15. Theron
15
THERON
T he morning sun filters through my study window, casting long shadows across the financial ledgers spread before me. My quill hovers above the parchment, thoughts drifting to soft copper hair and determined green eyes rather than focusing on the columns of numbers.
I growl and push back from the desk, my chair scraping against the wooden floor. The accounts can wait. My feet carry me to the window overlooking the garden, where movement catches my eye.
Lyra kneels beside my prized roses - quickly becoming our prized roses - her small frame dwarfed by the towering bushes. My chest tightens, just like it always does when I see her out there working on them. But Lyra's hands move with practiced grace, checking the soil, gently pruning dead leaves. Her fingers trace the edge of a petal with such care it makes my throat close up.
The morning light sets her hair ablaze, turning copper to liquid fire. The kids are not too far from her as they play in the garden, too. She's humming something, a quiet melody that carries through the open window. The sight of her there, so at home among Mother's roses...
A pounding at the front door shatters the moment.
"Lord Blackhorn! Emergency at the docks!"
Damn it all. I grab my coat, shrugging it on as I descend the stairs. Through the window by the door, I catch another glimpse of Lyra. She's moved to the white roses now, speaking softly to them as she works. Something inside me rebels at leaving.
"The shipment from the Kaynvu, sir - there's been an incident-"
"I'm coming," I snap, yanking open the door. The messenger, one of my dock supervisors, takes a startled step back. Can't blame him - I must look like thunder.
My gaze strays one last time to the garden. Lyra's lifted her face to the sun, eyes closed, peaceful. Small, capable hands rest in her lap, stained with earth. The urge to stay, to walk out there and pull her into my arms, nearly overwhelms my sense of duty.
Instead, I follow the messenger, each step away from her harder than the last. The roses will keep. They always have. But for the first time since Mother died, I think they might actually thrive.
The Kaynvu silk shipment lies ruined before me, water damage turning the once-vibrant fabric into muted shadows of their former glory. My dock workers hover nearby, waiting for instructions, but my mind keeps drifting to copper hair and gentle hands tending roses. I should care more about this, but I don't .
I rub my horns, the silver rings clicking against each other. "Send a full inventory to my office by sunset."
"About the Merchant's Guild meeting..." Another voice pipes up.
I blink, trying to focus. The Guild. Right. Crucial trade negotiations today. But all I can think about is Lyra in the library, spread out beneath me...
"The merchants are waiting, my friend." Dex's familiar bulk appears beside me, his green eyes twinkling with amusement. "Unless you'd rather stand here daydreaming about a certain redhead?"
I shoot him a glare, but he just chuckles.
Sighing, I leave the dock workers to clean up and catalog the shipment for me to go over later and let Dex drag me off. But the meeting goes poorly. I fumble basic contract terms, nearly agreeing to a ridiculous markup on spice imports until Dex smoothly interrupts.
"What my distinguished colleague means..." He launches into negotiations while I struggle to pay attention. His copper-ringed horns catch the light as he leans forward, using his considerable charm to salvage the deal.
After, he corners me in my study. "It's been a long time since I've had to save your hide. You've got it bad, old friend."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Please. You're about as subtle as a beast in a pottery shop."
A knock interrupts his teasing. Mrs. Bramble is standing in the door, her face drawn. "Master Theron, I've just come from the market, and it seems that Miss Lyra has been drawing attention. I heard Marcus Steelhorn has been making inquiries about your household. Specifically about... a human healer."
My fists clench. "What kind of inquiries?"
"Her background, sir. Where she came from. Who her family is."
My vision edges with red. Marcus. That manipulative bastard, always searching for weakness. The memory of what he did to Dex's wife burns fresh.
"He won't touch her." The words come out in a growl.
"No," Dex agrees, his jovial manner vanishing. "He won't."
Gritting my teeth, I leave Dex and Mrs. Bramble, needing to see Lyra. But as I go in search of her, I can't help but notice that the house feels different - warmer somehow. The scent of dried herbs and honey wafts from the kitchen, along with the sound of childish laughter.
I freeze in the doorway. Kai stands on a wooden stool at the counter, his small face scrunched in concentration as he grinds herbs with a mortar and pestle. His movements are precise, methodical - just like everything else he does.
"Like this?" He looks up at Lyra.
"Perfect." She shifts Mira on her hip, my daughter's silver-white fur stark against Lyra's earth-toned dress. "Now add three drops of honey, just like I showed you."
Mira's tiny hands pat Lyra's cheeks. "Can I taste?"
"Not this batch, sweetheart. This is for Mrs. Bramble's headaches." Lyra tucks a strand of copper hair behind her ear, leaving a smudge of dried rirzed herb on her cheek. "But maybe we can make some sweet tea later?"
"With extra honey?" Mira's amber eyes light up.
"Don't let her fool you," Kai pipes up, carefully measuring honey drops. "She already had two cookies."
"Tattletale!" Mira sticks out her tongue.
The scene before me - my serious son relaxed and focused, my fragile daughter glowing with health, both of them orbiting around Lyra like she's their sun - it hits me like a physical blow. This is what home should feel like.
Lyra turns and spots me. A blush creeps across her cheeks, highlighting that smudge of rirzed herb. "Oh! We were just..." She trails off, green eyes wide.
"Papa!" Mira reaches for me. "Lyra's teaching us medicine!"
I cross the kitchen in two strides, taking Mira when she launches herself from Lyra's arms. The motion brings me close enough to catch Lyra's scent - herbs and honey and something uniquely her. My free hand moves on its own, thumb brushing away that rirzed herb smudge.
Her breath catches. The blush deepens.
Marcus's threats echo in my mind. But looking at her now, at my children's happiness, at the way she's brought light back into our home - I know with bone-deep certainty I'll tear apart anyone who tries to take this from us.
That night, after tucking the children into their beds and watching their peaceful faces in the soft glow of the nightlight, I make my way to the study. The house is quiet, the only sound the distant hum of the city beyond our walls. I pour myself a glass of darkspice zhisk, the liquid burning a trail down my throat, grounding me.
The study door creaks open, and Lyra slips in, her bare feet silent on the cool stone floor. It's a testament to how comfortable we've become with each other that she does this.
She's changed into a simple nightgown, the earthy green fabric highlighting her eyes. Her copper hair is loose, cascading over her shoulders, catching the firelight like a waterfall of embers. She smiles at me, and the tension in my shoulders eases.
"The children are fast asleep," she says, her voice a soft melody in the quiet room. She moves closer, the scent of herbs and honey enveloping me. I set the glass down, reaching for her. My hands find her waist, pulling her to me. She comes willingly, her arms wrapping around my neck.
"Lyra, we need to talk about-" I start, but she silences me with a kiss. Her lips are soft, insistent, filled with a trust and love that steals my breath. My worries about Marcus, about the threats looming over us, fade under the pressure of her mouth, the sweet taste of her.
She deepens the kiss, her fingers playing with the hair at the nape of my neck. I growl low in my throat, lifting her off her feet. Her legs wrap around my waist, her nightgown riding up, revealing smooth, creamy skin. I carry her to the thick rug before the fireplace, laying her down gently.
Her eyes, those bright green eyes flecked with gold, hold me captive. She reaches up, tracing the curve of my horn, the silver rings catching the firelight. I turn my head, kissing her palm, feeling the calluses from her work, the strength in her hands.
I trail kisses down her neck, her collarbone, my hands exploring her body. She arches into my touch, a soft gasp escaping her lips. Her response is honest, open, filled with a desire that matches my own. I tug at the neckline of her nightgown, exposing more of her skin, my mouth hungry for the taste of her.
She pulls at my shirt, her fingers fumbling with the buttons. I chuckle, a low rumble in my chest, and help her, shrugging out of the fabric. Her hands roam over my chest, tracing the muscles, the scars. Each touch is a brand, a claim. I belong to her, just as she belongs to me.
Our clothes disappear, piece by piece, until there's nothing between us but firelight and shadows. I kiss every inch of her, memorizing her body, the sounds she makes, the way she responds to my touch. She does the same, her hands and mouth exploring me, driving me to the brink.
When I finally sink into her, it's like coming home. Her body welcomes mine, her legs wrapping around me, urging me deeper. Our rhythm is slow, intense, each movement echoing the beat of our hearts. I watch her face, her eyes closed, her lips parted, her expression a mix of pleasure and wonder.
The firelight dances over our skin, casting us in a warm glow. The world outside the study fades away, leaving only us, only this moment. The pressure builds, our breaths coming faster, our hearts pounding in sync. When she cries out, her body convulsing around mine, I follow her over the edge, my roar echoing through the room.
Tomorrow. I can deal with Marcus tomorrow.