“Mmhmm.” Mireth nodded solemnly. “You have to be respectful, or the magic gets angry.”
A smile broke across Varyth’s face. No longer the untouchable High Lord, but someone kinder, gentler.
“That’s very wise,” he told Mireth, his voice holding a reverence I’d never heard before. “Magic should always be respected.”
Mireth beamed under his praise, her little chest puffing out.
The water butterfly fluttered its wings once more before dissolving into a fine mist that kissed our skin. Mireth giggled, delighted by the effect, then turned her attention back to her brother, who was now attempting to stack stones in a precarious tower.
I watched Varyth’s face as he observed my children. The mask he usually wore—all razor edges and controlled coldness—had slipped, revealing a vulnerability underneath. He looked almost wistful.
“Are you alright?” I kept the question gentle.
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he tipped his face up toward the sun, the golden light catching in his ashen hair. His wings, usually held precise, relaxed at his back, shifting with the breeze.
“Fine,” he said, too calmly.
A practiced answer. An automatic deflection.
I didn’t push for more. Instead, I pressed my leg a little more firmly against his in quiet reassurance. His wings shifted, not in readiness, but in relief. As though even they had stopped bracing. And then his hand moved, his knuckles brushing over my knee in response.
It was the barest touch. A silent acknowledgement.
Mireth’s laughter echoed again, but Varyth didn’t move. His eyes lingered on the space where the butterfly had vanished, as if mourning something he couldn’t name.
The children’s voices drifted around us, Eryx’s triumphant shout as his stone tower finally held, Mireth’s commentary about proper architectural foundations that she’d definitely overheard from someone else.
Varyth’s hand shifted. Not away—never away—butup, sliding from my knee with excruciating slowness, fingers trailing heat along my thigh until they found the curve of my waist. Then higher still, grazing my ribs before lifting entirely.
My breath caught. Held. Released in a way that probably gave away too much.
His hand settled in my hair.
Not gripping. Not demanding. Justthere, fingers threading through the strands with a tenderness that made my throat tight. His thumb traced the shell of my ear, then the hinge of my jaw, like he was memorizing the shape of me through touch alone.
Gods.
I turned my head just slightly, enough to see him in profile. The sun carved shadows beneath his cheekbones, highlighted the exhaustion bruised under his eyes. His jaw was tight, like he was holding back. Words, maybe, or a truth that tasted like blood on the way out.
His fingers tightened fractionally in my hair. Not pulling. Justholding.
His shoulder pressed against mine, his weight shifting into me like I was someone he could rest against instead of another thing he had to hold up.
My chest did something complicated. Something that felt like breaking and mending at the same time. My hand slid aroundhis side, fingers skating over his ribs until they found his back. I felt the hard planes of muscle, the warmth of his skin through the fabric of his shirt, the way he went perfectly still when my touch drifted lower. To the place where his spine met wings.
The reaction was immediate. A sharp inhale. His entire body going taut like I’d touched a live wire. The hand in my hair tightened, fingers curling against my scalp in a way that sent electricity racing down my spine.
His head tilted. Slowly. Until his temple rested against the side of my head.
I stopped breathing entirely.
I let my fingers trace that sacred space with reverent slowness, feeling where bone and wing and muscle all converged. His wings shivered. Actually shivered, the movement rippling through them like wind across water.
For a moment we weren’t High Lord and whatever the fuck I was, but just two people who’d bled too much and wanted softness for five gods-damn minutes.
I kept touching him. Kept tracing those sensitive places where wing met spine, feeling the way he trembled. The hand in my hair slid down to cup the back of my neck, holding me there with a desperate gentleness.
Neither of us spoke. Words would’ve shattered whatever fragile thing we were building here, would’ve forced us to name it and examine it and decide what the fuck we were doing.
