At his scars and his stone-hard restraint.
At the way he’s watching me like he’s prepared to be hated for telling the truth.
And I realize—this is the first time anyone has ever offered me a place that needs me.
Not just a job.
Not just a role.
A home that matters.
I wet my lips.
“Is that a warning… or a threat?”
His nostrils flare.
“A vow, my viyella. Yours to me and mine to you.”
I hear it then—the faintest shake beneath his composure.
He’s afraid I’ll choose my freedom over him.
He’s afraid he finally has something to lose.
My heart does something stupid and soft and brave.
I slide my hand out from under his, then take his wrist and pull his palm fully against the Crown piece on my chest.
“Good,” I say, voice steady even though my eyes sting. “Because if you thought you were the only one who got trapped by this?—”
His gaze snaps to mine.
I lean in, close enough that my breath brushes his mouth.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I whisper. “Not after what we did. Not after what we are.”
His throat bobs. “Oona?—”
“I left a life that was basically a waiting room,” I cut in, softer now. “A job, an empty apartment, and a whole lot of pretending I was fine being rootless.”
I press my forehead to his, the way I’ve learned means more than any fancy speech in this world.
“But this?” I murmur. “This is the first thing that’s ever felt like solid ground.”
The Barrow hums under our feet, smug as hell about it.
Dagan closes his eyes like the weight of relief almost knocks him over.
When he opens them, the honesty in his gaze is so raw it scares me.
“I still do not deserve you,” he says.
I snort through the sting in my eyes. “Still not your call, Lord of Dirt.”
That earns me the smallest ghost of a smile.
Then his hand slides to the back of my neck and his mouth finds mine—not gentle, not careful, but reverent in the way of a man who has wanted something his whole life and never believed he’d get to keep it.
