"How are you feeling?" His voice held that careful control I was learning meant he was fighting not to touch me, not to close the distance between us that felt like continents despite being mere feet.
"Terrified." The honesty slipped out before I could dress it in something prettier. "But ready. The mark—" I pressed my hand between my shoulder blades where the cold pulsed in steady rhythm. "It knows something's coming. It's been restless all night."
Through the bond, his determination wrapped around my fear like armor. "Then we don't give it more time to prepare."
The journey through the monastery felt different this morning. Servants pressed themselves against walls as we passed, their eyes following us with the weight of knowing what was at stake. Meredith appeared at a corridor junction, pressed something small into Caelus's hand—a charm, maybe, or just her way of saying she'd keep everyone away—and disappeared without a word.
We climbed stairs I hadn't known existed, spiral steps carved into the monastery's bones that seemed to go up forever. The higher we went, the more the clouds pressed against windows, until we were walking through a corridor where white mist was all I could see beyond the glass. They moved like living things, curious and patient, occasionally parting to reveal glimpses of impossible blue sky.
"Here," Caelus said, stopping at doors I would have walked past without noticing—they were carved from the same white stone as the walls, nearly invisible except for silver handles shaped like wind currents frozen mid-flow.
He opened them, and my breath caught hard enough to hurt.
The Nursery bloomed before me like something out of a dream I'd forgotten I'd had. Walls painted in pastels that weren't quite any color I could name—somewhere between sunrise and seafoam, shifting with the light that filtered through cloud-wrapped windows. The carpet under my feet was thick enough that my toes sank into it, soft in a way that made me want to curl up on the floor like a cat.
But it was the details that made my chest tight with something I couldn't name. Shelves lined one wall, and on them sat an army of dragons—stuffed, handmade, every size from tiny enough to fit in my palm to large enough to use as a pillow. Some were expertly crafted with careful stitching and proportional wings. Others were lumpy, awkward things that looked like someone's first attempt at sewing. All of them had been positioned withcare, arranged so they seemed to be watching the room with button eyes full of patient waiting.
The toy chest drew me forward without conscious thought. Pale wood carved with clouds and stars, its lid propped open to reveal treasures that sparked something in my chest I'd thought died with childhood. Wooden blocks painted in jewel tones. Puzzles showing dragons in flight. Balls so soft they compressed under the slightest pressure. Everything worn smooth by handling, by centuries of Caelus picking them up, arranging them, preparing for someone who never came.
"The purple dragon is from the Eastern Wastes," he said quietly, watching me run my fingers over a particularly lumpy stuffed creature that somehow managed to look dignified despite its crooked wings. "I saw it in a market stall and couldn't leave it behind. The woman who made it said purple dragons brought good dreams."
I moved to the art corner, where supplies were arranged with the same obsessive care. Crayons sorted by color gradient. Paper in every weight and texture. Paints that looked expensive enough to fund a small farm for a year. Clay wrapped carefully to keep it soft.
"A master craftsman in the South made those," Caelus continued, and through the bond I felt his nervousness building. "He said art was how children made sense of the world. I thought—" He paused. "I wanted you to have ways to express yourself. Whatever ways you needed."
The rocking chair by the window made me stop entirely. It was beautiful in its simplicity—pale wood worn smooth, carved with a patience that showed in every curve. Positioned perfectly to catch morning light while staying warm from afternoon sun. A soft blanket draped over its back, and beside it, a small table held picture books that looked ancient and new all at once.
"Forty years," I said, running my hand along the chair's arm.
"Forty-three, actually." His laugh held no humor. "I kept getting the curve wrong. Too sharp and it wouldn't rock properly. Too gentle and it felt unstable. I rebuilt it seventeen times before I got it exactly right."
Forty-three years on a single chair. For someone he'd never met. Might never meet. The weight of that patience, that hope held despite loneliness, made my eyes burn.
The bed dominated one corner—adult-sized but transformed into something from a fairy tale. Pillows everywhere, each one different, collected from what must have been a hundred different places. Blankets layered like clouds, white and gray and silver. The canopy was sheer fabric that caught light and scattered it into rainbow patterns, making the whole space feel separate from the world, safe, contained.
"The rules," Caelus said, guiding me to the wall where neat script laid out structure that somehow felt freeing rather than constraining. Bedtime at eight. Meals at regular times. No arguing about naptime. Ask for what you need. Use your words. Trust Daddy to keep you safe.
The discipline corner wasn't frightening—just a cushioned spot with a small hourglass, a place to reset when things got overwhelming. "Time-outs," he explained. "Never punishment. Just space to come back to center."
He opened the wardrobe, and I saw weeks of work in the carefully selected clothes. Soft dresses in pastels. Comfortable leggings. Pajamas with little clouds on them. Everything in my size, everything chosen for comfort over style, everything saying you matter enough for me to get this right.
Then he lifted out a dress in pale blue, soft as whispers, with tiny silver stars embroidered along the hem. "Let's get you comfortable."
The mark pulsed between my shoulder blades—sharp, sudden, wrong. With it came a wave of desire so intense my kneesbuckled. Not the gentle want I'd been managing since yesterday, but desperate need that clawed at my control with fingers made of fire. I gripped the wardrobe door, knuckles white, fighting not to launch myself at him the way every corrupted instinct demanded.
"Breathe," Caelus said, not moving closer but watching me with those storm-gray eyes that saw everything. "It knows what we're about to do. It's fighting back. But we're stronger."
I forced air into my lungs, forced my fingers to release the wardrobe, forced myself to nod. The mark pulsed again, sending tendrils of want through my body that made me bite my lip hard enough to taste copper.
"Okay," I managed. "I'm okay."
But we both knew I wasn't. Not yet. Not until the regression took hold and starved this thing trying to hollow me out from within.
Soon, though. Soon I'd be safe in this room he'd built from centuries of hope. Soon I'd be small enough that the mark couldn't reach me, wrapped in innocence it couldn't corrupt.
Thebathingchamberattachedto the Nursery was smaller than the one in my guest room, more intimate, with a tub sized for comfortable soaking rather than swimming. Caelus moved through the space with practiced efficiency, turning taps that released water at exactly the right temperature—he didn't even need to test it first, just knew through some combination of ancient experience and the bond telling him what I needed.
"Lavender and chamomile," he said, adding oils that turned the water milky-soft and filled the air with scent that made myshoulders drop from where they'd been hovering near my ears. "They'll help you let go."
