Page 48 of His Emotional Support Snack

He answers with a brutal, driving pace. The impact of his hips against mine echoes through the chaotic storm of magic. Every thrust sends a shockwave of physical and magical ecstasy radiating through my limbs. The silver energy in my veins sings, rising to meet the deep, rumbling purr of his power. The two frequencies twist together, a double helix of pure power locking our souls into a singular, indestructible unit.

The friction builds a white-hot pressure in the center of my being.

"I could not hold back from you if the gods demanded it," he snarls, his control fraying, the rhythm turning frantic.

I meet him thrust for thrust, the world narrowing down to the scent of storm-charged air, the sweat on his skin, and the devastating fullness stretching me apart.

The climax crashes over me like a tidal wave.

A jagged cry rips from my throat as the pleasure shatters my remaining defenses. My internal muscles clamp down, milking him, drawing every ounce of strength from his body.

Zuirvih roars, his back arching, the muscles in his arms trembling violently as he spills his release deep inside me.

The magical dome above us flares blindingly bright before dissolving into a soft, cascading rain of purple and silver sparks. They drift down onto the mattress, vanishing as they touch our sweat-slicked skin.

He collapses against me, his chest heaving, his face buried in the crook of my neck.

Hot tears spill over my lashes, tracking through the dirt and exhaustion still lingering on my cheeks. The weeping is silent, a profound, soul-deep release. The unyielding armor of the Lowtown survivor dissolves into nothingness. The frantic, exhausting calculation of the next threat, the constant fear of starvation and violence, vanishes.

I am equal to the monster in the dark. I am his anchor, and he is my shield.

Zuirvih lifts his head, his thumbs gently wiping the tears from my face. His glowing eyes are wet, mirroring the overwhelming, devastating relief pouring from my own soul.

He kisses me, a slow, lingering promise that tastes of salt and absolute devotion.

Tangling together in the ruins of the silk sheets, the cold air of the harbor city is firmly locked outside the iron doors. His arm wraps securely around my waist, pulling my back flush against his chest. I rest my hand over his, my fingers intertwining with his long, dark digits.

The rhythm of our breathing slows, syncing perfectly in the quiet dark. The shared lifeforce hums in our chests, a steady, unbreakable drumbeat echoing into eternity.

30

ZUIRVIH

The hum of a shared heartbeat is a steady, quiet rhythm against my own ribs.

I ease my arm from beneath Esme, shifting my weight with excruciating care to avoid waking her. The silk sheets rustle softly, a stark contrast to the violent, desperate tangle we made of them hours ago. She murmurs something incoherent, turning onto her side, her dark hair spilling across the pillows. The silver Wildspont magic pulses faintly beneath her skin, a soft, iridescent glow that matches the steady rise and fall of her chest.

I pull the thick velvet quilt over her bare shoulders, my hand lingering on the curve of her hip.

The frantic, jagged edges of my soul—the paranoia that defined the last decade—are gone. The internal rot is eradicated. The political war is won. The sprawling, treacherous chessboard of Vhoig lies smashed at my feet, and I have no desire to pick up the pieces.

I rise from the mattress, pulling on a pair of loose linen trousers.

The morning air drafting through the shattered glass archways is biting, tasting of salt and harbor rot, but the chill does not touch me. The magic in my core burns with a localized, contained heat. I walk barefoot across the black marble, stepping over the glittering shards of broken glass scattered across the rug.

I step out onto the balcony, resting my forearms against the cold iron railing.

The bruised purple twilight gives way to a bleeding, crimson dawn. The sun crests over the distant, jagged peaks of the Oshta mountains, painting the sprawling port city of Vhoig in harsh, unforgiving light. The lower harbor is a maze of slick cobblestones and rusted cranes. The high-tier cliffs glint with the wealth of the Khuzuth elite.

It is a city built on cruelty, sustained by blood, and governed by monsters.

Ten years ago, I stared out at this exact horizon, coughing up necrotic, blackened blood, calculating the days I had left before the toxin imploded my core. I prepared to die a villain in a den of vipers.

Instead, a feral, starving human stepped into my path and tore the poison from my veins.

The rhythmic thump, thump of padded paws breaks the quiet of the morning.

Vesper the Batlaz trots onto the balcony, his massive, bristling bulk taking up half the available space. The beast survived the concussive blast in the nursery with nothing more than a bruised rib and a bruised ego. He huffs, nudging my thigh with a wet snout before turning in a tight circle on the stone flags.