His heart thuds steady under my palm—slow, heavy, earthquake-strong.
When I look up, his eyes burn green-gold, pupils blown wide.
“Oona,” he murmurs. “You need rest.”
“So do you,” I counter. “But that’s not what we’re doing right this second.”
His hands settle on my hips like they belong there. Which, honestly, they kind of do.
“You are certain?” he asks, voice low, roughened by more than just exhaustion.
“Dagan,” I say, rising onto my toes until our noses almost touch, “do you really think I’m going to walk away from this night? From you? After everything we almost lost?”
The breath he drags in shakes.
“Point taken,” he murmurs
His mouth meets mine.
It starts slow.
Soft.
His lips are warm and careful, like he’s afraid I’ll break if he presses too hard.
His hands slide up my back, one broad palm settling between my shoulder blades, the other curling around the nape of my neck.
The Barrow reacts.
The lights dim, crystals softening to a low, intimate glow. The faint cool draft that’s always present in stone spaces fades, replaced by a gentle warmth that seeps up from the floor.
Somewhere in the ceiling, roots creak as they shift, enclosing us just a little more.
It feels like the whole fortress is leaning in.
Watching.
Approving.
“Okay,” I murmur against his lips, “this castle definitely ships us.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Ships?”
“Wants us together. Roots for us.” I nip his lower lip, emboldened by the way his fingers tighten. “Pun not intended. Maybe a little intended.”
“You are incorrigible,” he says, voice thickening.
“You love it.”
“I do,” he agrees. “Very much.”
The kiss deepens.
Heat sweeps through me in a slow, rolling wave. All the fear I’ve been tamping down—the worry for him, for Nightfall, for all the worlds balanced on this strange place—melts into something else.
Something sharper and sweeter.
Need.
