CHAPTER 32
DARUN
When I wake in that borrowed bed in her apartment, the morning light is pale and steady through the thin curtains. The scent of night rain lingers in the air—wet concrete, earth-sponge, and something soft, like sheets warmed by another body. I move slowly, muscles stiff, bones still reorienting to their new geometry.
Last night I dreamed of dust, of the canyon, of a rifle spitting fire—but in the dream, her voice cut through it. I jerk awake. She’s beside me, half turned, her hair loose, one arm across the pillow. Our breaths sync. For a moment, the war is just echo, and she is safe.
She stirs. I shift so I don’t press into her space. She murmurs something. I whisper, “Hey.”
She opens her eyes—those gold eyes flicker, slow recognition, something soft. “Hey,” she answers.
We don’t talk about dreams. We don’t name it. We just lie. Silence full, unguarded, gentler than any battlefield.
I started civilian life yesterday. First support group meeting. The room smelled of burnt coffee and stale upholstery, fluorescent lights throbbing overhead. Vets shuffle in: eyes haunted, voices clipped. A circle of chairs. I sit between a veteranwho lost an arm and another who can’t forget a bomb’s scream. We talk about pain, nightmares, the weight of survival.
I try meditation afterward—closing my jaw, focusing on breath. But in the quiet, I hear explosions. Muscle memory screams. I tremble during the guided silence, sweat beading. I hate it. But I’ll go back tomorrow. It helps bit by bit.
Back home, Amy surprises me. She hands me a coat: civilian style. Soft fabric, tailored. I slip into it. The first time I’ve worn clothes not designed for war. It feels awkward—foreign—but also right. I stand in front of the mirror, shoulders squared. She steps behind me. Her fingers brush the lapel. She stands close. Her quiet smile hits me in the chest.
“You wear it well,” she says.
I stiffen. “Thank you.”
I spin to face her. “It’s yours, eventually.”
She shakes her head. “You deserve something softer than armor.”
I swallow. The mirror’s reflection fractures somewhere between who I was and who I’m trying to become.
Night after that finds us on the couch in the living room, tea mugs resting on the coffee table, low lamp light and soft city hum behind the windows. The streets glow in wet reflections, headlights streaking past, distant engines.
We talk about nothing. The show she’s preparing. The veterans group. The coffee I still can’t quite taste. Her voice is low, belied by weariness and wonder.
She mentions the newsroom’s tension. I joke I’ll apply for a position quoting “war correspondent returned from the dead.” She laughs. It loosens something in me.
She sets down her tea, leans her head on the back of the couch. Her hair brushes my arm. Her fingers graze again—tentative. She doesn’t draw away. I feel it in the air: the hum of something about to catch flame. Something real. Permission.
I turn to her, heart a war drum. I move slowly. No surprise. No command. Our lips meet—soft at first, cautious. She tastes like tea, smoke, the salt of longing. Her fingers hook into my jacket, pulling me in like gravity. Her mouth opens to me, and I deepen the kiss, slow and steady. No rush. Just need.
“I wanted this,” she whispers between kisses. “Since the outpost. Since the desert.”
My claws ghost along her waist, careful not to scratch. Her breath catches. She turns into me, straddles my lap, the couch creaking beneath us.
“You’re sure?” I murmur.
She answers with her hips—rolling against me, slow and deliberate. My cock throbs under her heat, aching with restraint. Her hands press to my chest, feeling the hard ridges of muscle and scar beneath my skin.
“I’m not fragile, Darun,” she says, eyes daring me.
I growl softly, golden eyes locked on hers. “You think I don’t know that? You terrify me, Amy.”
She kisses me again, fiercer this time. I respond in kind, hands exploring, memorizing. I tug her shirt over her head, her curves glowing in the dim light. I trace the line of her spine, the swell of her ass. She gasps when my mouth finds her throat, sucking just hard enough to leave a mark.
“Fuck,” she breathes, shivering.
“Say it again,” I growl, lips brushing her collarbone.
“Fuck,” she moans, grinding down harder.
