And that, I think, watching my mate attempt to extract our daughter from the flower bed she's enthusiastically transforming, is the most extraordinary magic of all.
"Ready to go inside?" Thorian asks as the afternoon light begins to fade. "Cook has prepared something special for dinner, and I suspect our little gardener could use a bath."
"More than ready." I rise and brush soil from my skirts, marveling at how simple domesticity can feel more meaningful than reshaping reality. "But first, let me see what she's done to that poor flower bed."
Ryaed has managed to turn a small section of winter roses into something that looks like a fairy garden, complete with tiny flowering pathways and miniature blooming arches. The magic is unconscious but controlled, creating beauty rather than chaos despite her age.
"She's going to be extraordinary," I murmur, watching our daughter clap her hands in delight.
"She already is," Thorian replies, and in his voice I hear an echo of the wonder that filled him the night she was born. "Just like her mother."
As we walk back toward the palace together—immortal king, former goddess, and the child whose existence proves that some sacrifices create miracles—I realize that extraordinary doesn't require divine power.
Sometimes it just requires the courage to choose love over fear, wisdom over desire, others' happiness over your own abilities.
And that's magic anyone can learn, given time and the right teacher.
The roses in our wake bloom a little brighter as we pass, responding to contentment that needs no enhancement to feel like the most powerful force in the world.
CHAPTER 32
MAYA
The heat hitsme while I'm nursing Ryaed in the palace gardens.
One moment I'm contentedly feeding our six-month-old daughter in the dappled shade of the rose arbor, the next my body floods with liquid fire that has nothing to do with the summer sun. Slick gushes between my thighs as desperate need crashes through my system with an intensity that steals my breath.
My first heat since giving birth. Since sacrificing my divinity to save Thorian's people.
"Oh," I gasp, clutching Ryaed closer as waves of arousal roll through me. The baby makes a soft sound of protest at being jostled, then settles back to nursing with the oblivious contentment of someone whose world consists entirely of milk and warmth.
But for me, the world has narrowed to the desperate craving that makes my enhanced senses flare to life. I can smell Thorian's scent on the wind—cedar and earth and wild growing things—and my body responds with a hunger so fierce it borders on pain.
Through our mate bond, I feel his instant awareness of my condition. His presence in the throne room where he's hearing petitions from local farmers goes tense with barely contained need, and I know he's fighting every instinct that demands he come to me immediately.
The pull between us intensifies, that invisible thread that connects alpha to omega growing taut with mutual desire. I can feel his struggle to maintain royal composure while his body recognizes what mine needs.
Lady Elvinia appears at my side with the silent efficiency that comes from centuries of managing royal emergencies. "My lady," she says quietly, "perhaps we should move you to your chambers. The heat scent is beginning to affect the gardening staff."
I glance around to find several Fae courtiers working nearby have stopped their tasks entirely, their nostrils flaring as they catch the unmistakable perfume of omega in heat. None would dare approach—I'm clearly mated and protected—but the distraction is becoming noticeable.
"Good idea." I rise carefully, Ryaed still latched and feeding with single-minded determination. "Is she going to be alright during...?"
"Enhanced children sleep deeply during their parents' heat cycles," Elvinia assures me as we walk toward the palace. "It's a biological protection mechanism. She'll likely nap for the next few hours, giving you privacy for your reunion with his lordship."
By the time we reach the royal chambers, I'm dying. Heat burns through my veins like molten honey, and every heartbeat sends fresh waves of slick down my thighs. My undergarments are soaked through, clinging to sensitive flesh in ways that make me want to tear them off with my bare hands. My breasts ache—heavy with milk but also throbbing with need that has nothing to do with nursing.
"Here," Lady Elvinia says, taking Ryaed from my arms. Thank god. I love our daughter desperately, but right now I can barely think past the fire consuming me from within.
The moment the door closes behind Elvinia, I'm clawing at my dress like it's trying to strangle me. The fabric feels like sandpaper against skin that's screaming for my alpha's touch. I need to be naked. Need to be ready. Need?—
Oh god, I need Thorian's cock inside me before I lose my mind completely.
Six months. Six fucking months since I've felt him stretch me open, since I've been properly claimed during heat. The memory alone makes fresh slick gush between my legs, and I have to grip the bedpost to stay upright as another wave crashes through me.
In the mirror, I barely recognize myself. My skin is flushed pink everywhere, nipples dark and tight, pussy lips swollen and glistening. I look like I'm burning alive—and maybe I am. This heat feels different than before. Stronger. Like my body is celebrating everything we've survived by demanding to be fucked senseless.
Boots in the corridor. Heavy, familiar steps that make my cunt clench around nothing.
