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Mine is still fresh in his mouth.
The taste of both of us together makes the bond flare so strongly I gasp against him.
He uses that gasp to deepen the kiss, and I feel the last of his restraint fray beneath my hands.
My fingers drag into his hair, and when he pulls back, he looks down at me with the same consuming hunger, but with something deeper beneath it now.
He cups my face with both hands. “All those years,” he says, voice rough and low, “I believed the dark was all I had left.”
My throat tightens. “Kye—”
“Then you came into my life and gave me light again when I had stopped believing it was possible.”
All I can do is look at him, at this king who has been my monster, captor, savior, curse, bond, and home in ways I am still learning how to understand.
My hands settle over his where they hold my face.
“I spent my whole life learning how to survive chains,” I whisper, and my voice trembles because the truth of it hurts.
His thumbs brush slowly across my cheeks.
“And then you found me,” I continue, tears burning the backs of my eyes. “I was terrified, angry, and you made everything harder, but you gave me doors where there were only walls, and choices where there had only ever been orders.”
His eyes soften.
“You gave me freedom,” I whisper. “Even though I do not know what to do with it.”
He closes his eyes for half a second, and when he opens them again, the look in them nearly breaks me.
“I would give you the world if I could.”
“You already have.”
His mouth brushes mine. “I have?”
I shake my head, my fingers tightening in his shirt. “You are my world now.”
He kisses me then, slower this time. His hands move with care, and mine follow with less certainty, but when he draws me down onto the bed with him, I go willingly.
Kylian pulls back just enough to look at me, his hand smoothing down my side with reverence that makes my breath catch.
“You are mine,” he whispers.
CHAPTER 63
• Alessia •
MALACHOR DOESN’T APPEAR until night has already claimed the sky.
I expect darkness when Malachor rises from the water, but the harbor glows with lanterns strung between dock posts and balconies. Windows burn warm across buildings, and music floats over the sea, reaching our ship before it even pulls into port.
The city smells of smoke, roasted meat, sweet bread, and spices. It sounds alive.
People crowd the port and the streets beyond the dock, carrying baskets, wearing painted masks, holding cups, garlands, instruments, and lanterns that cast red and gold light across their faces.
Xavian is waiting at the end of the pier in a dark coat stitched with deep gold thread, his hands clasped behind his back, his face lit with amusement.
“You have really made a mess of things,” Xavian says as Kylian steps off the gangway.
