“Are you hungry?”
I drink in his face—so close. Soridiculouslybeautiful.
I smile. “Yes.”
He grins, the corner of his mouth tilting with that familiar, dry charm. “Good. Because I went through all this trouble to romance you . . . ” A beat. “ . . .Iwas planning something slow and subtle, but you clearly had other ideas.” He grins. “I don’t want all this delicious food to go to waste.”
I smack his chest, laughing. He leans in and presses a soft kiss to the tip of my nose.
And gods—I know I’m in trouble.
We eventually find the will to move—mostly because Thane insists we’renotletting perfectly good food go cold after I so rudely “pounced” on him.
It’s evening now, the sky gone dark, the stars scattered across a deep indigo sky. The soft, rhythmic croak of frogs drifts from the lagoon, blending with the hush of the breeze through the trees.
Thane has four small orbs of fire suspended in the air around us, casting a warm golden glow over the remains of our picnic. The light flickers against his skin, catching in his eyes, painting the world in warmth and shadow.
He’s back in his pants now, barefoot like me, hair still tousled, mouth still smug. I’m wearing his tunic, the collar loose, the hem brushing mid-thigh. It smells like him.
Smoke. Cedar. Heat.
And I have no intention of giving it back.
We sit on the blanket, legs brushing, fingers grazing as we slowly eat. Everything is simple. Thoughtful. He packed fresh bread, soft cheese, dried fruit, even a bottle of chilled wine he must’ve enchanted to stay cool.
“You really planned this?” I murmur, taking a bite of sweet plum, juice sticky on my fingers.
Thane leans back on one arm, watching me. “Of course I did. I told you—I was trying to romance you.”
“I thought the plan was to seduce and conquer.”
His mouth curves into that lazy, half-smile. “Only if the romance failed.”
I laugh softly, brushing a curl away from my cheek. The fireflies have returned, drifting lazily above the lagoon. The night is warm, quiet, full of all the little sounds that feel impossibly distant from war.
For a while, we just eat in silence. Not awkward—just comfortable. Still reverberating with what just happened.
Then, his voice—softer than before: “You were afraid it would hurt me.”
I glance at him.
Eyes down, Thane picks at a piece of bread.
I know what he’s referring to. Not just the moment. Not just the magics. But thewayit happened. When I broke open, and the elements surged with me—my magics stirred as if I waspurposely wielding.
It seems as though any time I experience emotions fiercely—pleasure, pain, fear, love—my magics responds. It just . . . happened. Rising with me. Breaking with me. Becoming me.
“It’s like they’re tied to my feelings,” I murmur, more to myself than to him.
Thane looks up then. He reaches for the glass of wine beside him, lifting it with that same effortless grace he carries into battle, and takes a slow sip. His eyes never leave mine.
Then, quietly— “That makes sense.”
I lift my head slightly, meeting his gaze. “Why?”
“Because your power isn’t separate from who you are.” A pause. “It’s not something to control. It’s something to trust.”
I nod slowly. “I didn’t want to lose control. Not with you . . . not like last time.”
