He sighed. “Dorion and I hit her hard with magic, and I know she was badly hurt, but she got away.”
Of course she did. My jaw tightened. Ice dragged down my spine, but I didn’t let it claim me. “She won’t next time.”
“No,” he said quietly. “She won’t.”
Neither of us said more. We didn’t need to. She'd intruded into our lives enough.
I lifted the soap and lathered it between my hands, letting itfloat while I crafted sudsy circles on his chest and abdomen, my fingers pausing on the place where a borgon had tried to kill him.
I washed his hair, rinsing it while he stroked my spine with so much care I could barely breathe. When we were both clean, I closed my eyes and nestled into him.
No pretending. No masks. Just us.
Opening my eyes, I stroked his face, running my fingertip along the scar where Prager had tried to burn hope out of him.
I’d touched him a thousand times before in daylight and on restless nights, during sweetness and ache. But never like this. Never to remember him alive.
Inside me, something softened. I wasn’t bracing myself, and I wasn’t hiding. For the first time since I was lost in that cursed realm, I could let the love and joy flare inside me.
I ran my palms along his back, pausing at the scar above his ass cheek that I'd teased him about what felt like ages ago.
He lifted a cup and poured warm water over me, rinsing away foam and fear alike. The stream drifted between us in silence, and I felt like we were cradling a nyxin pup too small to survive if we didn't hold it tight in our hands.
He kissed my temple.
“You undo me,” he whispered, “and then you pull me back together.”
I cupped his face. His warm breath drifted across my skin. And I kissed him. Slow. Deep. Showing him I was still his and that he was still mine. His love had stitched me back into place even when I’d tried to disappear into the shadows.
Our kisses weren’t desperate. We’d been buried together and crawled out of the ground hand-in-hand.
“Show me we’re alive,” I breathed.
“Yes.”
Water lapped around us as I shifted closer, pressing my chestagainst his. The warmth of his skin sent shivers through me that had nothing to do with temperature. My palms found his shoulders, and I traced the muscles that had carried so much weight while I was lost.
“I need to feel you,” I whispered against his neck. “Need to know this is real.”
His breath caught. “Wildfire…”
“Please.” The word broke from somewhere deep. “I need you to help me remember what it feels like to be whole.”
His gentle hands cupped my face, tilting it until our eyes met. The love there was so fierce it made my throat close. “Whatever you need. Always whatever you need.”
I guided his hands to my waist, showing him without words. His touch was almost worshipful, as if I might dissolve if he moved too quickly. When I lifted myself and settled over him, taking him inside me slowly, we both shuddered.
“There you are,” he breathed, stroking my spine. “My beautiful wife. My everything.”
The stretch, the fullness, the perfect fit of him inside me made me feel like I was coming home. This wasn’t the desperate claiming I thought I needed, but something softer. Something that said we had time. We had each other. We had survived.
I began to move, slow and careful, relearning the rhythm we'd perfected. His hands stayed on my hips, supporting me rather than demanding. Water swirled around us with each subtle movement.
“You feel wonderful,” he said, his lips tracing along my jaw. “Like every prayer I whispered while you were gone.”
Tears slipped down my cheeks. He kissed them away, one by one, his tenderness undoing something knotted in my chest. This wasn't about passion or fire or claiming. This was about healing. About proving to my traumatized soul that love couldstill be gentle, that pleasure didn't have to be torn from shadows.
“I love you,” I said, the words carrying everything I couldn't say. That I'd heard his voice in the darkness. That his love had been my tether when I was drowning. That coming back to this and to him was worth every moment of agony.
