When she pressed her lips to his, his entire body shuddered as if he’d been hit with lightning.
“Wren…” Her name broke from him in a groan, reverent and disbelieving.
She let her nails drift down his spine in slow, teasing strokes, feeling each muscle quiver beneath her touch. He gasped, and the runes etched into his skin flared to life, flooding the cavern with a soft, silver glow. The air hummed with magic—warm, electric—pressing against her skin.
He traced the line of her cheek with exquisite tenderness, his dark eyes burning with desire. His hand slid down her throat, across the hollow of her collarbone, and settled on the swell of her breast. His thumb brushed her nipple, and she cried out, arching up into him. When his lips closed over her nipple, gentle but hungry, fire bloomed between her legs.
He coaxed both breasts together, alternating light nips and soft, wet kisses, his tusks grazing her lightly, teasing her. She writhed into the furs, fingers tangled in his midnight hair, urging him deeper. Then his hand drifted lower, fingertips ghosting across her belly, teasing the curve of her hip before slipping between her thighs. She parted for him like water, wet and trembling. He traced her folds, up to her swollen nub, and she bucked instinctively, her breath catching.
“Is this too much?” He murmured against her skin, concern flickering in his eyes.
She cupped his cheek. “It’s perfect. Just right.”
Encouraged, he dropped his mouth lower, lips feather-light against her, and his tongue danced a slow, sensuous arc from her slit up to her clit, eliciting a squeal of delight. He savored her flavor, groaning as her walls fluttered around his finger when he slipped it inside. He added a second, curling them to brush that exquisite spot, then bent forward to suck her clit into his mouth. She shattered, a low cry vibrating through her as her release washed over her in relentless waves.
He lingered at her center until her hips stilled, then crawled up her body, breath hot against her skin, before settling beside her. She met his gaze and smiled, suddenly shy.
“That was incredible,” she whispered, sliding her hands down his chest. She stroked him with languid confidence, watching his pulse quicken until he groaned, his eyes fluttering closed.
“But we’re not done,” she teased.
He aligned himself, his length poised at her entrance. He paused, trembling with restraint. “Look at me,” he demanded, his voice strained.
She did, meeting the storm of need and devotion in his eyes. “If you say stop,” he whispered, voice raw, “I will. Even if it kills me.”
She curled her legs around him, drawing him in. “Don’t ever stop.”
He exhaled—a sound half growl, half prayer—and slid into her slowly, inch by burning inch. She gasped at his size, every nerve aflame as he filled her completely. For a heartbeat he froze, letting her adjust to him, until she tipped her hips, wordless encouragement shining in her eyes.
He moved again, deeper, until there was no distance between them—only the pulse of their joined bodies. His runes blossomed bright, bathing the cave in rippling silver light that danced across the walls with every thrust. The magic wrapped around them, weaving them together, root and branch, heart and soul.
“Wren…” His voice cracked, reverent. “My mate.”
She clung to him, tears shining in the candlelit haze of magic and sweat. They found a fierce, perfect rhythm, rising faster, hips and bodies moving together. Then with a cry that echoed off stone, she came again, searing through them both. His nametore from his throat as he followed her over the edge, a wave of silver fire binding them in one ecstatic blaze.
And then—quiet. Just the echo of labored breaths and the warm, beating press of his body against hers. He sagged into her embrace, one powerful arm curling around her like a shield, his face nestled in the hollow of her neck as they sagged into their release.
Her fingers threaded through his hair, soothing, tender.
The runes dimmed to a soft glow.
The bond settled, twining through her very soul.
“Gunnar,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his temple, “I’m yours.”
His answering exhale trembled with relief and something dangerously close to joy.
“And I,” he murmured, voice thick with reverence, “am yours.”
Gunnar had held many things in his arms over the centuries—fallen brothers, splintering wood, dying firelight, his own breaking heart.
But never her. Never anything like her.
Wren lay curled against him, her breath warm and steady against his chest, her fingers resting lightly on one of the faded runes that still glowed faintly beneath her touch. Her legs tangled with his, her skin soft against his roughness, her scent—wild, sweet, human—filling the cave as if she’d always belonged there.
He didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare breathe too hard.
Because some part of him believed that if he shifted even an inch, she might flicker out of existence like a dream too bright to keep.
