“Not that unexpected.” Her fingers trace patterns on my arm—idle, unconscious, the kind of touch that happens when two people have stopped keeping track of whose body is whose. “Word spreads. Ships have been passing through the Wrecktide without incident for weeks now. Sailors talk. Merchants listen.”
“You think we should take the deal?”
“I think we should negotiate better terms.” Her sharp smile returns. “Exclusive salvage rights are valuable. They’re lowballing us because they think we’re desperate.”
“Are we?”
“Not anymore.” She turns in my lap, straddles me, frames my face with her hands. Her eyes hold mine with certainty. “We’ve got the coast. We’ve got the salvage. We’ve got?—”
“Each other?”
“I was going to say a strategic position and valuable resources.” Her fingers brush along my jaw. “But that too.”
I kiss her. Properly this time—deep and claiming, my hands settling on her hips, pulling her closer. She melts into me with a sigh that carries satisfaction and want in equal measure.
One month. One month of this, and it still takes my breath away. Still makes me forget everything except the taste of her, the feel of her, the joy of having found something worth keeping.
When we break apart, she’s breathing harder. So am I.
“We should...” She gestures vaguely toward the door. “There’s work to do. Salvage schedules to review. Guard rotations to?—”
“Later.” I pull her closer, my nose brushing hers. “The work can wait.”
“Zoric—”
“I spent years putting work first. Years of nothing but duty and guilt and the slow grind of trying to earn forgiveness that was never coming.” I meet her eyes. “I’m not making that mistake again. The salvage schedules can wait. This can’t.”
Her expression softens. The professional retreats, leaving just the woman—scarred and somehow still capable of tenderness despite everything she’s survived.
“You’re getting sentimental in your old age.”
“Blame yourself. You’re a terrible influence.”
She laughs. The sound fills the hall, bounces off stone walls that have heard centuries of violence and loss, warms something in my chest I’d forgotten existed.
“Fine.” She kisses me again—quick and claiming. “But only because you asked nicely.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
ZORIC
The evening finds her on the cliff.
I know where she’ll be before I start looking. Have learned her patterns over the past month—the way she moves through the keep, the places she retreats when she needs to think. The cliff is her favorite.
She stands at the edge, her back to me, her attention fixed on the sunset painting the water gold. The wind catches her hair—she’s left it loose today, dark waves streaming behind her like a banner. She looks like something from an old story. A woman at the edge of the world, deciding whether to step off.
I cross the distance between us. She doesn’t turn, but I see her shoulders relax—recognition without looking. She knows the sound of my footsteps the way I know hers.
“Beautiful evening.” I stop beside her, close enough that our arms brush.
“Mmm.” She doesn’t elaborate. Her eyes stay fixed on the horizon.
I let the quiet stretch. Have learned, over these weeks, that sometimes she needs space to find her words. That pushing doesn’t help. That patience—the hardest thing I’ve ever had to practice—is what she needs most.
“I keep thinking about leaving.” Her voice is barely audible over the wind. “Not wanting to leave. Just... thinking about it. Playing out scenarios in my head. Where I’d go. What I’d do. How I’d survive.”
“And?”
