He stroked hair off my face, his sad gaze finding mine. “I can't. They need me.”
“I feel the same, but they also need a king and a queen who have the strength to fight off the borgons if they attack again.”
The weight of all he'd been through was apparent in the drop of his shoulders and the deeply etched lines on his face.
He pulled me into his arms. “I can’t leave them now. Not yet.”
“I know.” My breath hitched, and I sank into him. My unease and disbelief over what had happened blurred as his warmth seeped through me. His touch was Merrick’s, tender in its firmness and in the way he soothed my wounds seen and unseen. His hands skimmed my back in slow, deliberate strokes, and I clung tighter to him, pressing my forehead into his chest. His scent, mixed with ash and steel, settled something feral inside me.
He looked down at me, and the heat in his eyes… This was Lorant. He bent his head, and his lips brushed against my temple before tilting lower. His hands slid up, cradling my face, and as I met his gaze, my stomach tumbled like it had when this man who was a mix of them both first kissed me. The soft green of his eyes carried that quiet understanding I’d always trusted in Merrick, but there was a glimmer of something wilder, something sharper that was pure Lorant. The contrast pierced through my doubts as completely as his lips crushed mine.
I hadn’t lost either of them; they’d fused into one.
Like the last, there was nothing tentative about this kiss. It burned with every promise Lorant had snarled in the dark, every longing Merrick had set ablaze in daylight. A thousand heartbreaks I’d never realized I carried melted away under the intensity of this man's touch. His lips moved against mine with possession, not demanding but searing into me as though branding the very shape of me into his soul. His fingers tightened, holding me to him as if the world itself would never be able to tear us apart.
I returned his kiss, my hands sliding up to his face, as though to confirm what was now so utterly clear to me. I’d loved both sides of this man, the light and dark, the fight and the calm. And here he was, completely whole. In loving them both, I’d chosen Lore before I knew he existed, and now, as he poured what felt like every fragment of himself into our kiss, I ached for more than only this brief pause in the storm.
When he drew back, I shivered, my breathing shallow. His forehead touched mine, but the peace between us lasted only until a cry tore through the streets. Sharp and guttural, the wail sliced apart the tender moment we’d carved out of ruin.
My first instinct was to pull away, to go to whoever had lost someone, to remind myself that comfort wasn't an option for us. Lore stilled me with his hands, trailing one to lift my chin until our gazes locked again.
“We live.” His deep, quiet voice touched something deep inside me. “Others are mourning, and we grieve with them. But welive, Reyla. It’s alright to feel glad for that. To hold on to it.”
I swallowed hard, his words settling against my chest, a balm for wounds that may never completely heal. He kissed my forehead again before stepping back.
We parted like a tapestry unraveling, but not completely. I felt the tether between us at all times, pulling taut as we moved through the wreckage of our city and worked to help those in need.
There was no hesitation in his steps now, no falter as he waded through rubble. He helped hoist beams from shattered homes, his strength almost unnatural. He knelt just as freely beside villagers too wounded to rise, his presence showing he was with them as their faces twisted in pain. He spoke to them, listened when others shared news of their dead, and he gave quiet commands to our guards to tend to every single person with care. I only caught pieces of this as I helped others, but knowing he was near kept me going despite exhaustion’s determination to knock me to my knees.
I stopped to help a woman bracing an injured young man, sliding beneath his arm to hold steady him as she staggered under his weight. A borgon had slashed his leg, and it bled, the dark red seeping through his torn pants and hitching down his leg. He whimpered, biting back a yell when my leg brushed against his wound.
“Over there,” I said, jerking my chin to where they'd set up a small clinic. Healers leaped from one person to another, doing what they could.
The stitch of panic in her gaze spurred me faster, and we didn’t stop until we'd brought him over to the improvised clinic and gently laid him down on one of the many blankets they must've either brought with them or raided from the marketplace itself.
“His leg,” I said when a healer came over to join us.
Her gaze met mine, and she nodded. “Are you alright?”
“I'm fine. Nothing of concern.”
“Good. We need you.” I didn't know her, but when her hand landed on my shoulder, I found new strength to keep going.
I turned, my eyes drawn to Lore again. He was carefully tugging a young boy from beneath a pile of loaded crates. Once free, the child clung to Lore’s neck as Lore pressed him into a man’s arms, whispering something that made him nod.
He glanced over his shoulder, his gaze seeking mine. Our eyes met, and even across a marketplace strewn with blood, rubble, and loss, I felt his assurance as vividly as if he’d pressed his hand to my chest again.
We lived.
Every time I saw him glance my way, his gold-flecked eyes sending reassurance through the smoke-filled streets, I started to believe him. Love could exist here, despite our loss. It had to. Love was all we could hold onto, and somehow, it had carried us through fire and blood and death together.
By the time dawn stretched over the city, its golden rays cutting through the thinning smoke, the streets were quieter. Fires had died back to smoldering embers, and any lick of flames had been beaten back by weary villagers with ash-smeared faces and blistered hands. Some sought food and water, others collapsed in small circles, leaning on one another to rest.
I stood on the steps of a battered shop, overlooking the marketplace while sipping water from a flask one of my guards had handed me. My arms ached, my legs felt like stone, but I refused to stop looking for Lore. Then I spotted him emerging from the shadows of a crumbling alley. He wiped sweat from his face and tipped his head back, catching sight of the sun rising. When he lowered his eyes to find mine, a quiet strength lingered in the curl of his mouth.
My husband—one man now, yet still both the men I loved—strode toward me.
39
