Chapter 19 Faith #2
Faith moved among them, guiding, tasting, and adjusting.
The kitchen filled not just with scent, but with low conversation, shared glances, and the tangible sense of building something together.
This was no longer just her dessert. It was theirs.
A declaration, shaped by many hands, that she belonged here.
Hours later, she slid the golden pastries from the oven. They gleamed under the light, the lattice crust a masterpiece of craftsmanship and the scent of toasted honey and warm citrus an intoxicating promise. It was a beautiful creation.
It was them.
Carefully, she transferred a perfect portion to a simple stoneware plate. This first taste was for Kovrak. Cradling it like a sacred offering, she left the kitchen, the murmurs of the others a warm benediction at her back.
She’d taken only five steps into the corridor when Thalen materialized from a shadowed alcove, his arms crossed over his broad chest. His expression was typically unreadable.
“He’s not in the medical wing,” Thalen stated, his voice a low rumble.
A spike of alarm shot through her. “What? Where is he? He shouldn’t be—“
“He’s in the gardens.” A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched Thalen’s mouth. “Said the air in the medical wing was stifling.”
Confusion warred with a dawning suspicion. This felt deliberate. Orchestrated. “Where exactly?”
Thalen simply nodded his head toward the arched doorway that led to the moon-blossom terraces. The place of her and Kovrak’s first kiss.
Her pulse, already quick, became a frantic drum. Irritation that he’d risk his recovery tangled with a curl of hot, sharp curiosity. She adjusted her grip on the plate and followed the path.
The twin suns were dipping toward the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of blood-orange and lavender. The air was cool, scented with night-blooming vines. And there, beneath the same arch of cascading white blossoms that had witnessed their tentative beginning, he waited.
Kovrak sat in a sturdy, high-backed wheelchair, a concession to his wound but not to his presence.
He was dressed in soft, dark trousers and a simple gray shirt that stretched across the formidable width of his shoulders.
He was pale, the lines of pain etched beside his eyes and mouth, but his ice-blue gaze burned with an intensity that pinned her where she stood.
Before she could unleash the scold burning her tongue—you impossible, stubborn, Alpha tiger—he spoke. His voice was weaker than usual, but it carried absolute command.
“I could not allow another day to pass.” He held her gaze, unflinching. “Not one more sunrise without making this official.”
Her breath hitched. He moved his hand, wincing slightly with the effort, and drew something from the pocket of his trousers.
It caught the dying light—a ring. Antique gold, set with a deep blue stone the color of the royal banners, flanked by two brilliant, clear diamonds.
It was elegant, powerful, and undeniably ancient.
“This was my mother’s,” he said, the words so stripped of pride, so full of raw reverence it made her eyes sting. “The only piece of her I have left. It represents strength, lineage… and love.”
He extended his hand, the ring resting in his palm. The gesture was one of offering, not demand.
“Faith Woodard. You have already claimed my soul as your mate. Now, I ask you to claim my world.” He drew a pained, deliberate breath. “Will you marry me? Will you stand beside me, not just in my heart, but before my people? Will you be my queen?”
The world narrowed to the arch of blossoms, the powerful tiger shifter in the wheelchair who ruled a kingdom on an alien planet but was asking for her human hand, and the ring that held a dynasty’s hope.
There was no hesitation. The answer had lived inside her for days.
Tears spilled over, tracing warm paths down her cheeks. She didn’t bother to wipe them away.
“Yes.” The word was a vow, clear and certain. “Yes, Kovrak. I will be your queen.”
She set the plate carefully on a stone bench and closed the distance between them.
Leaning down, she cupped his face with her right hand, her thumb brushing the tension from his jaw as he placed the ring on her left finger.
Then she kissed him, pouring into it every ounce of love, relief, and fierce, joyous certainty that roared through her soul.
It was careful, mindful of his injury, but deep and fervent.
She could feel the echo of his own emotion through their completed bond—a torrent of possessiveness, devotion, and a triumphant satisfaction that she was irrevocably his.
When she finally pulled back, breathless, she retrieved the pastry. She placed it gently in his lap.
“Taste it,” she whispered.
He broke off a piece, the delicate crust shattering. He closed his eyes as he tasted it. Then a low sound vibrated in his throat. His eyes opened, locking on hers with a heat that belied his pallor.
“Fire and sweetness indeed,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “Perfectly balanced. It tastes exactly like us.”