“You don’t have to be perfect,” I murmur. “I don’t need vows or rituals tonight. I just need… you. Here. Choosing me.”
His eyes burn—bright and fierce and suddenly vulnerable.
“I am,” he says. “In every way possible.”
He kisses me.
It’s not wild or consuming, not at first. It’s deep and deliberate. His mouth warm and sure against mine, his restraint finally giving way to need.
The kiss carries everything we haven’t said—relief, victory, fear survived, a future chosen. I lean into him with a soft sound I don’t bother to swallow, my hands sliding up his chest, feeling the strength there, the scars, the truth of him.
His arms come around me fully this time, drawing me close until there’s no space left to doubt. The world narrows to heat and breath and the steady certainty of his hold.
When we part, it’s only because we need air.
He rests his forehead against mine again, wings flexing slightly behind him before folding in tight, enclosing us in a private shelter of leather and warmth.
“This binds me to you,” he says quietly. “Not by law, not by tradition, not by demands. By will.”
I smile, brushing my nose against his.
“Good. Because that’s how I’m choosing you too.”
He exhales, something like peace settling into his features. Carefully, reverently, he eases us down onto the pallet, the hides soft beneath us, the night beyond the tent held at bay.
There is no rush after that.
Just hands learning, breath syncing, warmth shared. Just the quiet unfolding of something new and steady and real. Something that doesn’t need the world to witness it to be true.
Outside, the camp settles. The desert holds its breath.
For the first time since Tajss chose me, I let myself rest. Safe in the arms of the one who chose me back.
31
LIA
Iwake to warmth.
Not the harsh heat of the desert sun, but the steady, living kind. The kind that breathes and shifts and reminds you that you are not alone. Rakkh is curled around me, one arm heavy across my waist, his wing draped partially over us both like an instinctive shield—even in sleep.
For a moment, I lie still and listen.
The camp is quiet in that pre-dawn way, when the world hasn’t decided whether it’s ready to begin again. A distant ember crackles. Wind moves through canvas and sand. Somewhere farther off, something small and nocturnal skitters—then goes still.
Rakkh stirs when I shift, his hold tightening reflexively before easing again. His eyes open, molten gold catching the faint light that seeps through the tent seams.
“You are awake,” he murmurs.
“So are you,” I whisper back.
“I woke because you did.” His thumb traces a slow, absent line along my hip. Gently claiming without demanding, acknowledging that I’m real and here. “Are you well?”
I nod, then pause. “I think… I am now.”
That earns me a soft huff of breath—almost a smile. He leans down, pressing his forehead to mine again—the gesture familiar already in a way that makes my chest ache.
“You stayed,” he says quietly.
