"You are perfect, my mate," I groan, my hips bucking up to meet her descent. "So tight. My very own paradise."
She looks down at me, her eyes glazed. "Deeper," she begs. "Make it... make it last forever."
I grit my teeth. I can't hold back. The image of the child, the sensation of her surrounding me, the smell of the salty sea and the sex—it is too much.
"Come with me," I beg, my voice guttural. "Leora, come with me now!"
"Yes!" she cries. "Yes, I want to!"
I feel her tighten. I feel the spasms start deep inside her, rippling around my cock like liquid fire.
The pleasure hits me like a tidal wave. It is not just physical release; it is a spiritual collision.
"Leora!" I shout her name, pouring myself into her, emptying everything I am into the woman who saved me.
She screams, her body bowing backward, her spine arching as the waves crash over us. She clutches me, her nails raking down my back, marking me as hers.
We collapse.
I pull her down against my chest as I fall back onto the pillows. I embrace her, trapping her heat against me. My heart is thundering against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat that slowly begins to sync with hers.
I kiss her damp forehead, her eyelids, her swollen mouth.
"My mate," I whisper against her lips.
"My mate," she echoes, her voice a sleepy slur.
I roll to the side, pulling her into my arms. She nestles against me, her head on my chest, her leg thrown over mine.
The wind blows through the open window, carrying the scent of the sea and the night-blooming jasmine. It is cool and clean.
I close my eyes. There is no noise in my head. There is no fear. There is only the sound of the ocean and the woman sleeping in my arms.
I drift into sleep, a man at peace in a kingdom of two.
LEORA
The morning light bathes the room in shades of gold.
I wake to a warmth that has everything to do with the heavy, solid weight of the arm draped over my waist. The air smells of salt, the wild thyme from the garden, and the rich, dark aroma of roasted Kaffa beans.
I shift, turning onto my side.
Imas is asleep.
It is a sight I still cannot reconcile with the Lord I met in the slave market. Back then, even his stillness was a weapon, a coiled tension waiting to strike. Now, his face is relaxed, the sharp, predatory lines softened by the first truly peaceful sleep he has likely had in five centuries. His platinum hair is sprawled across the pillow, a river of silk against the white linen. His lashes, pale and long, rest against charcoal skin that looks less like armor and more like flesh.
He looks young. He looks mortal.
I reach out, my fingers hovering over the scar on his shoulder—the place where the stone sliced him when he saved my life in the ritual chamber. It is a jagged white line now, a permanent record of the moment he chose me over his god.
His eyes open.
They are not the violet of a storm anymore. They are the violet of the first light of dawn—clear, calm, and utterly focused on me.
"You are staring," he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep.
"I am memorizing," I counter.
