"Like I killed my maker and almost died from magical silver poisoning." I manage a weak smile. "So, about average."
He doesn't smile back. His hand comes up to cup my face, and I feel the weight of what he's feeling.
"I'm okay," I say softly. "I'm here."
"I know. I can feel you." His eyes search mine. "It's strange. Having you in my head."
"I'm not in your head. I'm in your..." I press my hand to his chest, feeling the heartbeat beneath my palm. Feeling the warmth of the mark beneath his shirt. "Here. And you're in mine."
We stay like that for a moment, just feeling each other. The bond hums between us, a constant connection that makes the silence feel full instead of empty.
"I need a shower," I say finally. "I'm covered in..." I look down at myself. Dried blood, dirt, the remnants of battle crusted on my skin. "Everything."
"You need rest."
"I need to not smell like a corpse." I swing my legs over the side of the bed, and he's there immediately, hands steadying me. "I'm fine. I can walk."
"You were dying twelve hours ago."
"And now I'm not." I meet his eyes. "The bond worked. I can feel myself healing. Whatever was coming apart, it's stable now." I touch his chest again, feeling that heartbeat, the warmth of the mark beneath the fabric. "Because of you."
He's quiet for a moment, emotions flickering through the bond too fast to name. Then he nods.
"My quarters," he says. "Not here. You can shower there."
I don't argue.
He helps me stand, his arm around my waist as we make our way through the compound. It's quiet, the halls empty. I catch glimpses of faces in doorways, curious eyes following us, but no one approaches.
They can all hear it, I realize. Our heartbeats. Every vampire in this building can hear the rhythm coming from both of us.
Maximus's quarters feel different tonight. The same elegant space, the same king-sized bed where we've spent every night since we first came together, but something has shifted. Maybe it's the bond. Maybe it's almost dying. Everything feels more vivid, more precious. He leads me into the bathroom, and I don't protest when he follows. We're both covered in blood. We both need this. The bathroom is almost as large as my old apartment.
Marble floors. A shower that could fit six people. A massive tub that looks more like a small pool. Everything in shades of gray and black, understated luxury that somehow fits him perfectly.
"I'll get you clean clothes," he says, turning to leave.
I catch his wrist. "Stay."
He goes still. His reaction hits me instantly, a spike of want,quickly suppressed. He's trying to be noble. Trying to give me space to recover.
I don't want space.
"Stay," I repeat. "You're covered in blood too."
"Celeste..."
"I almost died." I step closer, still holding his wrist. "And right now, the only thing I want is to feel alive." I press my palm flat against his chest, feeling our shared heartbeat, feeling the mark warm beneath my touch. "With you."
His control wavers. I feel it like a tremor running between us. The desire he's been holding back, the desperate need to touch me, to confirm I'm real and whole and here. Centuries of restraint, cracking under the weight of almost losing me.
"You're injured," he says, but his voice is hoarse.
"I'm healing." I reach for the hem of my ruined shirt, what's left of it, and pull it over my head. The movement tugs at my wound, but the pain is distant, manageable. "And I don't want to be careful tonight. I don't want to be gentle." I drop the shirt on the marble floor. "I want to feel you."
His eyes travel down my body. The blood, the bandages, the bruises already fading. And the mark, the crimson bond mark over my heart, glowing faintly in the bathroom light. His want floods into me, hot and immediate, no longer suppressed.
"You're sure?" he asks.
