Chapter 21 Heidi
HEIDI
The walk home feels different from our journey to the festival.
The crowds have thinned as families gather their children and head inside before the evening festivities begin—the wilder celebrations meant for adults only.
Irida droops between us, her earlier excitement finally giving way to exhaustion as the honey cakes and sensory overload catch up with her.
"My feet hurt," she announces with the dramatic flair only a six-year-old can manage, stopping dead in the middle of the street.
Without missing a step, Mihalis sweeps her up into his arms, settling her against his chest with the practiced ease of a father who's done this countless times before. Her dark head immediately finds the hollow of his shoulder, tiny fingers curling into his shirt.
"Better?" he asks, voice gentle in a way that still catches me off guard sometimes.
"Mmm," she hums sleepily, then peers at me over his arm. "Did you have fun, Heidi?"
"The best time," I tell her honestly, reaching out to brush a curl away from her face. "Thank you for showing me everything."
She beams at me with drowsy satisfaction before nestling deeper into Mihalis's embrace.
Through our bond, I feel the wave of tenderness that crashes through him at her trust, her unconditional love.
The fierce protectiveness he carries for her pulses between us like a heartbeat, and I understand with crystalline clarity that this—watching him with his daughter—was what finally broke down my last defenses.
The man who owns a den of vice and sin, who can kill without blinking, who commands respect through fear alone, becomes someone entirely different with Irida in his arms. Gentle.
Patient. Devoted beyond measure. The contradiction should be jarring, but instead it reveals the truth of him—that beneath all that controlled danger beats the heart of someone capable of infinite tenderness for those he loves.
We walk in comfortable silence through the familiar streets, our footsteps echoing off the basalt stones.
The winter air carries the lingering scents of the festival—spiced wine, roasted nuts, the sweet smoke of celebration.
But underneath it all, I can smell him—cedar and smoke and something uniquely Mihalis that makes my pulse quicken.
The bond between us hums with quiet contentment, a warm current of connection that's become as natural as breathing.
Every so often his wing brushes against my shoulder or his free hand finds mine, small touches that send sparks of awareness through me.
He's not trying to seduce me—not yet—but my body responds anyway, hyperaware of his proximity, of the leashed power in his movements.
By the time we reach the house, Irida has fallen completely asleep, her breathing deep and even against Mihalis's chest. He carries her upstairs with the silent grace of someone who's perfected the art of not waking a sleeping child, and I follow, watching the careful way he navigates the hallway.
Irida's room glows with the soft amber light of enchanted sconces, warm and welcoming. Mihalis lowers her to the bed with infinite care, easing off her boots and outer cloak without disturbing her slumber. She stirs slightly when he pulls the covers up to her chin, making a small sound of protest.
"Shh," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Sleep now, little spark."
The endearment, spoken in the ancient xaphan tongue, makes my chest tight with emotion. There's so much love in his voice, such gentle devotion, that I have to look away for a moment to compose myself.
But when Irida's sleepy voice calls my name, I'm immediately at her bedside.
"Will you be here tomorrow?" she asks, golden eyes heavy with exhaustion but still worried.
"I'll be here," I promise, smoothing her dark curls away from her face. "I'm not going anywhere."
"Good," she sighs, already drifting back toward sleep. "I love you, Heidi."
The words hit me hard, so unexpected and pure that they steal my breath.
I'd missed hearing them. Besides Irida, I've never had anyone say those words to me before—not once in twenty-three years of existence.
The casual way she says it, like it's the most natural thing in the world, makes my throat close with tears I refuse to shed.
"I love you too, sweetheart," I whisper back, and mean it completely.
She smiles, satisfied, and within moments she's breathing deeply again. Mihalis adjusts her blankets one final time, then dims the sconces with a gesture. We slip out of the room together, closing the door with barely a sound.
The hallway stretches before us, lit by the warm glow of flame sconces that cast dancing shadows on the dark walls.
For a moment we just stand there, the silence heavy with unspoken things.
Through our bond, I can feel his emotions shifting, deepening, taking on an edge that makes my skin prickle with anticipation.
He turns to face me fully, and the look in his molten eyes makes my breath catch. Gone is the gentle father, replaced by something far more predatory. The careful control he maintains around his daughter has dissolved, leaving behind raw want that crashes through our connection like wildfire.
"Mihalis—" I start to say, but he moves faster than thought, backing me against the wall with his body.
His hands brace on either side of my head, caging me in without quite touching.
The heat radiating from his skin makes the air between us shimmer, and I can smell the smoke and cedar scent of him intensified by proximity.
My heart hammers against my ribs as he leans closer, his mouth mere inches from mine.
"I haven't properly welcomed you back," he says quietly, voice pitched low and rough with promise.
The words send liquid fire racing through my veins.
Through our bond, I feel the echo of his desire crash into mine, amplifying everything until I'm dizzy with want.
The careful distance we maintained during the festival dissolves like smoke, replaced by the magnetic pull that's been building between us all day.
"Welcome me back?" I manage to say.
His eyes darken, pupils dilating until only thin rings of gold remain. "You left me, little thief. Ran from what we both felt. I think I've been remarkably patient."
The reminder of that night at Vestige—of the way I panicked and fled after giving him everything—sends a complex mix of shame and arousal through me. He could have followed. Could have forced me to stay. Instead, he let me go, even though it cost him.
"I came back," I whisper.
"Yes." His voice drops to a gravelly rumble that I feel in my bones. "You did. And now I want to show you exactly how much I missed having you in my arms."
Before I can respond, his mouth crashes against mine in a kiss that consumes me. It's fierce, demanding, edged with the frustration of forced separation and the relief of reunion. His teeth catch my lower lip, not quite gentle, and I gasp against his mouth.
The sound seems to unleash something in him. His tongue sweeps past my lips, claiming my mouth with a thoroughness that makes my knees weak. I can taste the spiced wine he drank at the festival, can feel the barely leashed power in the way his hands frame my face.
Through our bond, his desire crashes into mine like a tidal wave.
Every sensation is amplified—the scrape of his teeth, the heat of his mouth, the press of his body against mine.
I can feel what he feels, experience my own taste on his tongue, sense the way my responses drive him closer to the edge of control.
When he finally breaks the kiss, we're both breathing hard. His eyes burn like molten gold in the flickering sconce light, and I can see the beast beneath the man stirring to life.
"I've been dreaming about you," he says against my lips, his voice rough with need. "About the sounds you made when I touched you. The way you begged for more even when I was marking every inch of your skin."
Heat pools between my thighs at the memory.
That night at Vestige, he'd wrung pleasure and pain from my body in equal measure, pushed me to limits I didn't know I had.
The bruises he left had faded within days, but the memory of them—the delicious ache, the visible proof of his claim—still makes me clench with want.
His mouth drops to my throat, lips finding the sensitive spot just below my ear that makes me shiver. I tip my head back automatically, offering him access, and feel his satisfaction pulse through our connection.
"That's my good girl," he murmurs against my skin, the praise sending warmth spiraling through me. "Always so responsive for me."
His teeth graze the column of my throat, not quite biting, just promising. The gentle scrape makes me gasp, hands fisting in his shirt to keep myself upright. Every nerve ending feels electrified, hypersensitive to his touch.
"I want you," he says simply, breath hot against my neck.
"I want you too," I breathe, the admission torn from me by the intensity of sensation flooding through our bond.
He pulls back to look at me, eyes blazing with something between hunger and possessiveness.
"No, little thief. You don't understand.
" His voice drops to a whisper that somehow sounds more dangerous than a shout.
"I want you in my bed. In my arms. Screaming my name while I take you apart piece by piece. "
My breath hitches, thighs clenching involuntarily at the dark promise in his words. Through our bond, I can feel the depth of his need—not just physical, but emotional. He wants to claim me completely, to erase any doubt about where I belong.
"I want you sharing my room," he continues, each word delivered with deliberate intensity. "Not down the hall where I have to imagine what you're doing. I want you close enough to touch whenever I need you."
"Yes," I gasp without hesitation. The thought of sleeping in his bed, of being truly his in every way that matters, sends excitement racing through me. "Yes to all of it."
A slow, predatory smile spreads across his face at my eager agreement. "Such an agreeable little thief tonight," he murmurs, then leans down to press his mouth to the sensitive juncture where my neck meets my shoulder.
His teeth sink into the tender skin there, not hard enough to break the surface but deep enough to leave a mark.
I have to bite my lip to keep from moaning, the sharp pleasure-pain of it making my vision blur at the edges.
Through our bond, I feel his satisfaction at marking me, his possessive pleasure at seeing his claim on my skin.
"Mine," he growls against my throat, voice muffled but no less intense for it.
Before I can respond, his hands slide down to grip my ass, fingers digging in with just enough pressure to make me gasp. Then he's lifting me, my legs automatically wrapping around his waist as he pins me more firmly against the wall.
The new position puts us at eye level, and I can see the barely controlled hunger in his expression. His pupils are blown wide with desire, and when he speaks, his voice carries the gravelly undertone that means his control is fraying.
"Hold on to me," he commands, and I obey without question, wrapping my arms around his neck.
He carries me down the hallway with steady, measured steps that belie the urgency I can feel thrumming through our connection. Each movement rocks me against him slightly, friction that makes us both tense with want. By the time we reach his room, I'm practically vibrating with need.
The door swings shut behind us with a soft click, and then he's laying me out on his massive bed like I'm something precious. The black linens feel cool against my heated skin, a stark contrast to the fire in his eyes as he looks down at me.
"The bruises on your skin are fading," he observes, voice carrying a note of displeasure that makes my pulse spike. His fingers trace the barely visible marks on my throat from that night at Vestige. "I don't like that."
The possessiveness in his tone, the way he's cataloguing the evidence of his claim on my body, makes heat surge through me. Through our bond, I can feel his satisfaction at my response, the way my arousal feeds his own.
"I want you marked always," he continues, golden eyes fixed on mine with predatory intensity. "I want everyone who looks at you to know exactly who you belong to."
My thighs clench at his words, and I have to fight to keep my voice steady when I speak. "Then mark me."