Chapter 25
Daed
She steps into the lantern light, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe.
The waves of her long hair catch the wind like silk.
Her warm brown eyes sweep the deck, settling on me, and I feel the impact like a blow to the chest. Her skin, kissed bronze, glows against the dark, as though the stars themselves had conspired to shape her from light.
There’s a kind of beauty to her that slips through language, something not meant for the bluntness of words.
And still, she is more than beautiful. She is mine, even when she tries not to be.
From my skin, the golden threads unravel, drifting toward her across the space between us. They move like ribbons through the dark, weaving their way toward her, seeking the place they belong.
I haven’t touched her in so long. Not really.
Not the way I remember. And yet her feel is carved into me, mapped into the hollows of my palms, the curve of my fingers, the ache in my chest. The ghost of her lingers on my skin, a memory too vivid to fade.
I could live a thousand lifetimes and still not forget the shape of her in my arms, the way she fit there, like she was made to.
And though I pride myself on being a creature of strength, a Fae warrior with ice in his veins, a living nightmare to any who dare meet my gaze. In this moment, for her, I am coming undone.
Amara slips into the circle, and it’s as though the fire itself bends toward her. The moment she sits, flanked by Zyphoro on one side and Solena on the other, the huddle shifts and the singing comes to an abrupt halt.
Reon, ever too quick to speak and too slow to think, grins and leans forward with a mug sloshing with rum. “Welcome, Amara. Have a drink with us.”
Solena’s hand snaps out. She swats his wrist just enough to send a few drops splashing onto his trousers. “She’s breastfeeding, you idiot. The rum will taint her milk.”
Reon blinks, confused. “How was I supposed to know that’s how it works? I’ve never breastfed before.”
“Please don’t try,” I mutter to him with a grin.
The silence that follows is brief, fractured by Orios’s laughter, loud and shameless.
Solena glares at him like she’s contemplating murder. “You find that funny?”
Orios doesn’t answer with words. He just wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His mouth finds that tender spot at the base of her neck, and he kisses her there, slow and firm.
Solena stiffens for half a second, then exhales. Her fingers curl over his shoulder. His hand slides along her thigh in that way he always does when he’s reminding the world she’s his.
I watch them and I feel it like a bruise, the closeness, the unspoken understanding between them. I want that same feeling. I would give anything for it. If only my wife would let me.
Even now I can’t look away from her. From Amara.
She lifts a hand in graceful refusal, her voice calm but firm. “I appreciate the offer, Reon, but Solena’s right. I can’t drink rum.”
Reon grins, utterly unbothered. “No problem at all. I’ll drink for the both of us.”
With theatrical flair, he downs the entire cup in one long, exaggerated gulp. When he finishes, he smacks his lips together like he’s just tasted the nectar of the gods and lets out a contented sigh.
Then he swivels toward me with a gleam in his eye. “Now, where were we?”
He thrusts his cup out expectantly. I top it off from the jug in my hand, but I’ve barely begun to pour when he launches into song again, loud, off-key, and with more enthusiasm than melody.
Raise your cup, all kin of light,
To Vornahl’s flame, our ancient might.
From Meranor’s golden halls we came,
To claim new lands, to forge new names.
Orios slams his heel to the deck in time with the chant, the dull thud echoing like a war drum. Reon rises, lantern light catching in the copper of his hair, casting fire along his silhouette as his voice rises strong and sure.
The Old World lost, its whispers fade,
Yet in our hearts, its debts are paid.
Their fire burns in kin unborn,
A legacy whispered, calling me home.
Zyphoro’s foot taps once, twice, then finds rhythm with the beat. Her fist clenches and crashes against the mast beside her, and when she joins in, her voice is deeper than expected and gloriously off-key, matching Reon’s with unrepentant boldness.
Drink deep, remember who we are,
The shattered past, our guiding star.
To those who walked before this night,
We drink for them, and for the fight.
They sing louder, over and over, their voices rising like a tide, drowning the sea’s roar beneath a chorus of memory and pride. The song doesn’t echo, it commands the air, pushes back the dark, as if their voices alone could keep the stars in place.
Reon finishes a final swig and flings his cup aside, rum splashing across the deck, then bows low to Zyphoro. His hand extends toward her in dramatic invitation.
She grins, feral and bright. She takes his hand, and he yanks her up and into his arms, spinning her across the deck.
There’s no refinement, no choreographed elegance like the ballroom dances of Bellamar.
This is untamed, tribal. A collision of movement and laughter, hips crashing, boots stomping.
Zyphoro tosses her head back, hair flying like a raven’s wing in flight, her laugh wild and loud as Reon pulls her into him again.
Then even Orios, stone-faced sentinel of restraint, gets to his feet.
With the ease of a man thrice his size, or thrice as drunk, he lifts Solena clean off the deck, her legs hooking around his hips.
He staggers under the rum’s weight, but never loosens his grip.
Her arms twine around his neck, and they lock eyes, lost in some private, sacred moment as if blissfully unaware that anyone else exists.
And across the chaos, beyond the sloshed bottles and overturned cups, I find Amara’s gaze.
I rise slowly, each step toward her weighted with purpose as glittering golden threads unfurl from my chest to hers. They twist, they tangle, until there’s no separating them. Until we are one.
I extend my hand.
Her fingers slide into mine, and the spark is immediate. A jolt, white-hot. The connection is more than skin deep. It is blood, breath, memory. Need.
I pull her up, steadying her as her body finds mine, her arm draping over my shoulder like she belongs there. My hand settles at her waist. Her warmth seeps through the fabric. I can’t help the way my fingers flex, slow and claiming.
Then we begin to move.
This isn’t the wild, reckless riot of Reon and Zyphoro, nor the fevered, shameless hunger of Orios and Solena. Ours is something older. Quieter. More dangerous.
This is the kind of dance that leaves marks.
A sway. A breath. A step that brings us closer than the last.
I don’t hear the music anymore. Don’t hear the stomp of boots or the clatter of cups. The world falls away until all that’s left is her. Her body against mine, her scent in my lungs, her eyes on my lips.
“How is our daughter?” I manage, my voice low, rougher than it should be. My hand shifts slightly, thumb dragging against her waist where the fabric clings soft and worn. I can feel the shape of her, warm, real and mine.
Her breath shudders through her. “She’s been fed. She sleeps now. Ashen watches over her.”
I nod, brushing my knuckles higher along her spine. “Then she is well guarded.”
She smells like the first breath of morning air. Like firelight and softness. Like things I never knew I needed until I lost them.
I lean in. I don’t mean to. But the pull is magnetic, inescapable. I lower my head, slowly, giving her time to turn away.
She does.
But only just.
Only enough to bare the slender column of her neck.
My control frays.
I draw her closer, holding her hand over my heart while my other slides lower, to the small of her back, slipping beneath her shirt. My thumb brushes bare skin. She stiffens, but doesn’t stop me.
That’s when I know I’m done for.
I bury my face in that delicate stretch of throat, lips against her skin, breathing her in like a starving man.
She trembles.
I feel her pulse racing beneath my mouth, hear the blood quicken in her veins. My lips part. My canines lengthen. I graze them along her neck, just a whisper of contact.
Then she makes a sound, soft and involuntary. A gasp that blooms into a breathless moan.
It shatters me.
And I am hard in an instant.
Then she breathes the word.
“Wait.”
It’s strained. Weak. A sound born of conflict, not conviction. But still, I stop.
I ease my hand from her waist, pull my face back from that sweet spot in the hollow of her neck. My pulse thrashes. My body aches. But I let her go, as much as I can bear.
“What is it?” I ask, trying not to reach for her again. Trying not to kiss her when my whole soul is begging for it.
Her lashes flutter, and for a moment her eyes are hazy, like she’s not entirely here. Then she meets my gaze.
“When were you going to tell me about the Binds of Fate?”
I go still. A windless hush sweeps between us. The golden threads curl tighter, pulsing in the space where we once touched.
“How did you know?” I ask, my voice unsteady.
Her gaze flicks to Solena, still straddling Orios, laughing breathlessly as he spins her like the world might end tomorrow.
Ah. Of course.
“I was going to tell you,” I murmur, shame dragging across my tongue. “In Pariseth. That night... I didn’t know it would be taken from us.”
Amara studies me, eyes narrowing, voice certain. “Is it true what that means?”
Her lips part slightly before she speaks again, the word raw and unfamiliar in her mouth.
“That we’re... mates?”
The sound of it makes my blood heat. A single word, and the bond between us hums like fire licking at dry wood.
“Yes,” I say, no hesitation. “Our destinies are woven together. Irrevocably. You are mine, Amara. As I am yours.”