But I feel the ticking—time, politics, claims, fear—and I know: this isn’t a dream. It’s a siege.
I press my face to his throat, inhaling him.
And I vow:I will fight harder than all the laws. For love, for blood, for home.
CHAPTER 30
TAKHISS
Iwake to the moonlight’s pale edge slicing the curtains. Everything is quiet. The hum of the city is distant. I cannot sleep.
Ella stands in the doorway. No hesitation. No words. Her eyes flick to mine, letting the darkness between us pulse. She steps forward. The floorboards creak under her boots, and my heart leaps.
Her breath scents the room—lavender and sweat and something like promise. She moves with purpose. She closes the door behind her, and in that snap of the latch, something inside me twists into electricity.
She reaches for my shirt. Her fingers press against my chest, cold at first. Then warmer, braver—ripe. She tugs, and the fabric gives. Buttons peel open. My shirt slips to the floor. I don’t stop her.
When she touches me—her hands pressed flat across my chest, rising, mapping fires across scale and skin—I drop my weight, gently, onto the bed, pulling her on top of me. Her breath hitches. Mother of all quiet storms. I taste her in the space between heartbeats.
Ellipses of skin, moments of closeness. Her nails trail lines down my back—gentle scratches, claims marked on flesh. My arms curve around her. My throat tightens. I lean close, teeth just against her throat, careful. She arches. Whispers, “Don’t stop.”
I don’t.
We move slow. With intention. No pressure, no tearing. No desperation. It’s not a rescue. It’s a reclamation. That’s what I want her to remember. That even after ruins, we still rise.
My hands learn her curves—her hip, her rib, the hollow beneath her collarbone—mapping soft territory that was mine before we ever called it ours. Her skin tastes like warmth, like soft metal, like home.
At one moment, she lifts her head. Our eyes lock in the low light. I can see everything in her—fear, yearning, trust. The world contracts. No sound but breath and pulse.
Her nails dig deeper. My jaw clenches. I press my lips to hers. It’s slow, a claim, a vow. I whisper her name, breath raw. She answers it.
When I finally hold her afterward, she presses her face into my chest. My arms wrap around her. Her cheek is warm, soft. The fabric of my shirt still clings to my chest. The air in the room hums low, settling after the storm.
She murmurs, “Promise me you’ll stay.”
I tick each part of me. Bone, muscle, scale, blood. I say it with certainty: “I will stay. Always.”
I mean it.
She pulls me closer. I taste her perfume, sweat, the echo of heartbeats. Outside the window the city hums, indifferent. Inside, we are entire, survivors, anchor and storm.
I don’t know all the secrets she still hides. The legal webs she must weave. The dangers Autrua flings like shadows. But in this room, in this moment, I claim her with both hands.
And I whisper beneath her hair, “You are mine.”
She sighs, soft and fierce.
We stay held together until dawn, until every shape in the dark knows our names, until the fragile world outside can wait one more breath while we remake ours.
CHAPTER 31
ELLA
Iwake before dawn. The workshop is quiet except for the low hum of power lines outside. A thin shaft of pale light creeps through the slatted window blinds. I catch movement in the corner — a silhouette rising from the bed.
He’s there. Takhiss. Not asleep, alert. His eyes track me as I slide free of blankets and pad across the floor. My feet brush over metal shavings, oil stains, small tools left out. I step onto his rug. He doesn’t speak.
I cross the room. He stands, shirt half open, jaw shadowed by early morning light. I taste the air, metal, sleeping skin, the memory of last night — and it ache-stabs me.
