“None.”
I fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat, finally steady and calm.
BRAITH
Iwake to the ache between my thighs.
The bite marks on my inner legs throb with each pulse of my heartbeat. Purple-black crescents where his teeth broke skin, silver lines where they've already begun to heal. The memory floods back—him kneeling between my spread legs, mouth working against sensitive flesh while I gripped his hair and begged for more.
The other side of his bed is empty but still warm. Kiakoa's scent clings to the sheets, winter and iron mixed with musk and satisfaction.
I stretch, testing the soreness. My muscles protest from being bent and twisted around his massive frame. The bite marks on my thighs pull when I shift position, and I feel the deeper marks on my throat and shoulder—the ones meant for display. Silver lines that throb with each pulse of my heartbeat, permanent reminders of his claiming.
“You're awake.” His voice comes from the sitting area.
I turn to find him watching me from the tall-backed chair, already dressed for the day. Dark leather and wool that emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders. But there's something different in the way he holds himself. More settled. More satisfied.
“How long have you been sitting there?” I ask.
“Long enough to ensure no one disturbs your rest.” He rises, crossing to the bed. Each step is deliberate, possessive. “How do you feel?”
“Sore. Marked. Claimed.” I don't try to hide my satisfaction with any of those things.
His pupils dilate at my words. The careful control he maintained until last night has been replaced by something more possessive. When he reaches the bed, his hand trails over the marks on my thigh, thumb pressing against one of the healing crescents.
“Mine,” he says simply.
“Yours.”
The admission makes his breathing change. He leans down, mouth covering one of the bite marks. His tongue traces the silver lines, tasting his own claim. The sensation makes my pussy clench with renewed want.
A shadow servant materializes beside the bed, more solid than I've ever seen one. It holds a folded piece of cloth—a towel—extending it toward me with smoky fingers that don't pass through the fabric.
I reach out slowly, testing. The servant's touch has substance now, cold but real pressure against my palm as it transfers the towel.
“They're stronger today,” I observe.
Kiakoa straightens, following my gaze to where three more servants cluster near the window. One lifts a water pitcher, carrying it successfully to the washbasin instead of phasing through it.
“The deeper our bond grows, the more power they can draw from it.” His hand returns to my thigh, tracing another bite mark. “Last night changed something fundamental between us.”
Before I can respond, a sharp rap on the door breaks the moment.
“Master.” Scratch's voice carries unusual urgency. “Forty-eight years, seventy days until my service ends. And we have... correspondence.”
Kiakoa moves immediately, positioning himself between the door and the bed while I grab the sheet and wrap it around myself. Only when I'm covered does he speak.
“Enter.”
Scratch phases through the door, his multiple eyes immediately focusing on Kiakoa rather than the bed where I sit. The demon's attention shifts to examine the shadow servants moving substantial objects around the room.
“Interesting developments,” he mutters, noting their increased solidity. Then he focuses on Kiakoa. “Seven messages arrived by bone crow during the night. All marked urgent. All from different territories.”
He produces a leather satchel bulging with scrolls. Understanding settles in my chest like cold stone.
Kiakoa takes the satchel, examining the seals. His jaw tightens as he recognizes each one. “Lords Elovat, Mordak, Aldric, Severus, Korith, Malven... and Vasek.”
“They all want the same thing,” I realize.
