And I know, with absolute certainty, that the real war is just beginning.
The penthouse is silent at 4:00 AM.
Not empty—never empty, not with Cyprian moving through the space like a predator on high alert—but silent in that specific way that means the adrenaline crash is coming and I'm not ready for it.
My hands are screaming.
Not metaphorically.
Actually screaming.
The chemical burns from the volcanic oil have blistered across my palms and up my forearms in angry red welts that the emergency medic wrapped in sterile gauze and dermal-regeneration gel. The pain is a constant, throbbing pulse that makes my fingers twitch involuntarily.
I saved his entire species.
And I might have destroyed my career in the process.
Massage therapy requires functional hands.
I'm trying very hard not to think about that.
Cyprian hasn't spoken since we landed on the balcony twenty minutes ago. He's been moving through the penthouse with mechanical precision—locking doors, checking security feeds, coordinating with Kael via encrypted comms—but his amberveins are still flickering that dangerous orange-gold that means he's barely holding it together.
I'm sitting on the edge of the massive bed, still wearing the tactical gear they gave me for the subterranean infiltration, staring at my bandaged hands like they belong to someone else.
The door to the bedroom opens.
Cyprian enters carrying a medical kit that looks like it cost more than my old apartment.
His wings are folded tightly against his back. His jaw is locked. His eyes are glowing that soft, molten gold that means he's trying very hard to stay calm.
He kneels in front of me.
Not sits.
Kneels.
His massive frame folding down so he's looking up at me, his hands resting gently on my knees.
"Let me see," he says.
His voice is rough.
Raw.
I hold out my hands.
He takes them with a gentleness that makes my throat tighten. His claws—razor-sharp, deadly—handle the bandages like they're made of glass. He unwraps the gauze slowly, methodically, his amber eyes tracking every wince, every flinch, every sharp intake of breath.
The burns are worse than I thought.
Angry red blisters cover my palms and the inside of my forearms. The skin is raw and weeping in places. My fingers are swollen.
Cyprian stares at them.
His entire body goes rigid.
"You burned yourself," he says.
