Thorne returned from talking with his sister. He locked the chamber door behind them, his presence steady and calm. Shadows flickered across his sharp cheekbones, thrown by the firelight, but the rigid tension that usually framed his stance had softened. He looked settled. Still alert. Still dangerous. But tempered now by something quieter. Protective.
He held out a folded wool blanket. “The servants have prepared the bed; it should be warm, but here is another one in case you get cold in the night,” he said, his voice pitched low, like he didn’t want to disturb whatever fragile spell lingered between them. “Take it.”
She raised a brow, folding her arms. “I’m not going to shatter, you know.”
His mouth twitched. “No. But you’ve been breaking yourself just to prove that.”
He didn’t press further. Just crossed the room, grabbed a floor cushion, and sank beside the hearth like a soldier used to sleeping wherever he could, no matter how hard the ground.
She frowned. “You’re not sleeping on the floor.”
He gave her a look. “I’m not letting you feel pressured.”
“And I’m not letting you cramp your spine for my sake,” she said, already crossing the room.
She sat at the edge of the bed, dragging the blanket over her legs. For a breath, she hesitated. Then she shifted to the far side and patted the space beside her.
“Lie beside me,” she said softly. “Onlyliewith me.”
Thorne rose without argument. He unbuckled the weapons strapped across his back, daggers, sword, and a small curved blade at his hip, and set them carefully beside the wall. Then he climbed onto the bed beside her, staying atop the covers, still fully clothed.
“Do you still need all of that even when you are here at the palace with the royal army on guard?”
“Yes, I need it even more now. With my family here and you here, there is a lot to protect.”
She lay back slowly, the plush mattress welcoming. Then, almost shyly, she turned on her side and pressed into him, her face near his chest.
His arms wrapped around her instinctively. One hand curled against her waist. The other moved through her damp braid in slow, absent strokes.
Her breath slowed. Her mind quieted. The fire crackled softly in the hearth.
“You’re safe,” he whispered eventually.
She didn’t answer. Her eyes had already fluttered shut.
He remained awake long after her breathing had evened. His hand stayed tangled in her braid, his thumb absently tracing patterns over her back. He didn’t close his eyes. He couldn’t. Not yet. Instead, he stared into the dancing firelight and listened to the hush of the room, to the beat of her heart beneath his hand, to the quiet hum of the bond that pulsed beneath his skin. Warmth. Trust. A storm rising, not to destroy, but to change everything.
For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, Thorne didn’t feel like a weapon. Being back in the palace stirred up so many complicated feelings for him. With her, he felt needed.Human. And that, more than anything, made him afraid. Because there were wars on the horizon. And storms always broke.
She shifted against him in her sleep, a soft breath escaping as she tucked her face into the curve of his neck. Thorne stilled. Not from discomfort, but from the surge that moved beneath his skin in response. A warmth that wasn’t entirely his own.
He inhaled slowly, letting the scent of her, lavender and mint, the faint trace of Aether still clinging to her skin, settle deep in his lungs. Her breathing had slowed. Her fingers were lax where they rested against his ribs. She was asleep.
Thank the Gods,he thought, exhaling with care.If she were awake, I’d have to explain how to shield the bond when two ancient dragons decide to mate. This was not a conversation he wanted to have with her tonight.
He felt the edges of it before it truly began, the shift in the air, the sudden press of heat beneath his ribs, like coals reigniting in a hearth that had only just cooled. A flicker. Flame. Scales and wings. A flash of silver-blue and black obsidian. Nyxariel and Vornokh, vast and old and bound to him in ways even he barely understood, had found each other again in the dark sky above the spires. And they were no longer content with silence. Desire stirred in the bond. Not his. Not entirely.
Images sparked behind his closed eyes. Nyxariel’s serpentine grace coiled around Vornokh’s armored form. A shuddering growl. The heavy sweep of wings. Claws striking stone as two dragons, once separated by centuries, found reunion in stormlight.
Thorne clenched his jaw. “Damn it,” he whispered, barely audible. “Have some decency and shield, you two.”
Heat pooled in his spine, then lower. The bond pulsed, intrusive and raw, feeding fragments of the dragons’ sensation straight into his mind, magnetic, primal, unstoppable. He slammed his mental shield shut like a door against a rising tide. The flush in his body remained. Unwelcome. Powerful.
She doesn’t need to feel this,he thought fiercely, drawing the mental wall tighter.Not tonight.
Still, some of it lingered, an echo that couldn’t be entirely blocked.
He glanced down at Thaelyn, her lashes resting against flushed cheeks, her mouth slightly parted in sleep. Oblivious to the storm of wings gathering just beyond her consciousness. His fingers curled protectively around her back. The soft line of her hip pressed against his thigh. Her bare legs tangled gently with his. Thorne held Thaelyn protectively. He closed his eyes and fell asleep holding her tightly.
