We walk in comfortable silence through the familiar streets, our footsteps echoing off the basalt stones. The winter air carries the lingering scents of the festival—spiced wine, roasted nuts, the sweet smoke of celebration. But underneath it all, I can smell him—cedar and smoke and something uniquely Mihalis that makes my pulse quicken.
The bond between us hums with quiet contentment, a warm current of connection that's become as natural as breathing. Every so often his wing brushes against my shoulder or his free hand finds mine, small touches that send sparks of awareness through me. He's not trying to seduce me—not yet—but my body responds anyway, hyperaware of his proximity, of the leashed power in his movements.
By the time we reach the house, Irida has fallen completely asleep, her breathing deep and even against Mihalis's chest. He carries her upstairs with the silent grace of someone who'sperfected the art of not waking a sleeping child, and I follow, watching the careful way he navigates the hallway.
Irida's room glows with the soft amber light of enchanted sconces, warm and welcoming. Mihalis lowers her to the bed with infinite care, easing off her boots and outer cloak without disturbing her slumber. She stirs slightly when he pulls the covers up to her chin, making a small sound of protest.
"Shh," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Sleep now, little spark."
The endearment, spoken in the ancient xaphan tongue, makes my chest tight with emotion. There's so much love in his voice, such gentle devotion, that I have to look away for a moment to compose myself.
But when Irida's sleepy voice calls my name, I'm immediately at her bedside.
"Will you be here tomorrow?" she asks, golden eyes heavy with exhaustion but still worried.
"I'll be here," I promise, smoothing her dark curls away from her face. "I'm not going anywhere."
"Good," she sighs, already drifting back toward sleep. "I love you, Heidi."
The words hit me hard, so unexpected and pure that they steal my breath. I'd missed hearing them. Besides Irida, I've never had anyone say those words to me before—not once in twenty-three years of existence. The casual way she says it, like it's the most natural thing in the world, makes my throat close with tears I refuse to shed.
"I love you too, sweetheart," I whisper back, and mean it completely.
She smiles, satisfied, and within moments she's breathing deeply again. Mihalis adjusts her blankets one final time, then dims the sconces with a gesture. We slip out of the room together, closing the door with barely a sound.
The hallway stretches before us, lit by the warm glow of flame sconces that cast dancing shadows on the dark walls. For a moment we just stand there, the silence heavy with unspoken things. Through our bond, I can feel his emotions shifting, deepening, taking on an edge that makes my skin prickle with anticipation.
He turns to face me fully, and the look in his molten eyes makes my breath catch. Gone is the gentle father, replaced by something far more predatory. The careful control he maintains around his daughter has dissolved, leaving behind raw want that crashes through our connection like wildfire.
"Mihalis—" I start to say, but he moves faster than thought, backing me against the wall with his body.
His hands brace on either side of my head, caging me in without quite touching. The heat radiating from his skin makes the air between us shimmer, and I can smell the smoke and cedar scent of him intensified by proximity. My heart hammers against my ribs as he leans closer, his mouth mere inches from mine.
"I haven't properly welcomed you back," he says quietly, voice pitched low and rough with promise.
The words send liquid fire racing through my veins. Through our bond, I feel the echo of his desire crash into mine, amplifying everything until I'm dizzy with want. The careful distance we maintained during the festival dissolves like smoke, replaced by the magnetic pull that's been building between us all day.
"Welcome me back?" I manage to say.
His eyes darken, pupils dilating until only thin rings of gold remain. "You left me, little thief. Ran from what we both felt. I think I've been remarkably patient."
The reminder of that night at Vestige—of the way I panicked and fled after giving him everything—sends a complex mix of shame and arousal through me. He could have followed. Couldhave forced me to stay. Instead, he let me go, even though it cost him.
"I came back," I whisper.
"Yes." His voice drops to a gravelly rumble that I feel in my bones. "You did. And now I want to show you exactly how much I missed having you in my arms."
Before I can respond, his mouth crashes against mine in a kiss that consumes me. It's fierce, demanding, edged with the frustration of forced separation and the relief of reunion. His teeth catch my lower lip, not quite gentle, and I gasp against his mouth.
The sound seems to unleash something in him. His tongue sweeps past my lips, claiming my mouth with a thoroughness that makes my knees weak. I can taste the spiced wine he drank at the festival, can feel the barely leashed power in the way his hands frame my face.
Through our bond, his desire crashes into mine like a tidal wave. Every sensation is amplified—the scrape of his teeth, the heat of his mouth, the press of his body against mine. I can feel what he feels, experience my own taste on his tongue, sense the way my responses drive him closer to the edge of control.
When he finally breaks the kiss, we're both breathing hard. His eyes burn like molten gold in the flickering sconce light, and I can see the beast beneath the man stirring to life.
"I've been dreaming about you," he says against my lips, his voice rough with need. "About the sounds you made when I touched you. The way you begged for more even when I was marking every inch of your skin."
Heat pools between my thighs at the memory. That night at Vestige, he'd wrung pleasure and pain from my body in equal measure, pushed me to limits I didn't know I had. The bruises he left had faded within days, but the memory of them—thedelicious ache, the visible proof of his claim—still makes me clench with want.
