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“You’re transparent.”
“And you adore me.”
“Unfortunately.”
He laughs softly, then kisses me again with enough hunger behind it to make my knees weaken without frightening me even slightly. His hands slide lower, strong and warm against my hips, and when he lifts me, the motion comes easy and natural.
I wrap my legs around his waist instinctively.
The bond surges bright between us.
Still controlled.
Still ours.
Corin looks up at me with gold glowing faintly in his eyes and rain gathering in dark strands through his hair. “Room?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent answer.”
He carries me toward the house while the rain thickens overhead in silver lines. Lanternlight spills warm through the windows, catching on wet cedar and fresh plaster walls. Somewhere inside, Sable is arguing with Mira about shelf placement again, and the sound makes the house feel alive before we even cross the threshold.
Corin takes the back stairs two at a time.
“Subtle,” I murmur against his throat.
“I have abandoned subtlety in favor of enthusiasm.”
“That explains quite a lot.”
He kicks the bedroom door shut behind us and lowers me carefully onto the bed, hands lingering at my waist afterward like he still enjoys the proof that touching me no longer threatens the world.
The room possesses the faint lingering smoke from the ward candles burning low along the shelf. Gold light flickers softly across the walls as the bond responds to us settling closer together, not with dangerous pressure but with deep living warmth.
Corin brushes damp hair back from my face. “You all right?”
I look up at him—horns visible, eyes glowing gently, power steady beneath skin that once held nothing but fear for him—and feel something inside me settle permanently into place.
“Yes,” I say honestly. “I think I finally am.”
His expression changes with that answer.
Tenderness moves through him openly now. No hesitation. No panic beneath it. Just love, powerful enough to survive transformation, politics, exile, and monsters without becoming one itself.
When he kisses me again, the hunger rises warm and responsive between us, threading through every touch like music finding rhythm instead of chaos. We move together slowly at first, savoring the astonishing luxury of peace inside our own bodies. Clothes fall aside piece by piece, accompanied by soft laughter, lingering hands, and the occasional sarcastic comment because apparently neither of us is capable of remaining solemn for long.
Corin traces his fingertips down my side and exhales shakily when I arch into the touch.
“You know,” he murmurs, voice rough against my skin, “I had this whole dramatic speech planned about devotion and destiny.”
“What happened to it?”
“You touched me.”
“A tragic loss for literature.”
“Devastating.”
