She cradles my face like I’m not still burning.
Like I’m not barely restraining the power inside me.
Her palm is warm against my cheekbone, water still dripping from her soaked hair, from the curve of her breasts beneath white linen.
I could have killed my brother.
I would have burned this entire camp down if she hadn’t stopped me.
If she hadn’t looked at me.
If she hadn’t come to me.
Now, my fury is ash.
All that remains is need.
Not anger. Not shame. Not even the low growl of instinct.
This is something else.
I rise slowly, still trembling—not with rage, but with the effort of keeping myself contained.
My true form lingers beneath my skin like a second heartbeat.
It is power made flesh.
Vow made tangible.
It has never emerged so fully before, never roared through me with such clarity.
Only one reason for that.
Delia.
Shula.
My viyella.
My fated mate.
And this zareth bond forged by the Fates themselves.
I must tell her.
But first, I must touch her.
Chapter 17
Thorne
Lord Thorne’s Pavilion, The Ember Vein Mining Camp
I lift her into my arms, effortlessly. She doesn’t resist. Her fingers curl into my shoulder as I carry her through the camp, past the gawking soldiers, the stunned attendants, past my brothers who wisely do not speak.
Her presence quiets every voice inside me except one.
Take care of her. Cherish her. Worship her.
