I feel it first—the lightest touch. A hand curling around my ankle under the water. I glance at him.
Thane’s eyes are still closed, his head leaning back against the wall of the tub. Candlelight paints soft shadows across his face. He looks . . . peaceful. Younger, somehow. Unburdened, if only for a moment.
And then, in a voice so soft I almost miss it, I hear him murmur—”This is enough.”
The bond between us pulses gently, wrapping around my heart like a hand closing in a promise.
Some time later, when the water has cooled and the quiet has wrapped itself fully around us, we finally move. Just a slow, shared rhythm as we climb out of the tub, careful and quiet.
We dry off. I change into the sleeping clothes Thane offered—his soft shirt hanging loose on me, landing just above my knees.The fabric smells like him and it makes something in my chest ache.
Thane—barefoot, wearing only loose drawstring pants and nothing else—is already pulling back the covers when I step into the main room.
The low firelight from the sconces play over the hard planes of his body, casting him in soft gold and shadow. Strong. Steady. But . . .unguardedin a way I’ve never seen before. Not the Warlord tonight. Not the Fire Wielder.
Just Thane. Justmine.
He looks up then, his smoke-gray eyes soft in the low light, a question lingering even now. I don’t hesitate. I cross the room and slip into the bed beside him.
The mattress dips under my weight, and the scent of clean linen and Thane fills the small space between us. I slide under the covers, turning toward him. Thane moves immediately, curving his body along mine, fitting himself to me.
He flicks a wrist and the sconces extinguish. Darkness settles around us.
He pulls me against him—his arms winding around me, tight enough to steal my breath. Like if he lets go, the world might take me with it.
I press closer, sinking into him—into his warmth, into the steady strength that hasn’t faltered, even now. His scent wraps around me—smoke, leather, something earthy andundeniably him. I breathe it in, slow and deep, and let it settle in my bones.
My cheek rests against his chest, where his heartbeat drums slow but sure, deep and steady—a rhythm that feels safe . . . like home.
“I don’t know what happens next,” he murmurs.
“Neither do I,” I whisper back, the words barely more than breath.
A long silence stretches between us.
“I want to tell you something,” Thane says, his voice low, rough from exhaustion, but steady. “I remember the day everything changed. I still see it like it happened yesterday.”
I stay still, listening. Waiting.
“The day Kastiel died.”
My heart tightens.
“I told you I was eighteen—that I was at that battle with my brother and father. I was just feet away from Kastiel when he was struck down.”
He exhales sharply, the sound ragged, like he can still see it—feel it—playing out in front of him.
“My father and I returned home with his body.”
His voice is controlled, but I hear it—the crack beneath the surface, thin and straining.
“My mother didn’t scream when she saw him. She didn’t rage. She just . . . stood there. Silent.”
I can picture it—the great hall, torches flickering, the heavy press of grief thick in the air, and his mother standing alone in the center of it all. Unmoving. Shattered.
“Then she fell to her knees.”
Thane’s grip tightens around me, his body rigid against mine.
