“It won’t,” she says, and then, softer, like a truth she’s gifting me: “Not with you.”
I help her out of her damp shirt, careful of her healing shoulder. The fabric catches for a second on the joint where her wing emerges and she hisses—not pain, more sensation. I freeze immediately.
“Zara?”
“I’m okay,” she breathes, and her hands slide down my chest as if she needs the contact to anchor herself. “Just... sensitive.”
I nod, pulse pounding. “Show me.”
Her jaw tightens, then she guides my hand to the base of her wing. The place where feathers give way to skin, where tendons flex beneath the surface. Where the bond hums louder, eager.
I touch her there with the barest pressure.
She gasps, back arching, lightning flaring bright enough to paint the stone. The sound she makes goes straight to my gut.
“That,” she whispers. “That feels... unfair.”
I lean in to kiss the corner of her mouth. “Neither is what you’re doing to my gills.”
Her fingers sweep along the soft, hidden slits at my neck. I shudder hard, throat tightening. It’s not pain—it’s pleasure sharp enough to make me dizzy.
“Then we’re even,” she murmurs, eyes gleaming.
We shed the rest of our clothes between kisses and quiet laughter that turns breathless too quickly. Every new inch of skin is a revelation. The warmth of her against the cool of me. The difference in our textures, our scars, our impossible anatomy. Proof that this should not exist—and that it does anyway.
She watches me like I’m a miracle and a weapon all at once.
I drag my mouth down her throat, tasting the pulse there. Down the curve of her collarbone. Over the swell of her breast. Her nipples pebble under my tongue and she jerks, a sound breaking from her that makes my vision go white at the edges.
“Torin,” she warns—but it’s not a warning to stop.
I lift my head, meeting her gaze. “Still with me?”
“Yes.” She answers too fast, then laughs shakily. “Gods, yes.”
Good.
I lower her carefully to the stone, using a curl of water to soften the cold edge, to warm the surface under her back. Her eyes widen as the magic slides beneath her like a heated tide.
“Show-off,” she breathes.
“Only for you,” I say, and I mean it.
She lies there in the moss-glow like a storm given skin—wings half-spread, feathers catching the light, lightning tracing her in shifting patterns. Beautiful doesn’t begin to cover it. Mine doesn’t either—not yet—but the thought is there, fierce and protective.
I brace myself over her, kissing her slow again, letting her feel my weight, letting her decide she wants it. Her thighs open under mine, inviting, and the scent of her hits me—warm and sweet and electric.
My body reacts instantly. Hard, aching, desperate.
Her hand slides between us, fingers wrapping around me, and I swear under my breath.
“Is that okay?” she asks, eyes flicking to my face, suddenly shy.
“More than okay.” I press my mouth to her jaw, trying to keep from losing my mind. “You can touch me anywhere.”
Her grip tightens experimentally. I groan, throat fluttering at the reflex. Her eyes darken at the sound.
“Like that?” she whispers.
