The thought that this could be a trap surfaces briefly before being smothered by another wave of floral-scented peace. If this is manipulation, if something is using comfort as a weapon against my consciousness... I can't seem to make myself care enough to fight it.
Arms tighten around me.
The sensation registers with the particular awareness that comes from being held—pressure adjusting, warmth redistributing, the subtle movements of another body responding to my stirring with instinctive accommodation. Someone has me wrapped in their embrace, and the grip suggests they have no intention of releasing me anytime soon.
A soft snore reaches my ears.
The sound is almost delicate—not the aggressive rumbling that some men produce, but something gentler. Musical, almost, carrying undertones that speak to a nature that exists beyond simple mortality. The particular sleep-sounds of someone whose heritage includes elements that don't quite translate to human experience.
That's not Cassius.
The realization arrives with certainty that doesn't require visual confirmation.
Cassius doesn't snore. The Duskwalker exists in states that blur the line between sleep and simply... not being awake. His rest carries the particular silence of beings who don't need breath the way mortals do, whose bodies function on principles that transcend simple biology.
But if not Cassius, then?—
I force my eyes to open.
The effort required is tremendous—eyelids that feel weighted with exhaustion, muscles that protest the demand for even this small movement after everything they've endured. The world swims into focus in stages, blur becoming shape becoming detail as my vision adjusts to whatever light filters through the cocoon surrounding me.
Not Cassius.
The chest beneath my cheek confirms what the snore suggested.
The skin is paler, carrying the particular luminescence that speaks to Fae heritage rather than Duskwalker shadow. The muscles are defined but leaner, built for grace rather than the raw power that characterizes Cassius's frame. And the scent—beneath the overwhelming floral aromatherapy—carries notes of something ancient and wild, the particular essence of beings who existed before most supernatural races learned to walk.
I lift my head.
The motion requires concentration, neck muscles complaining about demands placed upon them while my body clearly believes it should still be unconscious. But I need to see. Need to confirm the identity my instincts have already supplied.
Nikolai.
His face fills my vision—beautiful in repose, sharp features softened by sleep into something almost ethereal. His silver-blonde hair spreads across whatever surface serves as pillow, catching light that filters through the cocoon in ways that make individual strands seem to glow. His lips are slightly parted, allowing the gentle snores that first alerted me to his presence, and his expression carries peace that I don't often see when he's awake.
Gorgeous.
The word surfaces without permission, appreciation overriding any attempt at objective assessment.
He's gorgeous when he sleeps.
When the masks fall away and the complicated politics of his existence stop demanding attention.
When he's just... Nikolai.
I take a moment to simply look—indulging curiosity that circumstances rarely permit. The delicate arch of his eyebrows, the sweep of lashes against his cheeks, the particular curve of his jaw that speaks to bloodlines cultivated across generations of Fae nobility. Each feature seems designed to captivate, beauty that exists as both gift and weapon in courts where appearance carries political weight.
The cocoon around us draws my attention next.
I'm intrigued by what I'm seeing, though my exhausted mind struggles to fully process the details. It appears to be constructed of living plants—vines and leaves and flowers that have woven themselves into a protective shell around our tangled bodies. The structure glows with soft bioluminescence, light emanating from the blooms themselves rather than any external source, casting everything in gentle green-gold illumination.
Fae magic.
He's created a healing space.
Wrapped us both in restorative energy while we sleep.
The realization carries warmth that has nothing to do with the cocoon's physical temperature. Nikolai—exhausted from the soul split, drained from whatever the chalice's magic demanded of him—had still found the energy to create something meant to help me recover from my own depletion.
