Not physically. The obsidian walls still gleam in the firelight. The wards still hum with protective energy. My quarters still occupy the space adjacent to Izan’s, separated by a door that never quite manages to feel like an adequate barrier.
But the silence between us has changed. Grown heavier. More charged.
Izan escorts me to my door without speaking. Stands there while I reach for the handle, making no move to enter, making no move to leave.
“The council will convene again tomorrow.” His tone is quiet. Measured. “They’ll want to discuss what happened. I’ll handle it.”
“Handle it how?”
“However I have to.” He pauses. “You should rest. The next few days will be... complicated.”
The smart thing to do is go inside. Process everything that’s happened. Shut the door between us and be sensible.
Instead, I turn to face him.
“You meant it.” Not a question. “Everything you declared in the hall. You meant every word.”
“Yes.”
“And now? With no one watching? You still mean it?”
His eyes flare—amber shot through with threads of red. “More than ever.”
“Then prove it.”
The words escape before I can stop them. Reckless. Dangerous. The kind of invitation that changes everything that comes after.
Izan goes perfectly still. The controlled stillness of a hunter who’s heard the snap of a twig in the underbrush. “Alerie?—”
“You claimed me in front of the entire council. Declared me under your personal protection. Made me yours in every way that matters politically.” I step closer, near enough that his presence presses against me through my clothes. “So show me what that means. Show me what it means to belong to you.”
The sound he makes is barely human. Half growl, half groan, wrenched from somewhere deep inside him. His hands come up to grip my arms—not hard, but firm. Holding me in place while he wages war with himself.
“If I touch you now—” His words have gone rough. Fractured. “If I start, I’m not going to be able to stop. Do you understand that? I’ve been holding myself back for days. Weeks. Since the moment I first saw you. If you give me permission to?—”
“I’m not giving you permission.” I meet his stare steadily, refusing to look away from the fire burning in his eyes. “I’m making a choice. The same way you made a choice in the throne room. You claimed me? Fine. Then take what you claimed. Or admit that it was all posturing and politics, and I’ll go inside and close this door and we’ll pretend none of this ever happened.”
Silence. His grip on my arms tightens. Loosens. Tightens again.
He doesn’t walk; he hunts. My back slams against the door of his chambers with enough force to rattle my teeth, his bodya wall of predatory heat that pins me to the wood. He doesn’t ask for entry—he occupies the air I breathe, forcing me into his space as if the very idea of a separate room for me has become a personal insult to his dragon.
His hands are everywhere. In my hair, at my waist, tracing the line of my spine with desperate urgency. His mouth finds mine, and the kiss isn’t gentle. Isn’t tentative. It’s claiming. Possessing. Taking exactly what I offered him.
I kiss him back with equal ferocity. Pour all my complicated feelings into the contact—the fear and the need and the undeniable recognition that I’ve been craving this since the moment he first looked at me with those burning eyes.
He pulls back long enough to kick the door closed behind us. The room is dark except for the firelight that responds to his presence, brightening as his emotions intensify. I have a vague impression of sparse furnishing, military precision, a bed large enough for a dragon who sometimes forgets to remain entirely human.
“Last chance.” His forehead presses against mine, both of us breathing hard. “Tell me to stop and I will. Tell me this was a mistake and I’ll walk you back to your quarters and never mention it again. But if you don’t say those words in the next five seconds?—”
“I’m not saying them.”
He closes his eyes. Opens them. The amber has gone red-tinged, threads flickering through the gold.
“Then gods help us both.”
His mouth claims mine again, and I stop thinking about politics, about consequences, about everything except the inferno consuming us both.
Later—muchlater—I lie in darkness that isn’t quite dark.
