. I rake my nails down his chest, loving the hiss it pulls from him.
He pushes me back onto the rough wool blanket of the bed, following me down. His weight is perfect, anchoring me. I can feel the rigid length of him, trapped in his trousers, pressing insistently against my thigh. The evidence of his want is a blunt, physical demand that makes me wetter, my inner muscles clenching around nothing.
“I need to taste you,” he mutters against my skin, his lips blazing a trail down my stomach. His hands hook into the remains of my dress and my small clothes, dragging them down my legs and off in one rough motion. I am naked, completely exposed to his burning gaze.
He doesn’t ask. He just spreads my thighs with his hands, his grip firm, and puts his mouth on me.
His tongue is a flat, wet stroke from my entrance all the way up to my clit. I jolt, a broken sound tearing from my throat. He does it again, slower, savoring, and then his lips close around that swollen, sensitive bud and he sucks.
“Oh, god!” My hips buck off the bed, but his hands pin my pelvis down. The control is absolute, devastating. His tongue flicks and circles, the pressure perfect, relentless. He adds a finger, sliding deep into my dripping pussy, then a second, stretching me. He curls them upwards, finding a spot inside that makes me cry out his name again.
“This is so fucking perfect… fuck, Zeidan, right there!”