FORTY-SIX
A WONDER
Rarely does anything good come from mere reaction.
Reactions can be predicted—controlled, even manipulated.
But when we learn to master our own responses, we gain control not only over our nervous systems, but over our magics as well.
That inner stillness—peace of mind—is more than calm.
It’s power. Power over those who would unsettle us .
. . or uncover what we would keep hidden.
—VALEN’S JOURNAL
AMARA
My gaze drags over him, shameless and unabashed. The cut of his jaw. The power in his stance. The way his chest rises and falls, controlled, but barely. Like even his breath is waiting on me.
A hint of confusion crosses his face when I release his hand and step back.
“I want to look at you,” I admit.
Surprise flickers across his face, quickly replaced by something darker. Hotter.
“Then look,” he murmurs.
So I do. Boldly. Unapologetically. Like he’s mine to study. Mine to remember.
I circle him, letting my eyes roam every scar, every line of muscle, every place my hands have been and every place they will be. He turns his head slightly, watching me over his shoulder like he’s unsure whether he’s being worshipped or hunted.
Maybe both.
I stop behind him, close enough to feel the heat rolling from his skin, and trail my fingers down his spine. Feather-light. He shivers.
“You’re beautiful,” I say. Not because he needs to hear it, but because I need to say it.
When he turns back to face me, his eyes have gone darker, as though the words struck somewhere vulnerable. The bond pulses between us, deep and sure, like it’s breathing through us both.
“Yours,” he says softly.
I step closer until there’s nothing between us and place my hand over his heart. It beats beneath my palm, strong and familiar. Even when everything else felt uncertain, his heartbeat never did.
There was a time I thought I’d never be enough for someone like Thane. A man made of fire and silence, prophecy and power. I used to wonder when he’d see it—that I wasn’t chosen, I was just there. A girl from a quiet village with magics that scared her half to death.
But he’s still here. Letting me look. Letting me touch.
Showing me I belong.
Not after everything we’ve survived. Not after everything I’ve become. I’m not afraid of my power anymore. Not of what I carry or the space I take up. My place in this world wasn’t given to me. It was carved by fire and forged through loss.
I move again, circling him like a moth to a flame, heat trailing in my wake.
My fingers skim across his skin, light but purposeful, tracing the strong curve of his back.
I feel his muscles tighten beneath my touch, a quiet response he doesn’t try to hide.
He remains silent, but his throat dips and his breathing deepens. I know exactly what I’m doing to him.
He’s everything to me in this moment. And now, somehow, impossibly, he’s mine.
My gaze drifts lower, lingering on the sculpted line of his ass—strong, powerful, honed like the rest of him. He looks like he was made for war, but tonight he stands here and allows me to see him like this. Bare and vulnerable.
I let my hand follow the slope of muscle, teasing enough to draw a reaction. A shiver moves through him, and I bite back a smile, pleased by how much I can make him feel with so little.
This man—this warlord forged in fire and burden—lets me touch him as though he’s precious. More than that, he wants it. Not just the pleasure, but the understanding. The certainty of being seen.
The bond pulses gently between us, neither demanding nor insistent. It lives beneath everything else, a constant presence that feels like him.
When my hand grazes the line of his hip, he inhales sharply, but doesn’t withdraw. I take my time. Heat gathers between us, threaded with trust and permission, and in that stillness, I feel myself settle.
Not so long ago, I would have doubted this. I would have worried I was taking too much, that I had no right to stand here in a place so grand and big, touching him like this. I would have looked at Thane and seen every way I fell short.
Not anymore.
I remember the way he looked at me when I was falling apart—and how he didn’t turn away. How he stood beside me, not because prophecy told him to, but because he wanted to.
And now, when I look at him like this, when I touch him without my doubts, I finally see it for what it is. He hasn’t just let me in. He’s trusted me with the parts of himself he gives no one else.
I step around him, taking my time, letting my fingers drift across the hard lines of his abdomen as I move. He doesn’t stop me. He just watches, those smoke-gray eyes tracking my every movement, the gold flecks within them glowing faintly in the low light like embers that refuse to die.
When I come to stand before him again, my gaze drops—and gods.
He’s fully erect. Desire is written plainly in the shape of him and the quiet restraint in the way he holds himself. There’s no shame or self-consciousness. Just confidence, unwavering and absolute.
My breathing deepens from the sheer awe of it. Of him. Of this moment. The contrast between his strength and his stillness. The way he stands here and lets me see all of him.
I let my gaze linger, unhurried and unhidden. I want him to know I’m admiring him.
When I finally meet his eyes again, a smile tugs at the corner of my mouth.
“Well,” I murmur. “Aren’t you something.”
His breathing remains even, a faint smile playing at his lips. He stands there like he’s daring me to keep looking, daring me to take what I want. He’s a man who knows exactly what he’s worth, and knows I belong to him just as much as he belongs to me.
And gods, it leaves me reeling.
It’s not just his body, the shape of him, or the heat pouring off his skin. It’s the way he lets me see him like this. No shame. No armor. No carefully guarded distance.
Just Thane.
He trusts me with everything. His fire. His past. His power.
On the final pass behind him, I step in close, pressing myself against him from behind. My arms slide around his waist in one smooth motion. My breasts press into his back, skin to skin, and I feel the subtle tension that runs through him for a single breath before easing beneath my touch.
We’re flush now, his body pressed fully to mine. I rest my cheek against his back, breathing him in. Fire and leather and a scent I couldn’t name even if I tried because it only belongs to him.
My hands spread across his abdomen, fingers gliding over hard muscle, and I feel the breath leave him, measured and controlled, as though he’s trying to keep hold of himself.
Yet beneath that calm exterior, the bond pulses hot between us.
Want. Desire. The unmistakable certainty that we’re bound together.
I press a kiss between his shoulder blades, then another just lower, soft against the strength of his back.
“I don’t want distance,” I whisper into his skin. “Not with you. Not ever.”
And I feel the words settle deep. His body eases against mine, as though he’s been waiting to hear them. We’re standing here bare and exposed, wrapped around one another, but this moment reaches beyond desire.
Softly, he responds, “Never.”
I hold him tighter. I can feel the restraint in him, the tension coiled beneath the surface, desire held on a razor’s edge.
At last, he moves, as though hearing those words was all he’d been waiting for.
His hands reach down, curling around mine where they rest against his stomach. His thumbs brush over my knuckles. Keeping hold of my hands, he turns within my embrace until he’s facing me.
Bare and flushed, his gaze locks on mine. There’s heat there, but also a vulnerability that catches me off guard. He looks at me as though he still can’t quite believe I’m here. His hands settle at my waist, and he draws me closer until there’s no space left between us.
The heat of him is overwhelming. I can feel his arousal pressing against my hip, the strength in his arms, the way his gaze drinks me in.
He lowers his forehead to mine. “You tore down every wall I ever built.”
My hands slide up his chest. “It’s about fucking time.”
A quiet laugh escapes him, but it fades almost as quickly as it appears, overtaken by a different kind of intensity. When he kisses me, it’s not gentle.
It’s everything.
His hands travel down my back until they reach the curve of my hips. A heartbeat later, he grips my thighs and lifts me with effortless strength.
A sound slips from me, half gasp, half moan, as my legs wrap around his waist and arms slide around his neck. We’re pressed together, every breath shared, every inch of him braced against me.
His mouth finds mine again, hungrier now, any lingering restraint burned away. He carries me to the bed and lowers me like I’m precious. The sheets are cool against my back, but his warmth lingers, branded into my skin.
Thane settles beside me, propped on one elbow. His gaze traces my face before drifting lower. His hand slides from my waist, traveling upward before pausing. For a moment, he simply hovers.
Then he lifts a finger to his mouth.
I watch, every nerve in my body alert. His tongue glides over his fingertip, taking his time, knowing exactly what he’s doing to me. All the while, his gaze remains fixed on mine.
He leans in and presses that same finger between my breasts. I arch with a gasp. The sensation is sharper than it should be, electric. His touch is featherlight, barely there, but it sends a rush of awareness through me.
It’s always like this with him. This relentless pull. This spark that catches and spreads before I can stop it. Whatever lives between us is beyond logic, fierce and undeniable. Thane doesn’t have to say a word. A look. A breath. The slightest touch. And I’m his, all over again.
He holds my gaze without blinking. Hunger lingers in his eyes, patient and unwavering, because he knows exactly how to break me open.
His finger drags lower, gliding down the center of my chest, tracing the line of my sternum with agonizing restraint.