“You’re not choosing me over him?” he asked, voice cracking. “You’re just . . . choosing now?”
Her lips curved, soft, bittersweet. “Exactly.”
And that was all he needed.
He kissed her as salvation. No crown, no kingdom, no destiny. Just Maris. Just her breath in his mouth, her hands in his hair, her heartbeat drumming wild against his chest.
The war waited beyond the walls.
But in this moment, aching breath of life before battle, she had chosen him.
He lifted her with practiced care, and carried her across the war room, past maps and battle plans, past the firelight and into his private chamber beyond the stone archway. The doors shut with a quiet click behind them, sealing the rest of the world out.
Maris didn’t look away.
Even when her breath hitched as he set her down, she met his gaze memorizing it.
“You’re sure?” he asked again, hands lingering on her waist, reverent.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” she whispered.
He leaned in slowly this time, giving her every chance to stop him. But she didn’t. Her hands slid up his chest, her fingers threading behind his neck as she pulled him down into a kiss that shook him to the bone.
There was no hesitation. No game. Just truth and flame and the soft tremble of need.
Clothing fell away in pieces, each layer shedding something they hadn’t spoken aloud. Fear. Grief. Guilt. Devotion.
When she lay back on the bed, pearl skin glowing in the cracks of light, her hands reached for him.
He kissed her slowly.
Every stroke of his mouth over her skin was worship, not conquest. She gasped when he trailed his lips along her collarbone, when his hands skimmed her thighs, his thumb tracing reverent circles, a silent vow. She arched beneath him, lips parting to call his name.
“Maris,” he breathed. “You are . . . everything.”
She blinked up at him, voice unsteady. “Then show me. While we still have time.”
He'd planned nothing less.
They moved together like two halves of a blade finally finding their edge. Her sighs became his tether, her gasps his grounding. It was not rushed, nor frantic, but built like a storm, a slow, rising tide of emotion and heat that crested only when they both shattered beneath it.
Afterward, she curled into his chest. Her breath warm against his throat.
He tucked a hand over the curve of her back, fingers brushing the bare skin.
“Do you regret it?” he asked quietly.
“No,” she whispered, voice heavy with sleep. “I only regret not doing it sooner.”
Her voice, quieter still whispered, “Whatever happens tomorrow, you’ll carry a piece of me. Always.”
His eyes burned.
He kissed her temple tucking her tighter against him, and whispered, “Then I’ll protect that piece with everything I have.”
They laid wrapped in borrowed peace before the gods came knocking.
This was the final council before the war. The last time they’d speak of strategy before blades were drawn.
