Page 349 of Claimed by the Ghost Warrior

The rest unfolded without urgency.

She guided me back against the pillows, her movements deliberate.

“Don’t move,” she ordered, her voice low.

I obeyed, my hands settling on her hips as she straddled me, the sheets pooling around us. Her breath hitched as she lowered herself onto me, a slow, controlled descent that made my ŭre flare silver beneath her palms. I held her there, my grip firm, setting a pace that was careful and deep—each movement measured.

Her head fell back, and I watched the line of her throat, the rhythm of our breathing syncing until there was only this.

My hands found her hips and I guided her, a slow push and release, and she rocked over me in answer, unhurried, her weight settling deeper with each movement. She said my name once, then again, and I felt the moment she lost the rhythm she had kept so carefully.

Her fingers pressed into my shoulders. I pulled her down against me and held her there as she came apart, her cry muffled against my neck, and I followed a breath later—shared heat, quiet friction, and the patient claiming of a choice we had already made.

The first time we had come together, hunger had been tangled with everything we did not know how to name.

Now there was nowhere to rush.

We had already made the important choice. Every touch afterward belonged to it.

Later, we lay beneath the sheets with Talia’s head against my shoulder and one hand resting lightly over the medical seal on my chest.

My ŭre had dimmed to a soft silver-white pulse beneath her palm.

The bond had not repaired the old damage.

My healing remained slower than it should have been.

Good.

I did not need another miracle telling me consequences no longer mattered.

Talia traced one glowing line beneath my skin.

“Does it feel different?”

“Yes.”