His mouth tightens. “Oona?—”
“No. Listen.” I press my palm to his sternum, right over his heart. “Earth always saves the best layers for last.”
He blinks. “That is a?—”
“A geology fact,” I cut in, dead serious. “And also a romantic declaration, so don’t ruin it.”
For half a second he looks like he might laugh again.
Then his hand slides up my spine and he pulls me back down onto him, firm and careful at the same time, as if he’s learning how to hold something precious without crushing it.
His mouth finds my hair. My temple. The corner of my lips.
“I do not deserve you,” he murmurs.
“Still not your call,” I whisper back automatically.
His breath warms my cheek. “Then what is my call?”
I tilt my face up to his, eyes burning a little.
“To love me,” I say simply. “To let me love you. To let yourself be happy without punishing yourself for it.”
The bond hums like agreement, low and steady. The Barrow’s roots shift softly in the walls, as if the castle itself is settling around the truth.
Dagan’s eyes search mine—green-gold, storm-deep.
Then he nods once.
A vow.
“I do love you, Oona. More than I have ever loved anything.”
He kisses me slow this time, like he’s learning a new language.
Like he has all the time in the world now that the world isn’t ending.
When we finally break apart, I rest my forehead against his and trace the edge of the bracer on my wrist, feeling the warmth of it pulse with my heartbeat.
“Hey,” I whisper.
“Yes, my viyella?”
I smile, small and sure. “We really did it.”
His arm tightens around me, anchoring us together.
“Yes,” he murmurs. “And you are mine.”
I lift a brow. “Possessive.”
“Always,” he says without shame. Then, softer—so soft it almost breaks me—“But never as a cage.”
I sink back into him, the new weight on my wrist and the older weight in my chest both strangely comforting.
Outside, Nightfall keeps breathing.
Inside, in this bed, in his arms, I finally do too.
