I looked at the art supplies. At the books. At the enormous bed that promised the kind of deep, safe sleep I hadn't experienced since childhood.
"The cult stole your curiosity and your joy." His voice carried centuries of certainty. "Through the bond, I'm giving them back. You can explore engineering during the day and color with paints at night. You can be High Priestess Thalia who memorizes ritual specifications, and you can be Little Thalia who just wants someone to read her a story and tell her she's safe."
The tears started before I could stop them.
Not the controlled tears from earlier. Not even the sobbing breakdown in his main quarters. This was something deeper. Something fundamental breaking apart in my chest.
I sank to my knees on the soft carpet, clutching the plush cloud to my chest, and cried like I hadn't cried since I was fourteen years old and my family had sold me to settle their debts.
I cried for the girl who'd been taken. For the six years spent in underground darkness. For the twenty-seven girls whose deaths I'd facilitated. For the curiosity I'd suppressed. For the softness I'd learned to hate. For the part of me that wanted to be small and safe and cared for, the part the cult had called weakness and trained me to destroy.
I cried because someone had spent centuries preparing a space for me. Not knowing who I'd be. Not knowing what I'd done. Just knowing that whoever fate chose for him would need both intellectual stimulation and permission to regress. Would need tools and comfort. Would need complexity and simplicity.
I cried because I didn't deserve this kindness. Didn't deserve these prepared rooms or the bond mark pulsing on my temple or the Storm Lord who'd killed three people to protect me without hesitation.
I cried because I wanted it anyway.
Zephyron crossed the space between us. I felt him through the bond before I saw him—steady, patient, certain. He knelt on the soft carpet beside me.
His hand came up to wipe tears from my face, gentle despite the electricity that danced between his fingers.
"No-one deserves healing," he said quietly. "But we all can accept it."
"I can't—" My voice broke around the words. "I don't know how to—"
"Then I'll teach you." His thumb brushed across my cheek. "That's what this bond is for, Thalia. Not just connection. Partnership. I carry what you can't hold alone. And right now, you need someone to carry the weight while you remember how to be soft."
I felt his certainty wrap around me. Felt his patience. Felt his absolute conviction that I was worth saving despite everything I'd done.
Idon'tknowhowlongI stayed there, in his arms. Time did that strange thing where it both stretched and compressed—every sob feeling like an eternity while simultaneously the whole breakdown seemed to happen in seconds. When I could finally breathe without hitching, when my eyes had no more tears to give, Zephyron was still there with me.
He helped me stand, supporting my weight when my legs shook. Led me to the massive bed and sat me on the edge. The mattress was soft. Too soft. I sank into it like quicksand made of comfort.
Through the bond, I felt his emotional state shift. The gentle patience remained, but something else layered over it. Authority. Purpose. The Storm Lord rather than the man who'd let me cry on his floor.
"First things first," he said, his voice carrying quiet command, "we establish rules."
Rules. The word made my spine straighten automatically. The cult had rules for everything—how to walk, how to speak, how to breathe during meditation. Rules had been chains.
But through the bond, I felt Zephyron's intent. This was different. This was structure designed to protect rather than control.
He sat beside me on the bed, close enough that I could feel the electric hum of his presence. His storm-gray eyes met mine with absolute focus.
"You will eat three meals daily," he said. Each word was precise. Clear. Non-negotiable. "Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. With snacks if you're hungry between meals. No fasting for ritual purity. No food deprivation of any kind. Understood?"
"Yes." The word came out automatically.
"You will report any cult conditioning triggers immediately." His hand came up to tap his own temple, right where the bond mark pulsed. "I need to know what they programmed into you. What phrases activate obedience. What situations make you revert to High Priestess mode. What memories cause flashbacks. All of it. I can't help deprogram you if I don't know what I'm working with."
My chest tightened. Admitting triggers meant admitting vulnerability. Meant showing him every place where the cult had successfully broken me and rewired my responses.
He felt my hesitation. His expression softened slightly.
"This isn't about judgment," he said quietly. "It's about safety. Theirs was conditioning built over six years. Mine is care built over one morning. The conditioning will try to override me. I need to know when that's happening."
"Okay." My voice came out smaller than I meant it to. "I'll tell you."
"Good." His hand moved to the back of my neck, resting against the extraction sites where the tracking shards had been. The touch was possessive. Grounding. "You will not make decisions about your safety alone. Not until we've cleared you of all cult programming. That means you don't go anywhere without telling me. You don't interact with strangers without backup. You don't trust your own judgment about threat assessment."
