“I love you,” I whisper, because I can’t not, my fingers tracing the ember-bright patterns that move beneath his skin.
His eyes blaze.
“Stay with me, Shula,” he murmurs against my lips, voice a vow and a plea all at once. “For as long as there is flame in Nightfall.”
“Yes, Thorne,” I breathe, pulling him closer. “Please.”
And as his warmth surrounds me and the fire of us roars higher, one truth anchors me more than anything:
I am his.
He is mine.
And whatever comes next, we won’t face it alone.
From here on out, we’ll walk into every fire together.
Thorne thrusts into me, deep and sure, and the last of my scattered thoughts burn away until there’s only him.
“Eyes on me, Shula,” he rasps, voice molten.
I drag my gaze up to his, drowning in ember-bright heat. “Thorne, you feel so good.”
His jaw clenches, a low sound tearing from his chest.
“As do you, my love. Gods, you’re so fucking perfect.”
Pleasure builds fast—hot, relentless, curling low in my belly.
“I love you,” I gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders as the world tilts.
His rhythm falters for a heartbeat, like the words hit him somewhere deep.
“I love you more than anything, my viyella,” he growls against my lips. “Mine, Delia. Always mine.”
Then his mouth finds mine, fierce and tender all at once. And together, we fall into sweet oblivion.
Epilogue 3: Dagan
I am Dagan.
Lord of Earth.
Winged Demon of stone and storm.
Breaker of bones. Keeper of roots.
That is what they call me, at least.
Tonight I am just a man standing on the edge of Thorne’s great hall, spine pressed to cold stone, a tankard of ale in my hand as I watch my brothers with their mates.
Alaric leans down to murmur something into Jules’ ear. She laughs, one hand on the swell of her stomach, the other tugging playfully on his hair.
Kael sits with Phoebe tucked into his side, her fingers stained with ink even now as she sketches on a scrap of parchment, his thumb stroking mindlessly over the back of her hand.
And Thorne—Thorne is smiling.
Truly smiling, not the sharp, bitter curve of his mouth I had grown used to over centuries. Delia is at his side, head tipped back as she laughs at something Evonne says, her brilliant white gown catching the light. His arm is looped around her waist, careless and claiming.
