Takhiss comes behind me, silent. He smells of cedar sawdust and his sweat from last night’s tasks. He wraps an arm around me, pressing his cheek to my hair.
“Morning,” he murmurs.
I lean into him. “Morning. Did you sleep?”
He shrugs. “Restless. But quieter than before.”
Over breakfast, Vex bounds in, eyes bright. He devours oatmeal with fruit we grew ourselves. I watch him, mouth full, juice dribbling. He flashes that crooked grin—Takhiss’s grin—and I feel something soft unwind in my chest.
Days blur in ease. Vex blossoms. He’s invited to birthday parties in the settlement. Children gather around him, asking about his red eyes or the faint scale shimmer. He tells them stories about his spaceship home; they believe him unquestioningly.
One evening we all sit in the kitchen after dinner. Fire in the hearth crackles. Outside, the wind howls through the trees. Inside, candles flicker.
Takhiss reaches across the table, taking my hand. He squeezes, gentle.
Sometimes in those moments, I look at him and see both the steel warrior and the gentle craftsman. I see a man who fights still, but is learning to rest.
He leans in, voice low: “You look happy.”
I exhale. “I am. I never thought I’d feel this safe.”
He kisses my forehead. “You deserve it.”
Still, he struggles sometimes. I see it in the way he tenses when a branch snaps outside at night. When distant thunder rolls low in the sky, he awakens alert.
But he’s getting better.
The wind outside whispers through the pines as night deepens. I lie in bed between Takhiss’s arms. Vex sleeps on a small mattress beside us.
In the darkness I whisper, “Thank you.”
He murmurs back, “For what?”
“For this. For us. For staying.”
He tightens his arms. “Always.”
I drift toward sleep.
And as I fall, I hear the forest sigh. The hum of insects. The rustle of leaves. The hush that follows nightfall.
We have so much left to heal. So many ghosts still hunting in memories.
But here, tonight, in this hush?—
We have each other. We have Vex. We have home.
CHAPTER 49
TAKHISS
She stands at the window, backlit by the hearth, framed in falling rain. It traces the glass in lazy rivers, painting her silhouette in silver-blue. Her hair, damp from the storm, clings to her neck in loose curls.
She’s flushed from the cold, and something primal in me unravels.
Not because she’s fragile. She isn’t. Not because she’s beautiful. She is. But because she’s mine.
I don’t ask permission anymore. Not out of arrogance. Never out of disregard. But because I know her now. Every breath, every shift of muscle.
