And gods, do I hunger.
Her hands curl into my shoulders, fingers digging in as if she’s afraid I’ll disappear.
The thought cleaves something open in my chest.
I hover over her, bracing my weight on my arms, forcing myself to breathe.
She smells like salt and caramel and heat.
Like courage.
Like temptation.
This is not a ceremony anymore.
This is not strategy.
This is danger.
Because somewhere between the vows and the wine and the way she came apart on my mouth and looked at me like I was something more than a monster, I have become serious.
Deadly serious.
About wanting her for real.
Not as a tool.
Not as a boon.
Not as a means to an end.
A true viyella.
The thought is a boy’s dream—soft, foolish, impossible. I am not a boy. I am a man carved from flame and war.
I cannot have everything.
Nightfall has taught me that lesson over and over again in blood and ash.
But this night?
This night I can take.
I can bind her to me in fire and promise and flesh.
I can brand this moment into my memory so deeply it will never fade, no matter what comes after.
Maybe after the war…
Maybe after the crown is safe…
Maybe after The Ember Vein is no longer under threat…
We shall see.
I lower my forehead to hers, our breaths mingling, my voice rough with a restraint I have never practiced before.
“Delia,” I murmur, not as a command, not as a claim—but as a truth.
