“Like coming home,” I finish, drawing her closer. The magic pulses between us, warm and familiar.
“You know what this means, right?” She tilts her head up, that familiar mischief glinting in her eyes.
“That you’re mine for eternity?”
“That, and…” She rises on her tiptoes, lips brushing my ear. “You’re stuck with my color-coded filing system forever.”
I can’t help it—I laugh, the sound echoing off the office walls. “Truly a grave commitment.”
“Speaking of commitments…” Her fingers trace patterns on my chest. “Since I’m technically unemployed until we draw up the new contract…”
“Technically,” I agree, my voice dropping lower as she presses closer. “Though I believe certain benefits can be negotiated immediately.”
“Oh, really?” Her breath hitches as I guide her back against my desk. “And what sort of benefits are we talking about?”
“Full medical coverage,” I murmur, trailing kisses down her neck. “Paid vacation.” Another kiss, this time at the sensitive spot behind her ear that makes her shiver. “And of course, comprehensive mate privileges.”
“Mate privileges?” She gasps as my hands find her hips. “That sounds rather thorough.”
“I believe in being…” I lift her onto the desk, scattering papers neither of us care about anymore, “exceptionally thorough.”
Her legs wrap around my waist as she pulls me down for a proper kiss, one that tastes of forever.
“Should we perhaps,” she manages between kisses, “take this discussion upstairs?”
“In a moment.” I trail my lips down her throat, savoring her small gasps. “First, I believe we need to establish some… preliminary terms.”
Her laugh turns into a moan as I demonstrate exactly what those terms entail. Papers continue sliding off my desk, but for once in my centuries of existence, I couldn’t care less about maintaining order.
Some chaos, after all, is worth embracing.
Epilogue
Forever and a Little More
Aubrey
2 Years Later
I’m perched on myfavorite stool behind the counter, watching a college kid inspect a secondhand Gibson guitar while trying not to look too invested in whether he’ll buy it.
Between my expanding waistline and swollen ankles, standing for too long isn’t exactly fun these days. But apparently, our little half-naga is determined to be as active as possible, treating my insides like his personal jungle gym.
“The action’s pretty sweet,” the kid says, strumming a few chords. “But three-fifty?”
I hide my smile. He’s been here four times this week, playing this same guitar. I recognize the look in his eyes—it’s the same one I had when I first walked in here with my grandmother’s bracelet, desperate but trying to play it cool.
“Tell you what,” I say, adjusting my position. “If you can name three songs from that Nirvana album displayed behind you without checking your phone, I’ll knock fifty bucks off.”
His face lights up at the challenge. Behind me, I feel more than hear Sundar’s quiet amusement as he arranges a display of vintage pocket watches. Some are just beautiful antiques, others might have the power to briefly stop time—but good luck getting him to tell you which is which.
“Easy,” the kid says. “‘Smells Like Teen Spirit,’ ‘Come As You Are,’ and—”
A sharp kick from the baby makes me gasp, cutting him off mid-sentence. Instantly, Sundar is beside me, one hand on my lower back.
“I’m fine,” I assure him, though I don’t protest when he guides me to the more comfortable chair we keep behind the counter. “Your child just has opinions about 90s grunge, apparently.”
The warmth in his golden eyes makes my heart flutter, even after two years of marriage. “It seems he takes after me more than you.”
