When she takes me inside her in one smooth motion, we both freeze at the intensity of connection. She's still sensitive from her release, and I can feel her internal muscles fluttering around me as she adjusts to the fullness. The sensation threatens to undo my control immediately, every instinct screaming to move, to thrust, to claim her with the desperate urgency building behind my sternum.
But this is her moment, her choice, her rhythm to set. So I grip the furs beneath me and let her take what she needs, my eyes locked on her face as she begins to move.
She starts slowly, experimentally, testing angles and depths until she finds what makes her breath catch and her head fall back. The sight of her like this—taking her pleasure, using my body for her satisfaction—is the most erotic thing I've ever witnessed. Every movement sends fire racing through my veins, every soft sound she makes pushes me closer to the edge of rational thought.
"Look at me," I manage, my voice strained with the effort of maintaining control. "Let me see you."
Her eyes open, meeting mine with an intensity that steals whatever breath I had left. There's love there, and desire, and something deeper that looks suspiciously like the same recognition that's been growing in my own chest. This isn't just physical release or even emotional connection. This is acknowledgment of something permanent, something that will outlast desire and survive whatever challenges our different worlds might throw against us.
She's mine. Completely, utterly, irrevocably mine. And more terrifying and wonderful still—I'm hers with the same absolute certainty.
The realization crashes through me just as she finds a rhythm that makes her gasp and clench around me. I surge upward, meeting her downward motion with desperate precision, my hands finding her hips to guide her movement as we build toward something that threatens to shatter more than just physical control.
"Nelrish," she breathes, and the way she says my name—like prayer, like promise, like the answer to every question I've never known how to ask—pushes me over the edge into a climax that feels like dying and being reborn simultaneously.
She follows immediately, her body contracting around me as she stifles her cry against my chest. We move together through the waves of release, drawing out every pulse of pleasure until we're both shaking with exhaustion and satisfaction so complete it borders on pain.
She collapses against me afterward, her breathing gradually evening out as the last tremors of climax fade into boneless contentment. I wrap my arms around her, pulling the furs up to cover our cooling skin as she settles more fully against my chest.
The longhouse around us holds a comfortable quiet broken only by the distant chiming of bells and the soft crackle of dying fires. Through the shuttered windows, snow continues falling, marking the passage of the year's longest night toward the promise of returning light.
25
MARA
Light filters through the shuttered windows in pale golden bars, carrying the crystalline quality that only comes with fresh snowfall. I wake slowly, emerging from dreams filled with firelight and laughter and the lingering warmth of Nelrish's hands on my skin. The longhouse holds that particular hush that follows celebration—not quite silence, but the gentle quiet of a world wrapped in winter's embrace.
Beside me, Nelrish breathes deeply, his chest rising and falling in the rhythm of genuine rest. Even in sleep, one arm curves protectively around my waist, as though some part of him remains vigilant even in unconsciousness. The sight sends warmth spiraling through my chest, mixing with the bone-deep satisfaction that still lingers from last night's fevered connection.
Outside, I can hear the soft voices of clan members beginning their solstice morning routines, punctuated by children's excited whispers that suggest gift-giving traditions are about to commence. The sound makes me smile even as it triggers a familiar pang of anxiety. In all the wonder of yesterday's preparations, the overwhelming joy of seeing Eira's face light upwith recognition of her grandmother's stories made real, I never considered the morning's expectations.
Gifts. Dawn gift-giving on the solstice, another piece of the puzzle my grandmother painted with words and wishes. Another tradition I should have anticipated, should have prepared for.
The realization sits heavy in my stomach like swallowed stones. What do I have to offer? What could I possibly give to people who've already given me everything—safety, warmth, acceptance, love I never dared hope for? My possessions consist of salvaged bunker clothes, a few personal items carried in desperate flight, and the growing knowledge that I belong somewhere I never expected to find home.
It's not enough. It will never be enough to repay what's been freely given.
"Mama?" Eira's voice drifts from her alcove, thick with sleep but carrying the barely contained excitement that marks special mornings. "Is it time? Can we see what the winter brought us?"
The question pulls me from my spiraling worry, reminding me that regardless of my own inadequacies, this day belongs to her. To the magic she felt waking in the air yesterday, to the traditions finally taking shape in reality rather than remaining locked in memory and longing.
"Good morning, sweet girl," I whisper, careful not to disturb Nelrish as I slip from beneath the warm furs. The air carries winter's bite, but the banked fires still radiate enough heat to keep the space comfortable. "Let's see what gifts the longest night has left for us."
Nelrish stirs as I move, his eyes opening with the immediate alertness of someone accustomed to potential threats. But when his gaze finds mine, the wariness melts into something softer, more intimate. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he takes in my sleep-tousled hair and the flush that still warms my cheeks from last night's passion.
"Solstice morning," he rumbles, his voice rough with sleep and satisfaction. "The day of gifts."
The reminder sends fresh anxiety cascading through my chest, but I force my expression to remain neutral. This is Eira's moment. My shortcomings shouldn't cast shadows over her joy.
She emerges from her alcove like a small whirlwind, her curls even wilder than usual and her gold-tinged eyes bright with anticipation. The sight of her—vibrant and happy and utterly secure in this place that's become home—eases some of the tightness in my throat. Whatever else I might lack, I can give her this: the freedom to experience wonder without fear.
"Where do we look?" she asks, bouncing on her toes as she surveys the main room. "Do the gifts hide like the stories said?"
Nelrish sits up, the furs pooling around his waist in a way that makes my pulse skip despite the early hour and present company. Even rumpled from sleep, he commands attention—all sharp angles and contained power, beautiful in a way that still catches me off guard.
"They'll be near the tree," he says, gesturing toward the decorated pine that stands in the corner like a guardian of joy. "Hidden among the branches for those who know where to look."
Eira needs no further encouragement. She darts toward the tree with the focused intensity of a hunter, her small hands carefully parting boughs heavy with pinecones and berries and the wooden bells that still chime softly with each movement. Her search yields results almost immediately—a soft exclamation of delight as she uncovers something wrapped in supple leather.
