Chapter 50 – Quinton
QUINTON
Iwoke to the early morning light filtering through the curtains. Azaria was still asleep, her back pressed against my chest, our legs tangled under the blanket. For a moment, I thought it had been a dream, the kind you wake from too soon, the kind that hurts to lose. Then she shifted against me.
She was real. Here. Bare skin pressed to mine, her hair spilling wild across the pillow, her breath even, and her hand resting loose and trusting against my stomach. My chest tightened with something sharp and sweet.
She was beautiful like this—stripped of armor, of command, of every wall she wore in daylight.
I lay there for a while, memorizing the curve of her hip beneath the blanket, the way the morning light caught the faint scar along her thigh.
The sixth bell hadn’t tolled yet. We had time.
Elias would forgive her if she was late to the spar, especially when he figured out why.
A smile pulled at my mouth. Then faded.
The tonic.
She hadn’t taken one last night. I hadn’t seen a vial, hadn’t noticed her drink anything. My stomach tightened, but not with fear, exactly. I wasn’t afraid of a child, not at twenty-eight, not with her. But this wasn’t about me. It was about her choice. Her consent.
I brushed a strand of hair back from her temple, watching her sleep. This wasn’t a question for the haze of afterglow. It was for daylight, when she was fully herself.
I pressed a kiss to her hair and waited.
She stirred not long after, a soft hum slipping from her throat before her lashes fluttered open. Blue eyes, hazy with sleep, blinked up at me. She was devastating, even half-awake.
“Morning,” I murmured, brushing my thumb over her cheek.
Her lips curved. “You look smug.”
“Can’t help it. I woke up, and you were still here. I’ll die a lucky man.”
She huffed a laugh and nudged my chest. “Idiot.”
For a moment, it was easy—her in my arms, the morning quiet around us. But the thought pressed at me. I hesitated, then cleared my throat. “Azaria… do you have a tonic here? If not, I can get one for you.”
The shift was immediate. Her body went still. Then she eased away, putting just enough space between us that the warmth leaked out.
“No,” she said quietly. “I don’t need the tonic.”
My brow furrowed. Her voice wasn’t steady. There was a hitch in it, nerves bleeding through. My magic picked it up like a pulse, a ripple of unease that didn’t match her words.
“What’s wrong, Az?”
She pulled further away, her back half-turning to me. Every instinct I had screamed to close the distance, but I held still. Let her choose. Silence stretched until she exhaled hard, her shoulders curling in on themselves. When she spoke, her voice was stripped bare.
“I can’t have children, Quin.”
The words hit harder than any blade I’d ever taken.
She dragged in another breath. “You might as well know now, in case this is something you want in the future.”
The way she said it—guarded, like she was waiting for me to recoil, to leave. She folded in on herself, slipping from my touch as though she was already bracing for the loss before it came.
After everything she’d endured—war, spells, fever, scars—this too had been taken from her. The choice, stolen before she’d ever been given the chance to make it.
“No.”
The word ripped out of me before she could curl further away. I caught her wrist and tugged her back into me. She let out a sudden breath as her spine met my chest, but I didn’t let go. I wrapped both arms around her and held.
“You don’t get to pull away from me over this,” I said, voice low. “Not now. Not ever.”
She stiffened, but I pressed my cheek to her hair.
“Azaria, listen to me. This doesn’t change a single thing.”
Her breath hitched, shallow, and that gutted me worse than the confession.
“Quin—“ she whispered.
“You think I want you because of what you could give me?” I tightened my grip.
“I never pictured a family for myself. Not with my name, not with Dravareth, not with every innocent I’ve—“ I stopped. Swallowed the edge of it. “I never let myself dream that far.” I made sure she was listening. “I wanted you the moment you looked me in the eye and didn’t flinch. You’re telling me what you can’t give me like it decides everything.
It doesn’t. The only thing I’ve ever wanted is you. No conditions.”
Her body trembled in my arms.
“You’ve survived more than anyone should, and you think this makes you less?” My voice sharpened—not at her, but at the godsdamned fate that had stolen this from her. “You’re everything, Azaria. With or without children. Do you hear me?”
She turned slowly; her face brushing against my throat. Blue eyes shone with something rawer than tears, searching me like she half-expected to find a lie. I had none to give her.
I pressed my forehead to hers, breathing hard. “If all I ever get is you—just like this, stubborn, stealing half my sheets—that’s more than enough.”
Her lips curved into something faint and fragile, but it was real, and I held onto that smile like it was the only truth left.
“You fund the orphanage,” I said after a moment. “Here in Tempest.”
Her throat worked, but she pushed through. “Those kids are mine in all the ways that matter. I’ll never be a mother in blood, Quin. But perhaps I can be one in every other way.”
My chest ached. She said it like a consolation prize, like she’d convinced herself it wasn’t enough. But all I could see was her—fierce, giving every piece of herself to people who needed it. I brushed my thumb along her jaw until she met my eyes.
“Then they’re lucky,” I said, voice rough. “Lucky as hells to have you.”
Her smile trembled at the edges. I kissed her before it could fade, slow and careful, pouring everything I didn’t have words for into the press of my mouth against hers. When I pulled back, her eyes were closed, her breathing steadier.
“Better?” I murmured.
She nodded. “Yeah. Better.”
I pulled her close again. And for a long moment, we just lay there, breathing, her heartbeat evening out against mine.
My magic hummed beneath my skin, settling around her like it belonged there.
I should tell her. About the attunement. About how my blood had been inside her for months now, listening, connecting, binding itself to her with every breath.
I’d known from the start. In those first months, when we were still at each other’s throats, telling her would have killed any chance of reconciliation. Later, when we’d finally crawled back from the wreckage, I couldn’t risk tearing it down again.
And now?
Now I was in too deep. Every breath tasted like her. Every pulse of my magic sang with her. If I told her the truth, she might never forgive me. But if I didn’t?—
I didn’t know how long I could keep this secret before it broke something that couldn’t be repaired.
Soon. I’d tell her soon. Not today. Let her have this. Let us have this.
The secret could wait a little longer.
The sixth bell tolled in the distance. Azaria groaned into the pillow. “We really need to get going.”
I kissed the line of her spine. “Elias can wait. Tell him you were busy.”
She shot me a look over her shoulder, hair falling in messy waves. “Busy. That’s what you’re going with?”
I grinned. “Trust me, he’ll figure it out the moment he sees you try to walk straight.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“I won’t have to say a word. Everyone’s going to see it on your face.”
Her hand smacked my chest, but she was laughing, and I’d fight every war in this world to keep that sound. She pushed herself up with a groan.
“Sore?” I asked, not hiding my smugness.
“You know I am,” she muttered, but there was no heat in it.
She padded toward the bathroom, and I lay back against the pillows, watching her go. The scent of her still clung to my skin. My blood still echoed with every shiver, every tremor she’d given me.
I was never meant to have her. Not with the name I carried, the legacy I’d been born into, the choices I’d made. But here she was.
I pushed myself up and started gathering my scattered clothes.
Time to face the day.