I'd been Little for so long that Big felt foreign at first, like trying on clothes that had hung in a closet too long and no longer quite fit the same way. But then the thoughts kept coming, faster and more intricate, and I recognized myself again: the woman who'd survived the cult, who'd chosen to fall rather than submit, who'd been caught by a dragon and learned what it meant to be cherished.
The morning light filtered through cloud-wrapped windows, painting my borrowed Nursery in shades of pearl and rose. I sat up slowly, testing this new-old headspace, and the difference was staggering. A week ago—or was it longer?—I'd thought in simple chains: hungry meant eat, tired meant sleep, scared meant find Daddy. Now my mind moved throughprobability trees and emotional nuance, weighing implications, remembering context that Little Me couldn't have held.
But more than the return of complex thought, something else was different. Something crucial.
I reached back between my shoulder blades, fingers seeking the spot that had pulsed cold for what felt like forever. My hand found only smooth skin, warm from sleep, and the raised patterns of my bond marks—those beautiful cloud formations in storm-gray and silver that belonged to Caelus and me alone.
The cold was gone. Completely, utterly, impossibly gone.
I pressed harder, searching for any trace of wrongness, any whisper of void-corruption, any hint that the Unnamed's designation might be hiding, dormant, waiting. Nothing. Just my skin, my bond marks, the natural warmth of a body that was finally, truly mine again.
"It's gone," I said aloud to the empty room, and my voice came out thick with wonder. Full sentences, adult vocabulary, the ability to articulate abstract concepts—all of it returned like muscle memory I'd thought I'd lost.
Through the bond, I felt Caelus's awareness spike sharp and immediate. He'd been awake already—probably had been all night, standing guard the way he had for seven days straight—and my words hit him with the force of answered prayers.
The door opened without preamble. He filled the doorway, silver hair catching morning light like he'd been spun from the same clouds that pressed against the windows. His storm-gray eyes were shadowed with exhaustion that spoke of a week spent vigilant, careful, fighting his own nature to keep me safe. But beneath the exhaustion burned something else—hope so fierce it made my breath catch.
"Say it again," he said, voice rough with barely contained emotion.
"It's gone." I met his eyes, and the relief that crashed through me was dizzying enough that I had to grip the blankets to stay upright. "Caelus, it's completely gone. The cold, the corruption, the sense that something else was living under my skin—all of it."
He crossed the room in three strides that ate the distance between us, his control cracking enough that I felt the desperation underneath. Not to claim me—not yet, he was still holding that line—but to confirm, to see with his own eyes that the nightmare was truly over.
"Can I?" he asked, hands hovering near the hem of my sleep shirt.
I nodded, turning to give him access. His fingers found the fabric, lifted it carefully to expose my back to morning light. Through the bond, I felt his sharp inhale, the way his hands trembled slightly before he steadied them with visible effort.
"Look," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "You need to see this."
He helped me stand, guided me to the tall mirror by the wardrobe. The same mirror where, days ago, I'd watched corruption spread across my skin like rot through wood. Where tendrils of void-darkness had reached for my spine, my heart, everything that made me myself.
Now, in the clear morning light, my back showed only beauty.
The bond marks glowed softly, pulsing in time with my heartbeat—delicate cloud patterns that wrapped around my shoulders and traced down my spine in elegant swirls. Storm-gray and silver, they caught the light and threw it back in subtle rainbows, alive with magic that felt clean and right and mine. Where the Unnamed's designation had burned cold, there was only smooth skin, unmarked except by Caelus's claim.
No eye. No tendrils. No darkness drinking light and casting shadows that fell upward.
I was free.
The realization hit me with enough force that my knees went weak. Caelus's hands found my waist immediately, steadying me, and the contact sent sparks racing across my skin. Not the corrupted, desperate compulsion from before—this was different. Clean. Natural. The bond's healthy desire for completion, untainted by void-magic using our connection against us.
I met his eyes in the mirror, and what passed between us was incendiary.
His pupils had blown wide, nearly swallowing the storm-gray. His breathing had gone shallow and quick. Through the bond, I felt his want slam into me like a physical thing—raw, intense, but controlled by will that had been forged through a week of denying every instinct that screamed to claim his mate.
My own desire answered in kind, heat pooling low in my belly, making me achingly aware of how his hands felt on my waist, how his body was pressed close behind mine, how easy it would be to just turn in his arms and—
"How do you feel?" he asked, and I could hear how much the question cost him. The careful control. The determination to do this right, even when every cell in his body was screaming for something else.
"Like myself," I said, and my voice came out lower than intended, roughened by want. "Big. Clear. Fully present in a way I haven't been since you caught me falling." I held his gaze in the mirror, let him see everything I was feeling through both the bond and my expression. "And very, very aware that you've been taking care of me for a week, fighting your own need every single day, and I haven't thanked you properly."
His eyes darkened further, and his fingers tightened on my waist—not bruising but possessive, claiming. "Wren—"
"I know." I turned in his arms, put us face to face with only inches between us. Close enough to see the silver flecks in his irises, to feel his breath against my lips, to watch his control fracture and reform with each labored exhale. "We still can't. The Pact has to come first. The ceremony, the contract, all of it before we can safely consummate."
"But soon." It wasn't a question.
"Soon," I agreed, and the promise hung between us like a struck match in a room full of gasoline. "Tomorrow for the Pact. And then—"
