40. Varkhul
FORTY
VARKHUL
The Veilborder looks different through transformed eyes.
Colors I’ve never noticed bloom in the air around us—threads of power woven into the very fabric of reality. I can see the Veil now, not just feel it. It’s beautiful. Opalescent strands stretching from stone to stone, humming with energy that pulses in time with my heartbeat.
Our heartbeats. Eirene’s and mine. The barrier we built breathes with us now.
The perpetual twilight has shifted. Eight years of it, ended.
Still that bruised sky I remember, but lighter now—the new Veil needs no sacrifice to sustain itself, and the darkness has retreated with it.
Hints of true dawn bleed along the horizon, gold and rose threading through the purple.
The ancient stones still rise against the darkness, but they pulse with new power.
Our power. The barrier we built from blood and sacrifice and love.
Eirene stands beside me, her hand clasped in mine. Her skin carries an opalescent shimmer now—subtle, barely visible unless you know to look for it. Her blood runs silver instead of red. I watched it happen as we stepped through the doorway, watched the crimson fade to starlight.
She’s beautiful. More beautiful than she was before, if that’s possible. And she’s looking at the world she nearly died to save with an expression I can’t quite read.
“How does it feel?” I ask.
“Strange.” She squeezes my fingers, her grip cooler than it used to be. “I can feel the Veil. All of it. Every inch of the barrier, from here to the edges of the world. It’s… vast.”
I can feel it too—faintly, through the brand that still burns on my chest. The claiming has changed along with everything else. Where it once connected just the two of us, now it connects us to the boundary itself. We’re anchored to it. Part of it. Guardians in a way no one has been for centuries.
“Come on.” I tug her hand gently. “The cottage should still be standing. You need to rest.”
“Do I?” She looks at me with those silver-threaded eyes. “I don’t feel tired. Not the way I used to. I feel…”
“What?”
“Hungry.” The word comes out low, rough. And the way she’s looking at me leaves no doubt about what kind of hunger she means.
Heat flares through me. We’ve been through hell and back—literally—and my body should be exhausted. But this new form doesn’t seem to care about should. It responds to her gaze with immediate, visceral need.
“The cottage,” I repeat, my voice dropping to a growl. “Now.”
The cottage is intact. More than intact—it looks better than it did before. The walls seem sturdier, the thatch thicker, as if the new Veil has reinforced everything in its domain.
I don’t care about any of that.
The moment the door closes behind us, I have Eirene pressed against it. My hands find her hips, lifting her until her legs wrap around my waist. Her fingers rake through my hair, pulling my head back so she can attack my throat with lips and teeth.
“Eager,” I manage, though the word comes out strangled.
“We almost died.” She bites down on my pulse point, hard enough to leave a mark even on my new skin. “Multiple times. I think I’ve earned eager.”
She has. Gods, she has. But I’m not letting our second time be a frantic coupling against a door. Not when we have eternity.
I carry her to the narrow bed in the corner—the same bed where she slept alone for eight years, bleeding herself dry to save a world that called her traitor. She’s not alone anymore. She’ll never be alone again.
I lay her down with deliberate care. Take my time looking at her—the dark hair shot through with starlight spread across the pillow, the shimmer of her altered skin, the claiming mark over her heart that pulses with our shared power.
“Varkhul.” Her voice is a demand. “Stop staring and touch me.”
“I’m savoring.” I lower myself over her, bracing on my forearms so I can see her face. “First time was desperation. This time, I want to remember every second.”
Her breath catches. The impatience in her expression softens into anticipation.
“We have forever,” she whispers.
“We do.” I lower my head and kiss her—slowly, thoroughly, claiming her mouth with the same deliberate intensity I plan to use on the rest of her body. “And I intend to use every second of it.”
Her dress falls away in pieces. I don’t tear it—I take my time with each lace, each button, peeling the bloodstained fabric from her skin inch by agonizing inch. She writhes beneath me, making sounds that test every shred of my control.
Her body is a map I want to memorize. The curve of her hip, the dip of her waist, the soft swell of her breasts. She’s paler now—that pearlescent glow giving her skin an otherworldly radiance—but she’s still warm. Still real. Still the woman who walked into the Shadow Court to save me.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” she accuses.
“Absolutely.” I press my lips to the hollow of her throat, feel her pulse hammer against my mouth. “Revenge for making me wait in that throne room while you took your time freeing souls.”
“I was saving the world—”
“And looking spectacular doing it.” I trail my mouth lower, following the line of her collarbone. “Do you know how hard it was to focus on fighting when you were glowing like a goddess?”
She laughs—breathless, incredulous. “You were thinking about sex during the battle?”
“I’m an orc.” I reach the swell of her breast, press a kiss to the soft skin there. “I’m capable of thinking about violence and sex simultaneously. It’s a gift.”
Her laugh dissolves into a moan as my mouth finds her nipple. I take my time there too—sucking, teasing, learning what makes her gasp and what makes her arch off the bed. Her fingers dig into my shoulders hard enough to leave bruises on my new skin.
Good. I want her marks on me. Want evidence of her claim written across my body the same way mine is written across hers.
“Varkhul.” Her voice breaks on the second syllable. “Please.”
“Please what?” I look up at her from between her thighs, letting her see the hunger in my eyes. “Tell me what you want.”
“You.” No hesitation. No shame. “I want you. All of you. Now.”
I give her what she wants.
My mouth finds her center, and she arches off the bed with a cry that echoes in the small cottage. She tastes different now—sweeter, with an edge of ozone that reminds me of lightning. I explore her slowly, thoroughly, learning the new geography of her body.
Her hands find my hair, fingers twisting tight, holding me against her as her hips rock in desperate rhythm. I grip her thighs—firm enough to anchor, gentle enough not to bruise—and drink her in like she’s the last water in a dying world.