Chapter 19 Seris
SERIS
Consciousness returns like a slow tide, pulling me up from depths where pain and terror still echo. The first thing I notice is the absence of agony—no sharp claws tearing through my belly, no fire racing down my spine. Just a dull ache that speaks of healing rather than dying.
The second thing I notice is warmth. Not the warmth of fever or blood loss, but something solid and steady pressed against my palm.
I force my eyes open, blinking against dim torchlight until the world sharpens into focus. Stone walls. A narrow bed with rough-woven blankets. The familiar smell of herbs and old incense that marks temple quarters.
And beside me, slumped in a wooden chair that looks far too small for his frame, sits Vargath.
His armor bears dark stains I recognize as blood—mine, probably—and his black hair has escaped its war braids to fall loose around his shoulders.
His jaw clenches and unclenches in a rhythm that suggests he's been grinding his teeth for hours.
But his hand holds mine with careful gentleness, fingers intertwined like he's afraid I might slip away if he lets go.
"You never left." My voice comes out as barely a whisper, throat raw from screaming I only half remember.
His head snaps up, dark eyes searching my face with an intensity beyond reason. Relief flickers across his features before he schools them back into that familiar mask of control.
"Couldn't." The word drops between us like a stone. "Didn't trust them not to finish what someone started."
Memory crashes back in waves—Maedra's still form beneath my robe, the terror of feeling my body betray me, blood pooling on sacred stones. My free hand flies instinctively to my belly, feeling for the familiar curve, the gentle movement that means life continues despite everything.
"The baby?"
"Safe." His thumb traces across my knuckles, the gesture so gentle it steals my breath. "The healers said you need rest. No travel. No stress."
I almost laugh at that last part, but it comes out as more of a sob. "No stress. In a place where someone murdered the only person who gave a damn about me."
His jaw tightens. "I give a damn."
"Do you?" I ask without restraint, raw and honest in a way that makes us both flinch. "Because from where I'm lying, it's hard to tell what you want from me."
He's quiet for a long moment, studying our joined hands like they hold answers to questions he's afraid to ask. When he finally speaks, his voice is rougher than I've ever heard it.
"When I saw you lying there..." He stops, swallows hard. "I've charged enemy lines. Faced down creatures that could tear me apart with their bare hands. I've never been more afraid in my life than watching you bleed on those stones."
The admission hangs between us, vulnerable and stark. I watch him struggle with it, see the way his shoulders tense like he's expecting me to use his fear as a weapon.
Instead, I squeeze his fingers. "I was terrified too."
He looks up then, finally meeting my eyes fully. There's something different in his expression—less of the rigid warleader, more of the man who held me through one perfect night and then vanished like smoke.
His free hand rises to brush a strand of hair from my face, the touch so careful it makes my chest ache. This is how he touched me before—like I was something precious instead of just convenient.
"Stay," he says quietly. "Stay in the temple. I'll make sure you're cared for. Protected. We'll find out what happened to Maedra, I swear it."
The offer should comfort me. Should feel like salvation after everything I've endured. But all I can think about is the temporary nature of temple sanctuary, the way his council looks at me like I'm a disease that needs curing.
"Then what?" My voice trembles despite my efforts to steady it. "What happens after the baby comes? After whoever killed Maedra decides I'm still too dangerous to live? You can't keep me hidden forever, Vargath."
He's quiet for so long I think he won't answer. Then his fingers tighten around mine, and when he speaks, there's something like determination in his voice.
"Then we find a way."
His lips meet mine with a shock of tenderness that steals my breath. Not demanding, not possessive—just… soft. A question asked in silence. My body arches toward him before my mind catches up, seeking the heat of him, the solid reality pressing me back into the pillows. Don't stop.
A low rumble vibrates in his chest, amused and warm.
He shifts, his weight settling beside me on the narrow bed, one massive hand cradling my jaw.
This time, the kiss deepens—slow, deliberate.
His tongue traces my lower lip, patient, coaxing mine to meet it.
It tastes like salt and smoke and him. My fingers clutch the worn leather straps crossing his chest armor, pulling him closer.
"Vargath—" My voice is barely a whisper against his mouth, a plea tangled with confusion.
"Hush." His breath is warm on my skin. A rough thumb strokes my cheekbone. "Let me take care of you."
His hand slides down, tracing the swollen curve of my belly with a reverence that makes my throat tighten.
It lingers there, warm and grounding, before moving lower, over the sensitive skin of my inner thigh.
His touch is tentative at first, exploring, then firmer.
Intentional. His calloused fingers brush against the core of me, feather-light, and my whole body jerks.
A gasp escapes me, sharp and loud in the quiet room.
It's been so long. Since him. The thought of anyone else touching me felt…
sacrilege. Wrong. A violation of the memory that both haunted and sustained me.
His scent, the scrape of his tusks against my neck, the feel of his hands—memories that lived under my skin.
Now those hands were here, claiming the present with terrifying intimacy.
"You're so beautiful," his voice is a gravelly growl, low and possessive. He dips his head, nuzzling the hollow of my throat. "As beautiful as the night I left you." The words are praise tinged with the old wound.
His fingers slip inside, testing, stretching.
The sudden fullness makes me cry out. "Gods—" It’s a moan, half-pleasure, half-protest, arching my hips into his hand.
His touch is knowing, remembering what makes me shatter.
He curls his fingers, finding that spot inside that sparks lightning down my spine.
A strangled whimper catches in my throat as he begins a relentless rhythm.
"Don't…" I pant, my hands scrabbling against his armor. "Don't leave, Vargath." The fear is reflexive, born of solitude and abandonment, surfacing even as pleasure coils tight in my belly.
He shakes his head, dark hair falling across his brow.
His eyes meet mine, fierce and focused. "I'm not going anywhere, Seris.
" The promise is a vow, thick with possession, as his thumb finds the bud above where his fingers work.
The dual sensation is blinding. Pleasure builds like storm pressure, stealing my thoughts, leaving only feeling.
He lowers his head again, his mouth hot and demanding on my neck.
He sucks at the pulse point, sending fresh jolts through me.
Then lower, nuzzling the swell of my breast, catching the thin fabric of the healer's shift with his tusks.
He peels it down impatiently, exposing me to the cool air and his heated gaze.
His mouth closes over one nipple, suckling hard, his tongue flicking the peak.
The sharp pull is exquisite, connecting directly to the fire his fingers are stoking between my legs.
The ache inside me coils tighter. His fingers stroke deep and knowing, dragging rough-sheathed friction over slick, desperate heat.
My hips jerk against his hand, seeking more, chasing the shimmering edge his touch promises.
He’s not gentle. Not this time. There’s possession in the press of his thumb against my clit, demanding and sure.
His mouth finds my breast again, teeth grazing the tight peak through the thin shift fabric, sending sparks arcing down to where he’s working me.
“Vargath—” His name is a gasp, ragged and wet.
My fingers claw blindly at his shoulder, finding only cold, unyielding steel and the damp heat of his skin beneath the straps.
My body bows off the thin mattress, helpless against the rhythm he sets.
Every stroke is an echo of that first night, amplified by months of longing and fear, sharpened by the terror of nearly losing everything mere hours before.
He lifts his head, eyes burning into mine. His breath is hot against my throat. “Look at me.” His command is a low growl, vibrating through my bones. “Look at me when it happens.”
His thumb circles, relentless pressure, deliberate torment.
His fingers curl inside me, hitting the spot that makes stars burst behind my eyelids.
I can’t look away. His dark gaze holds me captive, a raw intensity stripping away everything else.
His free hand finds my belly, large and warm, grounding me even as pleasure threatens to fracture me.
“Don’t… fight it,” he rasps, seeing the tremor run through me, the instinctive tightening against the overwhelming sensation. His thumb presses harder. “Let go. For me.”
The dam breaks. Pleasure isn't a wave; it's a detonation.
A silent, searing burst that radiates out from his touch, consuming every nerve, every thought.
My back arches, a strangled cry catching in my throat, then escaping as a low, drawn-out moan.
My hips grind helplessly against his hand, seeking the last shivers of sensation as it crests, crashes, and slowly, agonizingly begins to ebb.
Tremors rack my body, powerful enough to rattle my teeth.
I’m aware only of the pressure of his hand inside me, the weight of his palm on my belly, and the fierce, possessive heat of his gaze watching me come completely apart.
My eyes flutter shut, gasping for air that feels too thin, too hot.
The world shrinks to the pulse hammering in my veins, the echo of the release still vibrating through my core, and the solid, unyielding presence of him beside me.