He plunges in with one brutal stroke.
I scream.
The spurs drag along my walls, scraping pleasure so intense I see stars. He pounds into me, relentless, his growls vibrating through the bed.
“Your pussy,” he snarls, “was made to take me. Fuck, Ayla?—”
He grips my thighs, pinning them wide, driving deeper. My orgasm hits like lightning—sudden, violent. I sob beneath him, cunt spasming around his cock.
“Come again,” he commands, and doesn’t stop moving.
He flips me onto my stomach and enters me from behind. One hand tangles in my hair, the other on my hip. He fucks me like a war—gritty, consuming, full of ruin and glory.
“I love you,” I sob.
He groans, thrusting harder. “Say it again.”
“I love you.”
He stills, buried deep.
“I’m yours.”
Then he comes with a roar—hot, hard, flooding me full.
We collapse together, a heap of sweat and breath and love. His cock still inside me, softening, my pussy still clenching around him.
“I’ll never let you go,” he whispers against my hair.
“I’ll never ask you to.”
AYLA
The dawn breaks in ribbons of violet and copper over the Valley of Bone Winds, and it feels like the world itself has exhaled in preparation. I’ve never seen a sunrise quite like this — a glow that seeps into the stone, crowds the sky with warmth, and coats every cliff face in something fierce and ancient. The wind doesn’t just blow here — it sings, curling around my chest like breath made visible.
I stand next to Kallus at the center of the great ceremonial circle, the ground beneath me rough with the texture of crushed bone and stormstone gravel. The air tastes of early dew and a thousand whispering oaths carried from one mountaintop to the next.
The gathered Reaper clans — every contingent that survived the wars and the dark shrouds of fear — line the circle’s edge. Their armor catches the sunlight, bone gleaming next to iron, steel next to etched runes. I can smell the ritual incense before I see the braziers: dry reed and amber resin, amber smoke weaving through the crowd in spirals.
My breath is steady, but my pulse hums with something like holy thunder.
Kallus watches me for a split second — just long enough that I feel it, that warmth of his attention before he turns back to the circle with a solemn gravity only he can command.
The Bone-Singer steps forward, staff raised high. His voice rings like wind against cliff faces — deep, unevenly pitched, ancient:
“Today we gather not simply to witness history — but to affirm it.”
The crowd falls into reverent silence, like a tide pulled back, waiting for the impact of the next wave.
I look over at Brom. He’s at the head of the elder council, weathered and powerful, eyes shadowed by age and storms he’s fought. I see moisture glistening at the corners of his eyes — not tears of weakness, but of awe. Of pride, maybe, maybe more.
Brom doesn’t look at me. He looks at Chelsea.
Our daughter stands with us, tall and poised — taller than most children twice her age. Six years old, lanky in the way that means she might grow into a warrior more fearsome than any of us. Her crimson eyes reflect the sunrise like twin embers. She stands firm, shoulders straight, head high.
She was born into fire. She walks in sunlight.
The Bone-Singer’s voice rises again:
