“Alive,” he pants. “Growing. Claiming us both.” His mouth finds my neck—just above my collarbone, where his magic has already brushed before, and I feel the brush of his teeth.
“When we fall, Oona, we fall together. You understand?”
“Yes,” I breathe, on a sob that’s not quite tears.
The pressure inside me edges toward unbearable.
He must feel it, because his hand slides down, helping, guiding, his movements sharpening as he chases both our releases.
Everything inside me winds tighter, tighter, until I’m sure I’ll shatter.
“Now, Oona,” he growls, voice low and relentless. “Let the earth have you. Let me have you.”
Something in me obeys.
I break.
Pleasure crashes through me, violent and consuming and blinding.
My vision whites out.
The bond detonates, a flare of molten light that surges from my center outward—through my veins, into him, into the ground.
Somewhere in that explosion of feeling, I feel his teeth at my neck.
He bites.
Not cruelly.
Claiming.
Sharp heat lances through my skin, followed by a pull that feels older than language—a sealing, a promise etched in blood and magic.
The zareth roars.
Dagan stiffens above me with a hoarse shout, his body shuddering as he follows me over, every line of him straining, his hands gripping me like he never intends to let go.
For a few suspended heartbeats, everything holds.
The tree.
The roots.
The stone.
Us.
And after all the aftershocks subside, it’s like the world exhales.
I sag back into the grass, boneless, Dagan’s weight heavy and comforting on top of me.
The hum of the Marches is different now—richer, layered.
There’s a second note woven through it, familiar and new at once.
Mine.
His.
