And as the aftershocks fade and his warmth blankets every trembling inch of me, I know—whatever comes next, whatever we face—I won’t regret this.
I won’t regret him.
Not now. Not ever.
Chapter 25
Thorne
Ashfell, The Broken Plains
I leave her sleeping.
My Shula is sprawled in the center of our bed, dark hair a halo on the black sheets, lips soft and swollen from my kisses, my bite still a faint mark at the juncture of her neck and shoulder.
The sight nearly undoes me.
I force myself to turn away.
If I stay, there will be no council, no reports, no plans. Only her.
And the realm burns if I let that happen.
So I pull on black leathers and a long sleeveless coat marked with the sigil of Ashfell, slip my bone cuffs over my wrists, and send word to Xavier.
“Have the ministers and the representatives from the mining camps meet me in the throne room,” I tell him. “By the Great Flame.”
He bows low. “At once, my Lord.”
The castle around us hums with low, constant heat—Ashfell’s heartbeat.
The Great Flame at its core has burned for a thousand years, tended by my line since the first spark was pulled from the bones of the world.
Being a Demon Lord—a Prince of the land and master of elements—is not a coronet and a comfortable chair.
It is service.
Sacrifice.
And that is what my enemies never understood. They see power and assume it exists for its own sake. For domination. Control.
They don’t see the cost.
My steps are silent as I walk through the volcanic stone corridor as I approach the throne room.
I can feel the Great Flame ahead, a steady roar behind the thick doors—comforting, grounding.
Something in me is… different these days.
Sharper.
More focused.
Delia has done that.
Simply by existing in my orbit, she makes me want to be better than the story they tell about me in hushed tavern whispers. Not gentler. Not softer.
Just truer.
