Chapter 35
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Marcus and the soldiers reach the throne room, prepared to face the unthinkable. But instead of carnage, they find silence. My father’s blood stains the floor, the crown rests in my hands, and Mallen—bruised and breathless—kneels below the dais, arms outstretched, as if in surrender to me.
The soldiers falter. Confusion ripples across their ranks.
Marcus’s gaze sweeps the chamber, noting the nobles cowering on the floor. “What in the name of all the gods—?”
“Stand down,” Mallen says. His voice is raw, smoke-rough, and scorched from shouting. He rises, not once taking his eyes off me. “Let them go. They’re not worth the trouble.”
The nobles don’t wait for permission. They scatter like frightened birds, their polished shoes slipping in the blood as they rush past our soldiers.
Marcus advances. “Fire stopped raining from the heavens. What happened?”
I don’t answer. Every breath feels borrowed. The crown I’ve claimed is heavy with every choice I didn’t want to make. My father’s blood stains the floor. I am not mourning him. I am mourning the girl who still thought she could leave. The weight of it all presses down, still too much to name.
So Mallen does it for me.
“She did,” he says, glancing toward me with awe that hides the sharper, ragged need beneath it. “It’s over.”
Marcus studies me like he doesn’t recognize the girl I was before. Perhaps I don’t either. I meet his gaze and say nothing, refusing to explain or apologize.
Mallen steps between us and shakes his head. “It’s over, Marcus.”
He stops. “You’ve looked better.”
Mallen glances at me again, and color rises in his bruised cheeks. “We all have.”
Marcus lets out a slow breath. The kind that tastes of smoke and memory. His gaze flicks to the crown in my lap and then back to me, as if he’s still trying to understand how I became the one to end it. I think he sees the answer in Mallen’s posture. In mine too.
“Tell me she’s making you ask for her hand.”
My chin lifts a little. “Obviously.”
Marcus bows mockingly. “You’ll do fine. She’ll make certain of it.”
And then, mercifully, he leaves—his soldiers trailing behind him, chuckling under their breath.
The throne room empties. Silence folds in around the pillars and mosaics, thick and final. I let my sword clatter to the ground. The crown slips from my hands. I sink into the throne—not with triumph, but with the ache of survival.
Mallen doesn’t move until the last echo fades.
“You scared the life out of me,” he murmurs, voice rasping. “I thought I lost you.”
“You were just behind me.”
He approaches slowly, his steps careful. “I was. That didn’t make it easier.”
I reach for him, fingertips brushing his jaw. He leans into the touch like he’s been starving for it.
“I’m here,” I whisper.
“I saw you ride into that fire and I—” His voice breaks. “Don’t ever do that again. You cannot go where I can’t follow.”
My eyes sting. “I wasn’t trying to leave you behind.”
He presses his forehead to mine. “But you would have. If it meant ending him. You would’ve died for this.”
I don’t answer. I don’t need to.
His hands rise to cradle my face. “You don’t need to prove anything. Not to me. Nor to yourself.”
“I don’t want to rule,” I murmur.
“I know. But you were born to.” His thumb brushes my cheek. “And you won’t let it change you. You won’t lose yourself.”
I lean into him, every muscle aching, every thought unraveling now that it’s over. He senses it, I think. He always does. His arms go around me, lifting me without effort, and I don’t resist. My head finds the curve of his shoulder. My body folds into his without shame, without reservation.
We move through the halls like that, slow and silent. Soldiers bow their heads, clearing the way. He doesn’t pause. Just holds me tighter.
I don’t remember reaching my rooms. Our rooms now.
Only the warmth of the bath, the scent of herbs, the way he washes me like I’m too precious to let go.
A different kind of darkness takes me—softer than sleep, deeper than rest—and I sink into it, lulled by the hush of his hands and the heat of the water.
No dreams. Just the slow release of fear I’ve held too long.
When I wake, I’m cradled against his chest, limbs tangled beneath soft blankets. His fingers trace the curve of my jaw, tender and rhythmic, like he never stopped touching me even while I slept.
“You’re awake,” he whispers.
I look up at him. His face is bruised, shadowed by exhaustion, but still—somehow—radiant.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” I say.
He closes his eyes like the words hurt. “Don’t apologize. Just…don’t disappear on me again.”
“I couldn’t stop.”
“I know.” He exhales slowly, brushing that rebellious strand of hair behind my ear. “I should be furious. It was reckless, selfish—all of it, and more. But all I saw was you, riding into fire, and I’ve never loved you more.”
I blink hard. “I was dying. Then you were there.”
“You’re never alone. Not while I breathe.”
A silence falls, heavy with all we can’t yet say. His hand finds mine beneath the blanket, weaving our fingers together.
“You’re hurt,” I say softly, noticing the stiff way he moves.
He shrugs. “Not enough to make a difference.”
I trace the line of a bruise on his ribs. “It matters to me.”
He catches my hand, bringing it to his lips. “And you to me.”
I don’t know who moves first. Maybe we both do. But suddenly our lips meet—not with hunger, but with the slow, reverent ache of two people who nearly lost everything. There’s no need to rush. No need to prove anything.
When he eases me back onto the pillows, it’s with the gentleness of an artist handling a masterpiece that might yet evade perfection.
His touch is careful, reverent. His kisses are soft and lingering, more comfort than passion, though the heat simmers beneath. When he brushes his thumb over my collarbone, it’s not to take—it’s to remind me I’m still here. Still whole.
I let myself be seen.
And Mallen—gods, Mallen never looks away.
When I flinch, his hands still. “Too much?”
“No,” I breathe. “Just...slow.”
He smiles. Not wicked. Not haunted by jealousy. Just a flicker full of relief and worship. Of devotion. He leans down, resting his forehead against mine.
“I love you,” he says.
No demand. No expectation. Just a truth.
I press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Then stay. Like this.”
“Always.”
Desire stirs again—slow, insistent—as Mallen’s mouth trails heat along my neck. His breath ghosts over my skin, and I shiver, caught between need and a more fragile want. His lips find the hollow beneath my jaw, where he lingers, pressing soft, tender kisses that make my breath hitch.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, staring at me. “You undo me.”
He doesn’t rush.
Doesn’t demand.
He lowers his head again, kissing slowly down the center of my chest as though mapping me to memory.
His hand cradles my ribs, steadying me, grounding me.
My back arches of its own accord when his mouth finds my breast, and I gasp—sharp, involuntary—as his tongue flicks across my nipple, gentle at first, then firmer.
I clutch at his thighs, anchoring myself. He groans, the sound low and feral, but he doesn’t lose control. He simply takes his time, rolling his tongue in slow, deliberate circles until I’m panting, wordless, aching for more.
“You’re trembling,” he murmurs against my skin.
“Because you’re cruel,” I whisper, breathless.
He huffs a soft laugh and presses a kiss over my heart before continuing downward, his mouth skating across my stomach. The teasing touch sends shivers dancing over my skin. I grip his hair, not to control him but to hold myself together.
His hands smooth over my hips and down the inside of my thigh. He lifts my leg carefully, spreading me open—and I hiss, flinching as stiff muscles protest. Immediately, he slows.
“You’re sore.”
I nod, biting my lip, but he’s already adjusting. His touch softens, soothing where he might have pushed.
Then he lowers his head.
His breath warms me. His tongue flicks against me, and my hips jerk. A moan escapes, half-shocked, half-relieved, as my body starts to unravel again.
“Good?” he murmurs.
I nod frantically.
“Relax,” he says, voice velvet and steel. “Let me care for you.”
He takes his time, slow circles of his tongue drawing my tension out, replacing it with heat. Pleasure builds, slow at first and then deeper, surging through me. He doesn’t overpower—it’s not about dominance. He’s attuned to me, watching every breath, every shift of my hips.
When he finally slides a finger into me, I gasp. My body clenches around him, and he groans in response. His mouth doesn’t stop. Tongue and hand working in tandem, building me back toward the edge he’s not yet let me cross.
It’s exquisite torture.
My hips move on their own now, grinding against his hand, chasing the pressure. He slides in a second finger, and I moan, craving more, desperate to shatter. My body begs for it.
But he slows.
I groan in frustration, writhing beneath him.
“Do you want to climax?” he asks, voice thick.
I nod, but he doesn’t move faster.
“Then ask.”
“Mallen…”
“Ask me.”
I whimper, biting back a growl. I’m trembling, caught in the space between pleasure and denial, and he watches me there—so calm, so composed—until I finally whisper, “Please.”
He smiles.
I blink up at him, lost in a haze of need, and he leans in.
“Say it, Azhara. Let go. Give this to me.”
It’s not about power. It never is, not with him. He wants surrender, not submission. Trust, not obedience.
And I do trust him.
“Please, Mallen,” I breathe. “Please. I need you. I want—”
“Just like that.”
His pace changes—faster, deeper, more intense. I cry out as the pleasure crests and crashes over me, breaking me open. Mallen watches every second, his mouth slightly parted, reverent.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs as I collapse against the bed, limbs trembling.
He doesn’t move right away. Just trails his hand gently over my body, grounding me, letting me come back to myself.
When I open my eyes, he’s above me again, eyes burning. He strokes himself slowly, deliberately, and the want in his gaze reignites mine in an instant.
But then he pauses.
“You good?” he asks.
I nod, but a tremor stirs in my core. Fragile, unfamiliar. Like the stillness before a storm breaks. I’m not the same as I was before, and maybe he’ll notice.
He sees it, hears my anxiety.
“I’ll stop. Just say it.”
“Don’t,” I whisper. “I’m choosing this. I want you.”
He eases forward—his body taut, trembling—and then he’s inside me, in one smooth, careful thrust.
I gasp. Not from pain, but from the overwhelming rightness of it. I feel full, complete, as though I was missing a piece I hadn’t known I needed.
Mallen groans, burying his face in the crook of my neck as he starts to move. The rhythm he finds is deep and steady. Purposeful. Every motion says I’m here. You’re mine. I’ve got you.
I match him, hips rising to meet his, the tension building between us with each breath, each thrust. His body presses against mine, and his hands map my skin like he’s afraid he’ll forget the shape of me.
“You feel like coming home,” he breathes, like it amazes him.
I arch against him, moaning as he hits just the right spot. Over and over, until I can’t think, can’t speak. Just feel.
“You were made for me,” he groans. “All of you.”
I break our kiss long enough to murmur, “And you for me.”
His rhythm falters and then deepens. He leans back, hands gripping my hips as he moves faster and harder, dragging me with him toward the edge. I hold on, nails digging into his shoulders, crying out as the pleasure coils tight in my belly.
“You’re mine,” he growls. “Say it.”
“Yours,” I gasp.
His eyes blaze. “Say it like you mean it.”
I wrap my arms around him, pulling him down to whisper against his ear, “I was always yours.”
He shudders, and I feel him hold back, waiting—always waiting for me. He won’t let go until I do.
And I do.
The orgasm hits like lightning, arcing through me, leaving nothing untouched.
I scream his name, barely aware of anything beyond the pleasure tearing through me.
Mallen follows a heartbeat later, roaring my name as he thrusts deep and comes with a force that shakes us both.
He collapses against me, chest heaving, arms trembling as he holds me close.
Neither of us speaks for a moment. The only sound is our breathing, the frantic pounding of our hearts slowly easing.
Then Mallen shifts, easing onto his side, never letting me go. He wraps his arms around me as though I might disappear if he loosens his grip.
I curl into him, one hand stroking the back of his neck, the other resting over his heart.
He kisses my temple. “Still good?”
“Better.”
His smile is soft, sleepy. “You terrify me.”
I blink. “What?”
“How much I love you.”
I press a kiss to his collarbone.
“I’d raze kingdoms for you, Azhara.” His voice is quiet. “Burn the world to keep you and tear down every star for you. And you…you could break me with a word.”
I lift my head. “I wouldn’t.”
“But you could.”
“You don’t have to carry this alone anymore.”
He closes his eyes and leans into my touch. “I know.”
We lie tangled in each other, breath and skin and heartbeat slipping into rhythm, the afterglow dimming into stillness—quiet and steady.
His thumb rubs lazy circles on my lower back. “I like this.”
“What?”
“You. In my arms. Safe. Whole.”
I smile and tuck my face into his neck. I like it too.
And he knows it, without me having to say it.
It’s in the way my fingers curl at the nape of his neck, in the warmth burning through my chest when his heartbeat drums against mine.
I feel him through the bond—contentment, relief, the soft ache of wonder.
“You’re safe,” he murmurs, voice heavy with emotion. “Always loved.”
And because it’s him, I believe it.