You’re my anchor,she thought.That’s terrifying. And wonderful. And absolutely going to get me killed if I think about it too hard.
“Tell me something. Something you’ve never told anyone.”
He was still for a breath. Then: “I have a photograph. My parents. I’ve carried it for six hundred years, never shown anyone. Never admitted I had it. Delos suspects, but I’ve never confirmed.”
“Why keep it hidden?”
“Because caring about things—remembering people—it makes you vulnerable. I learned that early.” His voice was flat, detached, the way he got when discussing something painful. “If no one knows what matters to you, no one can use it against you. So I stopped letting things matter. Stopped keeping mementos. Stopped forming attachments.”
“Until now.”
“Until now.” His thumb traced her cheekbone. “You matter to me. Everyone knows it now. It terrifies me.”
“Good.” She leaned into his touch. “Terror shared is terror halved. Or something. I was never good at proverbs.”
“That’s not a proverb.”
“See? Terrible at them.”
His smile was small but genuine. “Your turn. Something you’ve never told anyone.”
She didn’t hesitate. “I blamed myself for my mother’s death. For sixteen years, I believed that if I’d been stronger, more controlled, I could have stopped the storm that killed her. I built my whole identity around that guilt—the dangerous witch who had to be contained, had to be careful, couldn’t let anyone get too close because my power might hurt them.”
“And now?”
“My mother’s death—it might not have been my fault. It might have been anyone.” Cassia’s voice caught. “I don’t know how to feel about that. Relieved? Angry? It changes everything and nothing at the same time.”
Aero pulled her down, tucking her head beneath his chin. “It changes one thing. You can stop punishing yourself for something you didn’t cause.”
“Easier said than done.”
“I’ve had centuries of practice at self-punishment. Trust me—it doesn’t help. It just makes you lonely.” His arms tightenedaround her. “We’re both terrible at forgiving ourselves. Maybe we can be better at forgiving each other.”
She pressed a kiss to his chest, right over his slow-beating heart. “Deal.”
THIRTY-NINE
CASSIA
They made love twice more before dawn.
The second time was slower, gentler—exploration rather than desperation. He rolled her onto her stomach, trailing kisses down her spine while his hands mapped the curves of her hips, her waist, the dip at the small of her back. When he slid inside her from behind, they both sighed at the different angle, the new sensations.
“You’re so deep like this,” she gasped, gripping the pillow.
“Too much?”
“Never. More.”
He gave her more—slow, deep thrusts that built pleasure in languid waves. His hand slid around to find her clit, stroking in time with his movements. She came with a shudder, and he followed moments later, groaning her name against her shoulder.
Afterward, she discovered he was ticklish behind his left knee, and he discovered that biting the curve where his neck met his shoulder made him completely incoherent. They filed away the information for future use.
They talked between rounds, lazy and content. He told her about the first storm he’d ever summoned—as a young dragon,barely a century old, trying to impress a rival who’d mocked his control. He’d accidentally caused a three-day tempest that flooded half a valley.
“So you’ve been dramatic since birth,” Cassia said. “Good to know.”
“I was young. Impulsive. I’ve gotten better.”
