Three days ago, I'd stumbled from those trees wearing nothing but a thin ragged priestess robes, my feet cut and bleeding, my shoulder dislocated from squeezing through a gap in the Hollow Shrine's wall. I'd been starving. Terrified. Certain that hunters would catch me before I reached anywhere safe. Certain thatSolmar's people would drag me back to complete whatever ritual they'd planned.
I'd run through those woods like prey. Because that's what I'd been. Prey.
The memory felt distant now. Like it had happened to someone else. I could recall the facts—the pain, the fear, the guilt, the desperate sprint through undergrowth that tore at my legs—but the emotional weight was gone. Burned away during transformation. Replaced with something else entirely.
I tested myself. Looked directly at the spot where I must have emerged—a break in the tree line visible even from this height, probably the old logging road I'd followed in my delirium. Tried to summon the fear. The panic. The prey-animal certainty that death was chasing me.
Nothing.
My hand on the glass stayed steady. My heartbeat remained slow and controlled. The bond hummed peacefully between me and Zephyron, undisturbed by memories that should have triggered acute stress response.
I wasn't afraid anymore.
The realization settled into my chest like something solid. Something real. I could look at the place that had nearly killed me and feel . . . nothing. No, not nothing. Something almost like satisfaction. Like surveying territory that couldn't hurt me anymore.
My reflection stared back at me from the glass, superimposed over the distant forest. I barely recognized her. Lightning scars traced across my face—delicate patterns that framed my eyes, followed my cheekbones, made me look marked and claimed and his. My eyes had changed color slightly, the brown now shot through with silver that caught light in strange ways. My hair was still damp from rain, falling past my shoulders in tangled waves.
I looked wild. Powerful. Beautiful in ways the cult would have called corrupt.
I looked like I belonged here.
The coat—Zephyron's coat—slipped slightly off one shoulder, exposing the lightning scars that traced down my arm. They pulsed gently, responding to my elevated heartbeat, creating soft light that painted the glass.
Behind my reflection, I could see into the Nursery. The massive bed with its piled quilts. The shelves stocked with toys and books. The evidence of care he'd prepared before I'd even arrived, before the bond completed, back when I was still just an escaped cultist who'd shown up warning him about assassination attempts.
He'd built this space for me. Had anticipated needs I didn't know I had. Had created safety before I knew I deserved it.
I turned from the window. The movement made the coat swirl around me, midnight-blue fabric catching the silver-blue glow from my scars. My bare feet made no sound on the plush carpet as I crossed to the shelves.
The plush storm cloud sat exactly where I remembered—gray fabric impossibly soft, with a embroidered smile that looked simultaneously ridiculous and perfect. I picked it up, testing its weight. It was heavier than expected, probably filled with some kind of weighted material designed to be comforting. Grounding.
Zephyron emerged from the kitchenette carrying a wooden tray. The Storm Lord, who'd just remade me through lightning and sex on a rooftop platform, now navigating his Nursery with a mug of steamed milk and a plate of sliced honey-cake. The contrast made something in my chest twist—part wonder, part disbelief that this was real.
The mug was storm-cloud gray ceramic, large enough to wrap both hands around. Steam rose from it in delicate spirals I couldtrack electrically—heated water molecules creating tiny currents as they evaporated. Cinnamon. I could smell it from across the room, sweet and warm and comforting in ways that made my throat tight.
The honey-cake was cut into precise squares, arranged on a small plate with careful attention. Golden and dense, probably still warm from wherever he'd stored it. Real food. Sustenance given freely, not the starvation rations the cult had used to keep us weak and compliant.
His eyes tracked across me as he approached—taking in the storm cloud toy still pressed to my chest, his coat wrapped around my shoulders, my bare feet on the carpet. Then to the wardrobe with its doors still closed.
I tensed slightly, waiting for correction. I hadn't followed his instruction. Hadn't picked pajamas like he'd told me to. Had gotten distracted by the window, by processing transformation, by needing to prove to myself that the woods couldn't frighten me anymore.
"You needed that moment," he said quietly, setting the tray on the bedside table. Not a question. Statement of fact. Through the bond, I felt his understanding. His recognition that sometimes needs changed, that following the spirit of structure was more important than rigid adherence to specific tasks.
The tension bled from my shoulders. He wasn't angry. Wasn't disappointed. Just . . . understood.
"Come here," he said, gesturing to the bed.
I crossed the carpet, my feet silent on the plush fibers. The massive bed looked impossibly soft, piled with quilts in storm colors—grays and silvers and midnight blues. Star-shaped pillows were scattered across the surface, each one precisely placed like he'd arranged them specifically for aesthetic comfort.
His hand found the small of my back, guiding me forward. The touch was gentle but certain, steering me toward the bedwith clear intent. I climbed onto the mattress, still clutching the storm cloud toy, and settled into the impossible softness.
The quilts compressed beneath my weight. The star pillows shifted, creating natural support for my head and shoulders. The weighted blanket was folded at the foot of the bed—heavy fabric in darker gray that would provide the deep pressure I didn't know I was craving.
Zephyron unfolded the weighted blanket and drew it up over my legs, my stomach, tucking it around my shoulders with care that made my eyes sting. The weight settled over me like a physical hug, grounding my transformed body in sensation that was entirely safe.
"Better," he murmured. More to himself than to me.
He crossed to the bookshelf—not the technical section this time, but the other side where leather-bound volumes stood in neat rows. His fingers trailed across spines before finding what he wanted. When he turned back, he held a large book that looked old and well-loved.
