"I thought I was going to lose you," he says.
His voice cracks.
"When that countdown hit thirty seconds and you were still pouring oil into the device core with your bare hands, I thought—"
He stops.
Opens his eyes.
The gold is so bright it's almost blinding.
"I thought I was going to watch you die."
My throat tightens.
"I'm not dead."
"You are injured."
"I'm alive."
"Because you sacrificed yourself."
"Because I love you."
The words are out before I can stop them.
Raw.
Unfiltered.
Absolutely true.
Cyprian stares at me.
His wings unfold.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Filling the space around us with dark, velvety membrane and glowing golden veins.
"Say that again," he says.
His voice is a command.
"I love you," I say. "I love you, and I'm not sorry I burned my hands, and if you try to feel guilty about it I'm going to—"
He kisses me.
Hard.
Desperate.
Claiming.
His hands slide up my thighs, his claws catching on the tactical fabric, his wings wrapping around us like a cocoon. The kiss is deep and raw and tastes like volcanic stone and something darker, something that feels like relief and terror and absolute, feral devotion.
