Chapter 26 #2
Some time later, when the water has cooled and the quiet has wrapped itself fully around us, we finally move. Just a slow, shared rhythm as we climb out of the tub, careful and quiet.
We dry off. I change into the sleeping clothes Thane offered—his soft shirt hanging loose on me, landing just above my knees. The fabric smells like him and it makes something in my chest ache.
Thane—barefoot, wearing only loose drawstring pants and nothing else—is already pulling back the covers when I step into the main room.
The low firelight from the sconces play over the hard planes of his body, casting him in soft gold and shadow. Strong. Steady. But . . . unguarded in a way I’ve never seen before. Not the Warlord tonight. Not the Fire Wielder.
Just Thane. Just mine.
He looks up then, his smoke-gray eyes soft in the low light, a question lingering even now. I don’t hesitate. I cross the room and slip into the bed beside him.
The mattress dips under my weight, and the scent of clean linen and Thane fills the small space between us. I slide under the covers, turning toward him. Thane moves immediately, curving his body along mine, fitting himself to me.
He flicks a wrist and the sconces extinguish. Darkness settles around us.
He pulls me against him—his arms winding around me, tight enough to steal my breath. Like if he lets go, the world might take me with it.
I press closer, sinking into him—into his warmth, into the steady strength that hasn’t faltered, even now. His scent wraps around me—smoke, leather, something earthy and undeniably him. I breathe it in, slow and deep, and let it settle in my bones.
My cheek rests against his chest, where his heartbeat drums slow but sure, deep and steady—a rhythm that feels safe . . . like home.
“I don’t know what happens next,” he murmurs.
“Neither do I,” I whisper back, the words barely more than breath.
A long silence stretches between us.
“I want to tell you something,” Thane says, his voice low, rough from exhaustion, but steady. “I remember the day everything changed. I still see it like it happened yesterday.”
I stay still, listening. Waiting.
“The day Kastiel died.”
My heart tightens.
“I told you I was eighteen—that I was at that battle with my brother and father. I was just feet away from Kastiel when he was struck down.”
He exhales sharply, the sound ragged, like he can still see it—feel it—playing out in front of him.
“My father and I returned home with his body.”
His voice is controlled, but I hear it—the crack beneath the surface, thin and straining.
“My mother didn’t scream when she saw him. She didn’t rage. She just . . . stood there. Silent.”
I can picture it—the great hall, torches flickering, the heavy press of grief thick in the air, and his mother standing alone in the center of it all. Unmoving. Shattered.
“Then she fell to her knees.”
Thane’s grip tightens around me, his body rigid against mine.
“And that’s when I heard her whisper something under her breath.”
I shift slightly, tilting my head against his chest.
“What did she say?”
A pause—long enough that I can feel him dragging the memory up from wherever it’s buried.
“She said, ‘It’s already begun.’”
The words send a shiver through me. Down my spine. Into my chest. Settling like ice freezing.
He exhales again, the sound sharp, brittle.
“At first, I thought she was talking about the war,” he says, voice quieter now, distant. “About what Kastiel’s death would mean—for our forces, for the southern borders.”
A breath. A heartbeat.
“But now I know.”
I close my eyes, bracing. Needing to hear it, even though the truth is already a blade in my chest.
“She wasn’t talking about the war.”
Another long pause.
“She was talking about the curse.”
My fingers curl against his chest. I hold him tighter, my breath shallow.
Thane’s voice fractures, another crack in all his careful control.
“I should have seen it then,” he murmurs. “The way she stopped sleeping. The way she would stare into the fire for hours. The way she spoke softly to herself when she thought no one was listening.”
A breath shudders through him.
“The way the shadows started moving around her . . . even when she wasn’t calling them.”
I go still. Because now I understand.
“She knew,” he whispers. “She knew it was coming for her.”
And he knows it’s coming for him too. The fear laces through the bond, raw and sharp.
“She lasted a year,” Thane says, voice almost gone. “A year before it took her mind. Before she jumped off the tower.”
My chest aches. I move closer. Press my palm to his chest. Feel his heart pounding beneath my fingers—and hold it there, steadying him, steadying me.
“And now you think it’s coming for you,” I whisper.
His breath stutters against me. He doesn’t answer—he doesn’t have to because we both already know.
“Thane.”
My voice is steady—but beneath it, there’s fire. A promise burning in every word.
“You are not your mother.”
He is silent. Tense. Still.
“You are not going to break,” I say—fierce, certain.
I feel his face press into my hair, as if burying himself and his fears.
I press my lips to his broad chest to ease him . . . the bond . . . me.
“We will figure it out. We have time. Valen said it isn’t the madness—not right now. I believe this in my bones.”
He exhales then, long and slow, the sound fraying at the edges. But I feel it through the bond—he doesn’t believe me.
Then, so quiet I almost miss it—
“I don’t know how.”
I lift my head slightly, my heart tightening.
“How to what?” I whisper.
He hesitates. A breath. Another crack in the armor.
Then, softer, “How to let myself believe that’s true.”
I tilt my head back a little more, studying him in the moonlight—the way the shadows slip across his face, the way his jaw tenses, like he’s bracing for a blow that never comes.
“You’ve spent your whole life preparing to fight this alone,” I say gently.
His jaw tightens further.
“Because I thought I had to.”
“And now?” I ask, my voice barely above a breath.
He exhales, slow and heavy, the sound dragging through his chest.
“Now . . . ” A pause. “Now, I don’t know what to do with you.”
A small, tired smile tugs at my lips—tender and fierce and aching all at once.
“You’ll figure it out.”
Then—there’s a shift. The bond tightens suddenly, sharp and jarring. And through it, I feel it—his fear. Raw. Terrifying. Searing through him like a blade he can’t pull free.
Even before he speaks—I know.
“What if something happens to you because of this fucking curse?”
The words tear out of him. Not the Warlord’s voice. Just a terrified, grieving man who’s already lost too much.
“I don’t know,” I whisper back. “But what if the bond helps us navigate it? That’s a possibility too.”
The words hang there—bare. Honest. Unvarnished.
“I don’t know what’s coming. I don’t know what the curse will do or what the future holds.” I tilt my head, brushing my cheek lightly against his chest. “But I do know this—”
I feel his breath hitch. The bond clings, tightens.
I trace a slow circle on his chest. “I’m not afraid.”
His fingers curl gently against my spine. His breath, uneven and rough a moment ago, has settled.
Silence stretches between us, but it’s soft now. Comforting. A blanket woven of shared understanding and worn-out fears.
My eyelids start to droop. The bond thrums slower now, syncing with my slowing breathing.
Then—soft, almost hesitant—”Amara?”
“Hmm?” I murmur sleepily.
“You’re falling asleep.”
“I’m not,” I protest, already fading.
“You are.”
“Okay, you can tell me more in the morning . . . ” I murmur.
A pause. Then—a quiet exhale against my hair, warm. Soft.
“Alright. Get some sleep,” he whispers.
His lips brush the top of my head—barely a kiss, barely a breath. My eyes flutter closed, heavy with the pull of sleep and safety.
“I will if you do,” I murmur.
He doesn’t answer. But his grip tightens. And I know tonight, he won’t let go.
And neither will I.
THANE
I wake before her.
The room is still dark, the early morning light just beginning to touch the edges of the stone walls. A faint breeze stirs the warm air, and somewhere outside the open window, I hear the first birds beginning to sing, soft, tentative notes breaking the hush of night.
And Amara—gods, Amara. My beautiful Amara.
She’s still wrapped in my arms. Her hair, dark as a raven’s wing, spills across my chest, soft and silken. My fingers drift through the strands absently.
I breathe her in.
Wildflowers warmed by the sun and the faint, clean scent of summer air clings to her skin. Alive. Untamed. Comforting in a way nothing else has ever been.
Gods, I don’t want to move.
Because here, in the quiet, in the fragile space between dreams and waking—I finally feel home.
But I know—fuck, I know—this can’t last. Not for me.
Not for us.
The words leave me before I can stop them, barely a whisper in the stillness:
“You don’t know what you’ve done to me, do you?”
But I don’t stop. Because she cannot hear me. Because this is the only way I can say it right now.
“I won’t run again,” I promise.
And even though she’s asleep . . . the bond hums.
Like it heard me.
My fingers drift down her spine, tracing the Elemental markings hidden beneath my shirt—hers now.
I spent so long resisting this. So long pretending I could ignore what was already inevitable. I told myself she was a distraction. That I had to protect her—from this, from me.
Keep my distance. Remain in control.
I was so fucking wrong.
And it hits me, harder than anything has since last night—
How long I’ve craved this. How long I’ve ached for it without even realizing it.
Not the battles or victories. Not the power or the control I’ve clung to like a shield.
This.
Stillness. Warmth. This belonging to someone.
I spent so long telling myself I didn’t need it. Didn’t deserve it. That it was a weakness to want, especially after what happened to my father.