Chapter 26
Delia woke slowly, surfacing through layers of exhaustion like rising from deep water.
The room was dim—evening light, she thought, though time had lost meaning somewhere between the confrontation at the gates and Ralvar carrying her through these doors. She remembered fragments: Thessaly's voice, the soft click of the door closing, the creak of a chair being pulled close.
And his presence. Always his presence, steady as the mountain itself.
She turned her head on the pillow and found him.
He was stretched out beside her with one arm flung across his eyes.
His chest rose and fell in the slow rhythm of deep sleep.
His other hand rested on his stomach, fingers loose and relaxed.
He looked younger like this. The tension that lived in his jaw, the watchfulness that never quite left his eyes—all of it softened by sleep.
Carefully, she shifted on the bed. The furs whispered beneath her as she moved, and she held her breath, but his arm stayed draped across his eyes, his breathing unchanged.
Delia rose onto her knees beside him, letting her gaze travel down the length of his body. He'd removed his boots at some point, though he still wore his trousers and tunic. The fabric stretched across the broad expanse of his chest, rising and falling with each breath.
She thought about the first time she'd seen him. The terror that had clawed through her when he'd emerged from the darkness, blood-spattered and enormous and everything the stories had warned about.
She thought about his hands, gentle on her wounds. His voice, low and careful, offering safety when she'd expected death.
She thought about the pull.
Instinct, he'd called it. Biology. Choice.
And she'd chosen him. Again and again, in a hundred small ways and several enormous ones. She'd chosen him in the watchtower when she let him hold her. In the cave when she gave him her body. In the courtyard when she stepped into his path and called his name.
Now she wanted to choose him like this.
She leaned down and pressed her lips to his stomach, just above the waistband of his trousers.
He stirred. A small sound escaped him, and his hand shifted from his eyes, reaching blindly.
"Shh." She breathed the word against his skin, felt the muscles beneath jump at her touch. "Let me."
"Delia—" His voice was rough with sleep, confused. "What—"
"I want to." She kissed him again, lower this time, and felt a tension in his body that had nothing to do with vigilance. "I want to give you something. Will you let me?"
His hand found her hair, fingers tangling in the strands. "You don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to." She looked up at him. "That's why I want to."
For a long moment, he simply stared at her. She could see him processing, waking up fully, understanding what she was offering. Could see the conflict between his instinct to take care of her and his desire to let her take care of him.
"Please," she said softly. "Let me choose this."
"Yes," he breathed. "Always yes. Whatever you want."
A smile spread across her face, warm and real and hungry. When had she learned to smile like that? When had wanting something stopped feeling like shame?
When he looked at me like I was worth wanting back.
She turned her attention to the laces of his trousers.
Her fingers were steadier than they’d been the first time she touched him in the alcove, steadier than when she’d ridden him in his bed.
She worked the knots open slowly, savoring the small sounds he made: the hitch in his breath when her knuckles brushed the hard plane of his lower abdomen, the low rumble in his chest when she tugged the fabric apart.
The trousers parted, and his cock sprang free. The deep green shaft curved slightly upward, veins prominent along the sides, the alien ridges along the underside.
She wrapped her fingers around the base, barely able to circle him fully, and gave one slow, experimental stroke.
Ralvar sucked in a sharp breath. His hips lifted off the furs before he forced them back down, hand tightening in her hair.
"Delia—"
"Tell me if I do something wrong,” she said softly. "Tell me what feels good."
"Everything." His voice had gone rough, scraped raw. "Everything you do feels—"
She leaned down and licked a broad, flat stripe from base to tip, tasting salt and musk.
“Gods—”
She did it again, bolder now, swirling her tongue around the head, catching the bead of precum on the tip and swallowing it down. He tasted earthy, rich, addictive. She opened her mouth wider and took the head inside, lips stretching around the blunt flare, and sucked gently.
Ralvar’s hand clenched in her hair. A shudder rolled through him; his thighs tensed on either side of her.
She sank lower.
The first ridge popped past her lips with a soft, wet sound. She hollowed her cheeks and sucked harder, letting her tongue trace the raised band while she bobbed shallowly.
He cursed in Orcish, and his hips jerked once before he locked them down.
“Like that,” he rasped. “Just like that. Fuck—your mouth—”
She hummed around him in answer, the vibration making him groan louder. She took more, went to the second ridge now, stretching her jaw wider, and let her tongue explore the textured underside, dipping into each valley, lapping at the smooth skin between ridges.
She pulled back slowly, letting every ridge drag along her tongue on the way out, then sank down again, deeper this time. The third ridge seated against her lips; she breathed through her nose and pushed forward until the tip pressed against the back of her throat.
Ralvar made a broken sound, half growl, half plea. His free hand fisted the furs beside him; his whole body was taut, shaking with the effort of staying still.
“You’re taking me so deep,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “Look at you—my perfect krenna, taking my cock in your mouth like you were made for it.”
The praise lit her up. She moaned around him, the sound vibrating straight through the ridges, and started a steady rhythm—slow bobs, tongue swirling over each band on the upstroke, cheeks hollowed on the downstroke.
Saliva slicked him; it dripped down the shaft, coating her fingers where she stroked what she couldn’t fit.
His breathing turned ragged. His hips began to rock in tiny thrusts he couldn’t quite stop.
She'd never felt powerful like this.
Not the power of authority or violence or political maneuvering. This was different. This was the power of giving, of being the one person in the world who could undo him like this.
"Delia—" His voice broke on her name. "I'm going to—you should—"
She didn't pull back.
She took him deeper instead, relaxing her throat, breathing through her nose, and swallowed around the head as the fourth ridge pressed against her lips.
Ralvar broke.
A raw, guttural roar tore from his throat.
His hand tightened in her hair as his cock throbbed against her tongue.
Hot, thick pulses flooded her mouth; she swallowed reflexively, again and again, tasting the salt and heat of him while his hips jerked in short, helpless rocks.
Each spurt was heavy, endless; she felt the ridges pulse with every release, felt his balls draw up tight against her chin.
When the last weak twitch faded, she pulled back slowly, lips dragging over every ridge one final time, and licked him clean with soft, careful strokes.
Ralvar collapsed back into the furs, chest heaving, eyes glassy. For a long moment he just stared at the ceiling, breathing hard, like he’d forgotten how lungs worked.
Then he reached down, hauled her up his body with one arm, and crushed her against his chest.
"I don't know what I did," he said finally, "to deserve you."
"You asked what I wanted when no one else ever had." She pressed a kiss to his skin, just above his heart. "You made me believe I was worth wanting."
"You were always worth wanting." His voice had gone rough again. "Humans are fools."
"Maybe." She laughed softly. "But I'm glad their foolishness led me here."
They lay in comfortable silence for a while, his hands tracing idle patterns on her back, her fingers exploring the scars on his chest. The evening light deepened toward dusk. Somewhere distant, a bell rang—shift change, maybe, or some other signal of the outpost's daily rhythm.
A rhythm she was part of now.
"Delia."
The shift in his voice made her lift her head. "Yes?"
He was quiet for another moment, his jaw working like he was trying to find the right words. Finally, he exhaled, a long, slow breath that she felt against her skin.
"You have a place here, work here, people who value you. You could stay at Northwatch your whole life and never—" He stopped. Started again. "What I mean is, you have options. Freedom. The ability to choose a path that doesn't include—"
"Ralvar." She pushed herself up on one elbow, looking down at him. "What are you trying to say?"
His eyes met hers. Amber and gold, fierce and vulnerable, all at once.
"Will you bond with me?"
The world went very still.
"I know it's fast," he continued, the words tumbling out now like water through a broken dam. "If you need time—weeks, months, years—I'll wait. However long you need. I just—"
His voice cracked.
"I need you to know that I want this. Want you. Not just as my krenna, not just as the woman who shares my bed. I want to stand before the clan and declare you mine, and hear you declare me yours."
He swallowed hard.
"So I'm asking. Will you bond with me?"
Delia looked at him and thought about everything she'd been taught. Too much. Too big. Too hungry.
And then she thought about Ralvar's hands, gentle on her wounds. His voice in the darkness, asking what she wanted. His body beneath hers, trembling with pleasure she'd given him.
"Yes." The word came out steady. Certain.
His eyes widened. "You don't—you don't need to think about it? Don't need time to—"
"No." She leaned down, pressing her forehead to his. "I don't need time. I don't need to wait. I don't need to 'establish my independence' or 'find myself' or whatever else you're about to suggest."
"But—"
She caught his face in both hands, making him look at her.
"I'm choosing you from freedom, not fear. Don't you understand that? Asking me to wait would undermine everything. That would tell me you don't trust my choice. That would say I'm not capable of knowing my own heart."
Tears were streaming down her face now, but she didn't care.
"I know my heart, Ralvar. My heart says you. My heart says yes. My heart says now, not later." She leaned in, pressing her lips to his. "My heart says tomorrow."
"Tomorrow." His hand stroked down her back, slow and reverent. "I'll speak to the elder at first light. The ceremony itself is simple—declarations made before witnesses, tokens exchanged. It can be done by midday."
"And then?"
"And then you'll be mine." His voice dropped lower, rough with promise. "Officially. Permanently. In the eyes of the clan and the mountain itself."
"And you'll be mine."
"I've been yours since the hollow." He pressed a kiss to her forehead, gentle and fierce all at once. "I just didn't know how to say it yet."
They lay in silence for a moment, his palm moving in slow circles against her spine.
"You'll need a token," he said quietly. "Something to exchange. It can be anything. Something that matters to you."
"I have something in mind."
"Are you sure? I can help you find—"
"I'm sure." She pressed a kiss to his chest. "Trust me."
He was quiet for a moment, then pulled her closer. "Always."
She settled against his chest, exhaustion and emotion pulling at her. But beneath it all was something bright and certain, a warmth that had nothing to do with his body heat.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow she would stand before the clan and declare herself his. Would hear him declare himself hers. Would take another step into this new life, this impossible life she'd stumbled into while running from everything she'd ever known.
She fell asleep in his arms, and for the first time since she could remember, she dreamed of nothing but warmth.