“Good,” I murmur, warmth blooming low in my chest. “Because last time you promised me wings and fangs, and I was starting to think that was just political exaggeration.”
His eyes open, surprise flashing before amusement takes over. One corner of his mouth lifts.
“Oh,” he says quietly. “So this is a reminder.”
“More like a fantasy request,” I reply, brushing closer, my voice light but honest.
A low, restrained laugh escapes him, warm against my skin. When he leans in again, it is with the same careful certainty, his presence anchoring rather than overwhelming. We move together slowly, guided by comfort instead of urgency, connection instead of power.
The bond hums softly in the background, content to witness rather than command.
“Show me.”
My whisper hangs in the quiet room, raw with a need that has nothing to do with magic or duty. Zeidan goes utterly still beside me, his thumb pausing its gentle stroke along my jawline.
His dark eyes search mine, the usual guarded restraint melting into something hotter, more primal. “Since you ask so nicely, who am I to deny you?”
“That’s a first.”
He laughs at that, but nods.
“I promise you,” he says, his voice dropping to a velvet rasp. “And I keep my promises.”
He closes his eyes, a visible shudder running through his powerful frame. The change isn’t violent. It is an unfolding. A release. First, I feel it in the bond, a profound shift, like a deep lock turning over. Then I see it.
From the shadows of his shoulders, they emerge. Not with a snap or a tear, but like ink bleeding into water. Immense, arching spans of pure darkness. They aren’t feathered, but sleek and leathern, like a bat’s, yet imbued with a silken sheen that drinks the pale morning light. They stretch out, rustling softly,filling the space behind him with a breathtaking, terrifying majesty.
My breath catches. “Zeidan. I never get tired of seeing them. They are so beautiful.”
He opens his eyes. The warm onyx is gone, replaced by a luminous, predatory black. His canines lengthen, sharp and elegant against his lower lip. He is a vision of ancient power, yet his expression is one of vulnerable offering. This is his truth, laid bare.
“Touch them,” he murmurs, the words shaped around his fangs.
I reach out, my hand trembling only slightly. My fingertips brush the leading edge of one vast wing.
He gasps, a sharp, involuntary intake of breath, his whole body jolting as if I send a current through him. The wing quivers under my touch. The membrane is warm, stretched taut over a framework of delicate, powerful bones. I trace a vein, feeling the pulse of his life thrum beneath the surface.
“They’re so sensitive,” I breathe, exploring further, smoothing my palm along the silken texture.
“A vulnerability,” he manages, his voice strained. “Only for you.”
I don’t pull away when his breath ghosts over my skin. Instead, I stay exactly where I am, my hand still resting against the silken span of his wing, feeling the tremor that runs through it at my touch.
“Zeidan,” I say quietly. “You told me how Vrakken bonds work. What ‘fully mated’ means.”
He stills instantly. His wings settle, folding slightly, not retreating but containing themselves. His gaze lifts to mine, dark and searching, every trace of humor gone.
“This isn’t just curiosity,” he says, low and careful. “If you ask for more, you need to understand what it means.”
“I do,” I reply, surprised by how steady my voice is.
His jaw tightens. “It is permanent.”
“So is the Wildspont,” I say softly. “So is the crown you carry. So is everything they keep telling us we can’t undo.”
He studies me like he is looking for hesitation. He doesn’t find it.
“A full mating is not about possession,” he says. “It’s recognition. It binds instinct to intention. Power to choice. If I mark you that way, I do not get to walk away from you. Ever.”