Mara moves beside us, her own fatigue evident in the soft curve of her shoulders and the way her green eyes hold that particular brightness that comes from happiness so complete it borders on overwhelm. She's been radiant all evening—not just smiling, but luminous in a way that transforms her already striking features into something that stops conversation when she passes.
Watching her experience traditions that existed only in memory, seeing her face light up as each careful detail proved that her grandmother's stories held truth—I've never felt satisfaction this complete. Not after successful raids, not after territorial negotiations, not even after the victory that secured our clan's survival. This cuts deeper than accomplishment. This feels like purpose.
The walk back to the longhouse passes in comfortable silence, Eira's breathing evening out into the deep rhythm of genuine sleep before we've crossed half the distance. Snow continues falling in fat, lazy flakes that catch the torchlight along our path, each one distinct and perfect before melting against warm skin or settled fabric.
Our home—and it is that now, truly home rather than simply shelter—glows with welcoming light from banked fires andhanging oil lamps. The decorations we spent the day arranging cast familiar shadows against familiar walls, but tonight they carry additional weight. They're no longer just ornaments, but physical proof that some promises, carefully tended, eventually bloom into reality.
I settle Eira into her small alcove with the practiced care of someone who's performed this ritual enough times to navigate in near-darkness. Her blankets smell like pine and woodsmoke, holding echoes of the evening's celebration even in this quiet space. She doesn't stir when I tuck the furs around her shoulders, lost in the deep sleep of complete contentment.
When I turn back toward the main room, Mara stands silhouetted against the hearth's glow, still wearing the soft wool dress that's become my favorite sight in any context. The firelight catches in her loosened hair, turning the escaped strands to spun gold, and her expression holds something I've learned to recognize as the particular contentment that follows moments of perfect rightness.
"Thank you," she says, her voice soft enough to preserve the sleeping quiet but rich with emotion that resonates through my chest like struck bronze. "For all of it. For making her grandmother's stories real."
The words carry weight beyond their simple construction. I understand what she's really saying—that tonight represented more than celebration, more than successful recreation of half-remembered traditions. It was validation that the pieces of beauty she's carried through years of underground existence, the fragments of wonder she's preserved despite everything that tried to crush them, were worthy of preservation.
"I wanted to see you both happy," I tell her, moving closer until I can see the way firelight catches in her eyes, turning them to forest moss touched by summer sun. "Truly happy, not just safe or fed or surviving. Happy."
She reaches for me before I finish speaking, her hands sliding up my chest to frame my face as she draws me down for a kiss that carries everything she can't quite articulate. Her lips are soft and warm, still faintly sweet from the honey cakes shared during the feast, and when she deepens the contact, I taste gratitude and desire and something deeper that makes my pulse race despite the evening's gentle exhaustion.
"I am," she breathes against my mouth between kisses that grow progressively more urgent. "So very, very happy."
The conviction in her voice, the way her body presses against mine with increasing need, sends heat spiraling through my chest and lower. I've seen her content, seen her relaxed, even seen her laugh. But this is something else entirely—joy so complete it overflows into physical expression, gratitude that demands demonstration rather than simple words.
I slide my arms around her waist, lifting her easily as her legs wrap around my hips in automatic response. She makes a soft sound of surprise that dissolves into something approaching hunger when I carry her toward our room, her mouth finding the line of my jaw, the sensitive spot just below my ear that makes my grip tighten involuntarily.
The space holds warmth from banked coals and the lingering scent of pine boughs hung near our bed. I set her down with careful reverence, my hands lingering at her waist as I study her face in the dim light. Her pupils are dark with want, her breathing slightly unsteady, and the flush across her cheekbones has nothing to do with cold or firelight.
"Now it's time for my feast," I tell her, my voice rougher than intended as I guide her backward until her legs encounter the edge of our bed.
Understanding flickers across her features, followed immediately by the kind of anticipatory heat that makes my blood surge with answering need. She reaches for the ties of herdress, but I catch her hands gently, shaking my head as I sink to my knees before her.
"Let me," I murmur, my fingers finding the lacings with practiced ease. "Let me worship you properly."
The wool slides from her shoulders like water, pooling around her feet in soft folds that leave her bare except for the thin shift that clings to curves I've memorized through touch and sight and desperate need. The firelight turns her skin to cream and roses, highlighting the gentle swell of her breasts, the narrow curve of her waist, the way her breathing quickens as my hands skim along her sides.
I ease her back onto the furs, following her down until she's spread before me like an offering, her hair fanned across the dark pelts in waves that catch the flickering light. Her eyes never leave mine as I position myself between her thighs, my hands stroking along the smooth length of her legs until she trembles with anticipation.
"Beautiful," I breathe, pressing kisses to the inside of her knee, the soft skin of her inner thigh, anywhere except where she most wants my mouth. "So fucking beautiful."
Her response is a soft gasp that she muffles against her own hand, mindful of Eira sleeping nearby. The restraint only heightens my own arousal—watching her fight for quiet while I systematically unravel her control with deliberate, patient attention.
When I finally taste her, she arches off the bed with a silent cry that vibrates through her entire body. She's already wet, already ready, and the flavor of her arousal floods my senses with something approaching religious experience. Sweet and salt and purely her, the essence of everything I've craved without fully understanding until this moment.
I take my time, using lips and tongue and the careful edge of teeth to explore every fold, every sensitive spot that makes herhips jerk or her breathing catch. Her thighs tremble around my head, her hands tangling in my hair with increasing desperation as I build her pleasure with deliberate precision.
She tastes like honey and heat, like the promise of spring after winter's longest night. Every soft sound she makes—quickly muffled but impossible to fully suppress—drives my own need higher, but this is about her pleasure, her release, her complete surrender to sensation that has nothing to do with survival or fear or anything beyond the connection between us.
When I find the rhythm that makes her back arch and her fingers clutch at the furs beneath her, I maintain it with relentless focus. Her breathing becomes ragged, barely controlled, and I can feel the tension building through her entire body as she approaches the edge of climax.
"Nelrish," she breathes, my name a prayer and a plea and a promise all at once.
I increase the pressure, the speed, my tongue working against the swollen bud of her desire until she shatters beneath me with a silent scream that convulses through her entire frame. I don't stop, drawing out her release until she's shaking, until she has to push at my shoulders with trembling hands because the sensation has become too intense to bear.
She pulls me up her body with urgent hands, her mouth finding mine in a kiss that tastes like shared pleasure and desperate need. I can feel her pulse still racing, can sense the aftershocks of climax still rippling through her as she works at the lacings of my trousers with fingers that shake slightly from exertion.
"My turn," she whispers against my lips, and before I can protest or suggest alternatives, she's pushing at my shoulders, urging me onto my back with determined pressure.
I let her guide me, let her arrange my body according to her desires as she settles astride my hips. The sight of her above me—hair wild, skin flushed, eyes dark with renewed hunger—sends a bolt of pure need straight through my core. She's magnificent like this, powerful and confident and utterly mine.
