My gaze lingers on her lips longer than it should, remembering their softness against my own before I remember to breathe. "You make it sound far more elegant than it is."
She looks up, meeting my eyes with a hesitant smile. "Maybe I'm just hungry."
A rumble of amusement rolls through my chest low and unguarded. "Then I am glad I had the good sense to feed you before you fainted away.”
Her cheeks flush a soft pink. "After last night, I doubt a missed meal would do me in.”
My smirk deepens, fangs catching the light. "I doubt it very much as well.”
The air thickens between us, memory threading through the quiet. Through the bond, I feel her, soft and uncertain. Her emotions a delicate ripple against my own steadier current. She does not speak, but her silence hums with awareness.
Her fingers toy with the rim of her cup, tracing it slowly, as if the motion gives her something to hold on to. The faint tremor in her hands tells me what her composure tries to hide: she remembers every touch, every sound, every shudder that passed between us. The bond makes it impossible not to feel the echo of it too—her warmth blooming again beneath my scales, her pulse quickening when my gaze drifts over her.
When she finally looks up, her eyes are luminous in the dim light, and the connection between us pulls taut. She draws in an unsteady breath, the scents of tea and her skin mingling in the air. I can taste the edge of her shyness through the bond.
"I noticed the light changes here," she says, tucking a strand of hair behind the delicate curve of her ear and gestures to the softly glowing walls. "It's dimmer than before. How do you do that?"
Her question lands between us like a lifeline, a small attempt to steady what neither of us quite knows how to name.
"The stone responds to touch. Here." I set down my cup and press my palm against the surface of the nearest wall; the light brightens, rippling outward in concentric circles before softening again. "You can adjust it to your liking."
She watches, entranced. "That's incredible. I didn't know you could do that."
"It responds to the occupant. My chambers are bound to me." I pause, eyes flicking to her throat where Emberyn rests, warm and pulsing. "But you can do the same here or in your own chambers.”
Her brow furrows. "Because of the blood bond?"
"Yes. My blood flows in your veins." My voice lowers, rough with something that is not entirely restraint. "It will answer to you as it does to me, just as the door to my chambers will open for you."
She reaches out, hesitates, then presses her hand to the wall. The light stirs, brightening just slightly beneath her palm. Her eyes widen. "It worked."
A slow smile ghosts across my face as inside I fill with pride, possession, and something deeper. "Of course it did."
She pulls her hand away. The silence that follows settles around us like a well-worn cloak, comfortable and familiar. I watch her profile against the light, the curve of her throat wheremy blood now flows, and find myself struck by how natural this feels. As if the space between us has always been waiting for her to fill it. For these few stolen breaths, reality recedes: no ancient prophecies whispering our names, no fragile peace treaties hanging by threads, just her warmth beside me and the quiet rhythm of her heart echoing my own.
Her gaze drifts across my bare chest, lingering on the network of scars that map my history. I feel no shame under her scrutiny; each mark was earned in service to my people, each a testament to survival. But curiosity fills her eyes, and her hand lifts as if to touch before stopping itself.
"Your scars," she says softly. "There are so many."
I nod once. "Each with its own story."
"Will you tell me?" The question is gentle, without demand.
I point to a long, jagged mark that curves beneath my left collarbone to my sternum. "Pike wound. A human soldier with more courage than sense." I do not mention how I removed his head seconds later. "This one," I trace a puckered circle near my ribs, "artillery fragment. It caught me when I was pulling a wounded Talon to safety."
Her fingers reach out, hovering just above my scales without touching. "And this?" she asks, indicating the burn that wraps around my right arm.
"Flame weapon," I say simply. "From the last great offensive before the peace talks began."
She withdraws her hand, something sad and knowing in her eyes. "War leaves no man unscathed."
“Nor naga.” I study her face, the shadows that cross it when she speaks of conflict. "You said you were familiar with loss," I say carefully. "Who did you lose?"
Pain flickers across her features, old but still fresh. She looks down, fingers tracing the rim of her cup. "My older brother," shesays finally. "Kade. He was a soldier. I was still a child when they brought his body back to Clavenmoor."
I remain silent, giving her space to continue or retreat as she chooses.
"He taught me to whistle," she says, the memory bringing a sad smile to her lips. "We would chase fireflies in the fields before the war pushed us all inside the walls." Her voice catches. "A time when life was much simpler."
