34. Sophie
SOPHIE
T he reclaimed residence still smells faintly of old authority.
Not in a suffocating way. In a lingering way. Polished stone, warmed oil from lamps recently relit, clean linen that hasn’t been slept in by tyrants for the first time in decades. The windows are open now—wide—letting desert wind move through the corridors like a blessing.
I stand at the long central table with a stack of reports fanned in front of me, sleeves rolled to my elbows, hair loose because I stopped pretending I have time for proper braids.
Bootsteps echo behind me.
Heavy first.
Then lighter.
I don’t turn immediately.
I know them by sound now.
“You’re working past midnight again,” Jax says.
His voice is low, gravel roughened by too many hours giving orders and not enough hours healing.
“I prefer ‘strategizing,’” I reply without looking up. “It sounds less obsessive.”
Ragon’s quiet laugh follows. “Obsessive would imply inefficiency. You are ruthlessly efficient.”
I finally look up.
They both look tired.
Jax’s shoulder is still wrapped tight beneath his dark tunic, though he stands straighter than he did a week ago. Ragon’s ribs are bound under lighter fabric, but he moves easier now—less like he’s compensating for pain, more like he’s remembering how to breathe without bracing.
“You’re both late,” I say.
“We were escorting the southern water convoy,” Jax replies. “They insisted on arguing about distribution ratios at the gate.”
“Did you intimidate them into compliance?” I ask lightly.
He smirks. “No. I explained math.”
“That’s more terrifying.”
Ragon steps closer to the table and glances down at the reports. “Northern trade route reopened without incident. Two former elites volunteered for permanent patrol rotation.”
“That’s good,” I say quietly.
“It’s more than good,” he corrects. “It’s precedent.”
I lean back against the table, crossing my arms loosely. “Sit,” I tell them.
Neither argues.
They take the two chairs opposite me, and for a moment the scene feels almost domestic—lamplight warm against stone, maps spread between us, three exhausted people trying to hold a world together with ink and stubbornness.
“Eastern aquifer dispute?” Jax asks.
“Resolved for now,” I answer. “Shared allocation schedule signed. They’ll test each other for weeks, but it’s better than blood.”
Ragon studies me over steepled fingers. “You haven’t slept.”
“I’ve rested,” I say.
“That wasn’t the question.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You sound like you’re about to assign me a rest rotation.”
He doesn’t deny it.
Jax leans forward, forearms on the table. “You don’t have to carry all of it.”
“I’m not,” I say, softer now. “You’re both here.”
That lands differently.
Silence stretches—not tense, just aware.
The war is over.
The rebuilding is not.
But tonight feels… different.
I step around the table slowly and sit on its edge instead of behind it.
“I need to say something,” I tell them.
Jax’s gaze sharpens instantly. “What?”
“It’s not tactical,” I clarify.
Ragon’s mouth curves faintly. “Those are the most dangerous conversations.”
I inhale slowly.
“We don’t get to go back to pretending this is simple,” I say. “Not politically. Not personally.”
Jax’s jaw tightens slightly. Ragon’s expression doesn’t change—but his attention sharpens.
“I love you,” I say.
The words don’t tremble.
They don’t need to.
I look at Jax first. “You’re steady. You anchor me when everything feels like it’s about to fracture.”
Then I look at Ragon. “You see angles I don’t. You challenge me when I start believing I have to be the only one holding the line.”
Silence.
“You don’t have to choose,” Ragon says quietly.
“I’m not going to,” I reply.
Jax’s eyes flick between us, searching for tension that isn’t there.
“You’re not property,” he says firmly.
“Good,” I answer. “Because I don’t belong to either of you.”
Ragon stands first.
He crosses the space between us slowly—not predatory, not hesitant. Just deliberate.
He stops close enough that I feel the heat of him through the thin fabric of my shirt.
“I don’t want ownership,” he says softly. “I want partnership.”
Jax rises too.
He comes to my other side, his presence solid and grounding.
Ragon turns me slightly so we face each other fully, Jax at my back, his arms sliding around us both in a loose hold that feels less like possession and more like a frame.
A choice.
A circle we step into together.
Ragon’s red eyes search mine, not smug now, not distant. Open. “Last chance to run, little pilot.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “You’ve both seen me fly into worse.”
Jax’s chest vibrates behind me at that, a low sound that might be amusement, might be nerves. His chin brushes the crown of my head, careful of his brow ridges. “You don’t have to be brave here.”
“I’m not,” I murmur. “I’m just done being afraid of wanting things.”
Silence settles, thick and warm.
Ragon’s thumb traces the curve of my hip again, then slides higher beneath my shirt, palm flattening against my stomach. His scales are warm, surprisingly smooth despite the ridged lines that mark his kind. The heat of him seeps through me.
Jax’s hands move more slowly, deliberately. One remains firm at my waist while the other rises to my collarbone, rough fingertips following the line there, testing, asking.
“Tell us if it’s too much,” Jax says quietly.
“I will.”
Ragon leans in, his mouth brushing mine again—deeper this time. His kiss carries control, precision, but there’s something beneath it now. Something softer. His teeth graze my lower lip, not biting, just a reminder of what he could be.
Jax shifts behind me, his mouth finding the side of my neck again. He kisses lower, slower, his breath hot against my skin. I feel the scrape of one sharp fang drag lightly, not breaking skin, just enough to make my pulse jump.
I exhale shakily.
“Still steady?” Ragon murmurs.
“Less steady,” I admit.
“That’s allowed,” Jax says.
Ragon eases my shirt upward, giving me time to stop him. I don’t. Fabric slides over my head and falls away to the stone floor. Cool air kisses my bare skin, chased immediately by heat as Jax’s palm smooths over my shoulder and down my arm.
I’m small between them.
Human.
Soft.
They are not.
Ragon’s golden scales gleam in the lamplight as he shrugs free of his silken robe, the embroidered dragons sliding away to reveal hard muscle and the darker ridging along his arms and jaw. His body moves like poured metal—controlled, fluid.
Jax sheds his leather more simply, no ceremony, just strength. Red scales catch the light, darker at the edges, the winged dragon brand stark against his shoulder. He’s broader than Ragon, heavier in the chest, built for impact rather than flourish.
They look at me like I am not fragile.
Like I am necessary.
Ragon steps closer and presses his forehead lightly to mine. “No hierarchy,” he murmurs. “Not in this.”
“Equal,” Jax agrees behind me.
I turn my head slightly, catching Jax’s mouth with mine over my shoulder. The angle is awkward, imperfect. He makes a quiet sound and adjusts, large hands guiding me gently so I can reach him more easily.
“Bossy,” I tease softly.
“You’d hate it if I weren’t,” he replies.
Ragon laughs under his breath, then trails his mouth down my throat, along the line of my collarbone. His tongue follows, slow, deliberate, tasting. I shiver at the unfamiliar texture—the slight roughness, the heat.
“Sensitive here,” he notes.
“Don’t narrate me,” I protest weakly.
“Pilot,” Jax rumbles, “you narrate everything.”
Fair.
Jax’s hands slide to the front of my trousers, pausing, waiting. I nod.
They ease the fabric down slowly, no tearing, no urgency. Just care. My skin prickles in the cool air again before both of them close in, heat surrounding me once more.
I reach for them in return.
Ragon’s scales are warm and smooth over hard muscle. Jax’s chest is broader, his ridges more pronounced beneath my palms. Their bodies are different in shape and density, but both solid. Both alive under my hands.
Jax catches my wrist gently when I trace the brand on his shoulder. “That one’s old.”
“I know.”
“It doesn’t define me.”
“I know that too.”
Something in his posture shifts, tension easing.
Ragon tilts my chin up with one clawed finger—careful, so careful not to scratch. “You’re trembling.”
“Excited,” I correct.
He smiles, smaller than usual. Real.
Jax lifts me easily, as though I weigh nothing, and sets me on the low stone table near the lamplight. The surface is cool beneath me. I gasp softly.
Ragon’s eyes darken at the sound.
“Too cold?” Jax asks immediately.
“No,” I breathe. “Stay.”
They close in again, one on either side.
Jax kisses me first this time, deeper, more certain. Ragon’s mouth follows along my shoulder and down, reverent, slow. Hands explore carefully, mapping rather than claiming.
The world narrows to sensation.
Heat.
Breath.
The brush of scales against skin.
Ragon murmurs something in Vakutan under his breath, voice low and almost awed.
“What was that?” I ask.
“Nothing you need to translate,” he says softly.
Jax presses his forehead to mine again, golden eyes searching. “You are not alone,” he says.
“I know.”
He kisses me like he means it.
Their movements remain measured, attentive, each touch an offering rather than a demand. When I gasp or arch toward them, they respond, adjusting, learning.
No rivalry.
No edge.
Just heat building gradually, steadily, like a forge rather than a wildfire.
Ragon’s fingers trace the curve of my hip again, then lower, his touch careful, asking with every shift. Jax’s hand anchors at my waist, grounding me when sensation threatens to pull me apart.
“Talk to us,” Jax murmurs.
“It feels…” I swallow. “Overwhelming. In a good way.”
Ragon’s breath ghosts over my skin. “We can slow.”
“Don’t.”
He smiles faintly at that, smugness softened into something warmer.
Time blurs.
The lamplight flickers.
My hands tangle in Jax’s hair, careful of the ridges. Ragon’s scales brush my thighs, smooth and warm.
Every touch is deliberate.
Every kiss unhurried.
I’m not proving anything.
I’m not choosing one over the other.
I’m simply here, in the center of them, where strength does not crowd but steadies.
When the intensity crests and spills over, it does so gently—no sharp edges, no chaos. Just breathless closeness and the feeling of being held from both sides.
Afterward, they don’t move away.
Jax remains braced against the table, forehead resting lightly to mine. Ragon’s arm curves around my waist, his thumb drawing slow, absent patterns against my skin.
“Still no hierarchy,” I murmur lazily.
Jax huffs a soft laugh.
“Never,” he says.
Ragon presses a kiss to my temple. “Equal.”
The lamplight burns low.
Stone walls stand silent around us.
No war.
No temples.
No wasteland politics.
Just three steady breaths gradually falling into the same rhythm.