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“I chose to go with him,” she repeated aloud, “and I can’t⁠—”

“You chose to save us,” Cedric interrupted, each word as solemn as a vow. “You chose us over yourself.” A flash of anger sparked amidst the overwhelming waves of other emotions surging from Cedric, and Elyria had to suck in a steadying breath.

“And maybe you’re right that I shouldn’t be the one saying sorry,” he continued, his voice clipped, though he didn’t shift away from her, didn’t drop her hand. “Maybe you should be. Because how could you ever think that was an acceptable trade?”

Elyria blinked at him. “He would have killed you, and I⁠—”

“And you what? How could you think even for a second that I or Kit or Nox or Tenny would have ever wanted you to go with that madman? I would rather have died that day, knowing how you suffered, knowing what he did to you.”

“And I would rather have suffered a thousand times than lose you again!”

And despite all her earlier efforts, despite her desire to fall right back into their old dynamic—her, aloof; him, bumbling—Elyria could not stop the sob that burst from her, like the first drop of rain descending from a storm-filled sky.

First there was the one: a single sob, a shuddering intake of breath.

And then came the rest, all at once.

The dam broke.

Whatever scraps of a lid had remained there, tamping down her rattling box of emotions, shredded into nothing. Every feeling she had tried so very hard to bury, to keep down, burst free. Elyria felt it all. Every minute of their separation. Every cut that Malakar had scored on her body. Worse still, the final threats he had sliced into her soul.

Tears spilled from her eyes, rolled over her cheeks, dripped onto the neckline of her tunic. Her chest heaved, her shoulders shaking as she strained to take in breath fast enough.

Like he had been born from speed itself, Cedric hoisted her back into his lap, cradling her to his chest.

“Shh,” he whispered against her ear, one hand gently holding her at the small of her back, the other rubbing soothing strokes down her arm. Then, mind-to-mind and soul-to-soul, he said, “I’m sorry. I have you. You are safe and you are home.”

And though Cedric’s arms were wrapped around her and she could once again nestle herself in the warmth of his body, though the bond between them vibrated with their closeness, it wasn’t close enough. He wasn’t near enough. She needed to feel him everywhere, to have the weight of him over her, securing her, lighting up the bond between them over and over.

Never again.

Never would he be taken from her again.

And she needed him to know that, to understand that.

Needed to make herself believe it.

Elyria drew a shaky breath, wiping at her eyes with the backs of her hands before twisting in Cedric’s lap. She shifted her legs so they fell to either side of his waist, then threw her arms around his neck. There was a question in his eyes as she stared into their gold-ringed depths, taking note of the dark circles under them, like he hadn’t slept a full night in weeks.

It was actually somewhat ironic, she thought, that he was the one showing the signs of just how deep a toll their separation had taken.

“There are different kinds of injuries,” Zephyr had said during the Crucible. “Not all of them are so easily healed.”

Some instinct inside had Elyria immediately wanting to soothe her knight, to comfort him, to help him heal. It helped clear away some of her sadness, replacing it with purpose. She wanted to lay his head in her lap and stroke those silky chestnut waves until sleep returned to claim him.

But they could rest later.

Because here, right now, Elyria felt like being selfish. And there was something she needed more in this moment.

It was soft, at first. A gentle, cautious kiss as she pressed her lips to his scar.

And then it wasn’t.

Cedric groaned as Elyria crushed her mouth against his, his hands immediately moving to her waist, fingers digging into her sides.

It wasn’t tight enough.

He kissed her hard, his tongue slipping between her lips as she parted them on a sigh.