Let the flowers heal what needs healing.
Let Nikolai hold you while his own magic recovers.
There will be time for questions and concerns and the complicated navigation of bond mates and mysterious seventh princes.
But not now.
Now is for rest.
I settle more firmly against Nikolai's chest, my head finding the hollow where his shoulder meets his neck, my body curving into his with the particular intimacy of someone who has learned to trust. His arms tighten fractionally in response—unconscious acknowledgment of my presence, instinctive adjustment to better support my weight.
Another soft snore escapes him.
The sound makes my lips curve despite the exhaustion weighing on every part of me. Something about hearing such a mundane, mortal noise from a being of Fae heritage strikes me as endearing—evidence that even immortal princes need sleep,need rest, need the particular vulnerability that unconsciousness requires.
We're both recovering.
Both healing.
Both finding strength in proximity that our bonds encourage and our bodies crave.
The flowers around us seem to pulse with approval, bioluminescence brightening fractionally before settling back into gentle, consistent glow. The aromatherapy intensifies with the particular notes of sleep-encouraging fragrances—something like chamomile joining the lavender, something like vanilla adding warmth to the citrus brightness.
Magic designed to heal.
Created by someone who cares.
Surrounding me while I surrender to the rest my body demands.
The last thing I register before consciousness slips away entirely is the steady rhythm of Nikolai's heartbeat beneath my ear. Slower than human normal, carrying cadences that speak to Fae biology, each beat a reminder that life continues even when we're not awake to witness it.
Safe.
Warm.
Held.
The thoughts blur together as sleep claims me with the particular totality of exhaustion that refuses to be denied any longer.
I drifts off before I can even fight it.
CHAPTER 15
Solace In Thorns
~NIKOLAI~
Iopen my eyes slowly.
The transition from sleep to consciousness happens in stages rather than all at once—awareness filtering back into a mind that seems reluctant to fully engage with reality. Something lingers at the edges of my perception, a scent that I recognize on levels that transcend conscious identification. Familiar. Comforting. Carrying notes of power and warmth and something uniquelyherthat makes my chest ache in ways I don't want to examine too closely.
Gwenievere.
Her scent taunts my nose with the particular insistence of something the body craves before the mind can articulate why. Rose and copper and the indefinable essence that defines her hybrid nature—vampire sharpness wrapped in something softer, something that my Fae senses identify ascompatiblein ways that go beyond simple attraction.
I don't expect her to actually be in my arms.
Yet here she is.
