Chapter 15 Cadeon #2
I feel it happen at the same moment our climaxes crash through us. The old bond shatters like glass, two centuries of domination and control and careful distance burning away in an instant. And in its place, something new forms. Something golden and warm and mutual.
Partnership. Equals. Choice.
I feel her as I have never felt her before.
Not just her pleasure, though that is overwhelming enough.
I feel her love, her fear, her desperate hope.
I feel her walls finally crumbling, feel her letting go of the control she has clung to for so long.
I feel her trust, absolute and complete, as she surrenders herself to me.
And she feels me. All of me. The darkness and the light. The centuries of pain and the fragile, growing hope. The love I have for her, so fierce it frightens me. The choice I am making, again and again, with every beat of her heart.
We are undone together.
I spill inside her with a groan that might be her name or might just be sound. She shatters around me, her body clenching, her voice rising in a cry that echoes off the walls. The bond pulses between us, bright as sunlight, warm as her magic, strong as iron.
For a long moment, we simply exist. Tangled together on the rug before the fire, still connected in every way two people can be connected. I can feel her heart racing. Can feel her tears on my shoulder. Can feel her joy and relief and bone-deep exhaustion.
"Cadeon?" Her voice is small. Wondering.
"Yes?"
"I can feel you. Really feel you. It's..." She trails off, searching for words.
"Like coming home," I finish.
"Yes." She pulls back to look at me, and her eyes are bright with tears but her smile is radiant. "Exactly like that."
I kiss her gently. Reverently. The kiss of someone who has been given a gift beyond price.
"The bond transformed," she breathes against my mouth.
"It did."
"We did it."
"You did it." I brush her hair back from her face. "You let go. You let me catch you."
"It was terrifying."
"I know."
"It was also..." She laughs, watery and bright. "It was also kind of amazing."
"Only kind of?"
"Don't fish for compliments."
"I am not fishing. I am merely observing that your assessment seems understated."
She laughs again, and the sound is the most beautiful thing I have ever heard. "Fine. It was incredible. Earth-shattering. Life-changing. The best sex I've ever had."
"Better." I roll onto my back, pulling her with me so she is draped across my chest. "I have a reputation to maintain."
"What reputation?"
"As someone who is, in your words, 'adequate.'"
She snorts. "I think we've upgraded you past adequate."
"High praise indeed."
We lie there in comfortable silence, her head on my chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my skin. The fire crackles low. Through the windows, I can see the first snow of solstice falling soft and silent.
The new bond hums between us, warm and golden and alive. I can feel her contentment. Her peace. Her love, no longer guarded or afraid but open and free.
And she can feel mine.
"I can feel how happy you are," she murmurs. "It's like sunlight in my chest."
"You made me happy. You made me want to be happy." I press a kiss to her hair. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For seeing me. For saving me. For loving me despite everything I was."
"Because of everything you are," she corrects. "Not despite."
I tighten my arms around her, overwhelmed by the simple truth of her words.
For two centuries, I was a weapon. A tool. An empty thing shaped only by commands and compulsion.
But she looked at me and saw a man.
She looked at my darkness and offered light.
She looked at my chains and gave me the key.
And now, on the longest night of the year, in the warmth of the home we have built together, I am finally free.
Not free from her. Free with her.
There is a difference.
"Cadeon?"
"Hmm?"
"I'm cold."
I chuckle, reaching for the throw blanket draped over the nearby chair. I pull it over both of us, tucking it around her shoulders.
"Better?"
"Much." She snuggles closer, her body warm against mine. "We should probably move to an actual bed at some point."
"Probably."
"But not yet."
"No. Not yet."
The fire burns low. The snow falls soft. And we hold each other through the longest night, bound not by magic or compulsion but by something far stronger.
Choice.
Love.
Home.
I wake to pale morning light and the smell of something burning.
For a moment, I am disoriented. The rug beneath me. The chill in the air. The dead fire.
Then I hear the sizzling and the soft curse from the kitchen, and I smile.
She is up. She is cooking. She is burning something.
Some things never change.
I find my trousers and pull them on, padding barefoot toward the kitchen. She stands at the stove in nothing but my shirt from last night, her hair a wild tangle, a spatula in one hand and a look of extreme concentration on her face.
"The eggs are supposed to be scrambled," she mutters to the pan. "Not... whatever this is."
"Charred?"
She spins, nearly dropping the spatula. "You're awake."
"I smelled smoke."
"It's not smoke. It's... aggressive browning." She turns back to the stove, scraping at the pan. "I was trying to make you breakfast."
"I don't require breakfast."
"I know. But I wanted to. After last night, I wanted to do something for you." She sighs at the ruined eggs. "I appear to be better at magic food than regular food."
I cross to her, wrapping my arms around her from behind. She leans back into me immediately, and through the bond I feel her happiness. Her peace. Her lingering wonder at the golden warmth humming between us.
"The eggs are perfect," I tell her.
"They're burnt."
"They were made with intention. That makes them perfect." I press a kiss to her neck. "Also, I have tasted far worse in two centuries of existence."
"That's not the compliment you think it is."
"It is the highest compliment. I have eaten military rations from three different wars. Your burnt eggs are a significant improvement."
She laughs, turning in my arms to face me. Her eyes are bright, her smile wide, and she looks utterly, completely happy.
"How do you feel?" she asks. "The bond, I mean. Does it feel different?"
"Yes." I consider how to describe it. "It feels like... breathing. Like something I do not have to think about or maintain or work for. It simply exists. Part of me."
"Equal," she says softly.
"Equal." I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "How does it feel to you?"
"Like I finally put down something I've been carrying for years. Like I can rest." She presses her hand to my chest, over where my heart would beat. "Like home."
"That is because this is home. You made it so."
"We made it so." She rises on her toes to kiss me. "Together."
The kiss deepens, and for a moment I consider abandoning the ruined eggs entirely and taking her back to the floor. Or the table. Or any of the other surfaces I have been cataloging for this purpose.
But her stomach growls audibly, and she breaks the kiss with a laugh.
"Food first," she says. "Then... other things."
"Other things?"
"I have plans for you." Her grin is wicked. "Many plans."
"I find myself intrigued by these plans."
"Good." She turns back to the stove, scraping the burnt eggs onto a plate. "Now eat your aggressive browning and let me think about what surfaces we haven't christened yet."
"The dining table."
"Obviously."
"The library desk."
"Too many books in the way."
"The greenhouse."
She pauses. "The greenhouse has potential."
"I thought so."
We eat breakfast together at the kitchen table, her legs tangled with mine, the bond humming warm between us. Through the windows, I can see the snow has stopped, leaving the world blanketed in white. The solstice is over. The longest night has passed.
And we are still here.
Together.
Whole.
Later, we will clean the house. We will check on the village, see how the other bonds fared through the night. We will face whatever challenges come with being publicly, openly partnered instead of master and familiar.
But that is later.
Right now, there is only this: burnt eggs and bad coffee and the woman I love sitting across from me, making plans for greenhouse activities that are entirely inappropriate and absolutely perfect.
For two hundred years, I was hollow.
She filled me up.
For two hundred years, I was a weapon.
She made me human again.
For two hundred years, I forgot how to want.
She taught me to want everything.
"What are you thinking about?" Iris asks, watching me with a smile.
"You. Us. How strange and wonderful it is to be here."
"Strange and wonderful." She considers this. "I'll take it."
"You should. It is high praise from an ancient vampire with an extensive history of violence."
"You're never going to let me live down the 'Hey, Fangs' thing, are you?"
"Never." I reach across the table and take her hand. "I intend to remind you of it daily for the remainder of our existence."
"Our existence? That's a long time."
"Yes." I bring her hand to my lips. "It is. And I intend to spend every moment of it choosing you."
Her eyes go soft. "Every moment?"
"Every single one."
She squeezes my hand. "Then I guess I'd better get used to it."
"You should. I am told I am quite persistent."
"Persistent." She laughs. "That's one word for it."
"What word would you use?"
She considers, tilting her head. "Devoted. Obsessed. Insufferably romantic when you think no one is paying attention."
I consider arguing further, but she is grinning at me with such obvious delight that I find I do not want to.
"Perhaps," I concede. "But only for you."
"Only for me," she repeats, and the words are a promise.
Only for her.
Always for her.
Forever.