Chapter 39
KIMBERLY
The morning air is thick with sunlight and the scent of rising bread.
It seeps through the floorboards, warm and sweet, curling beneath the hem of the linen sheet twisted around my legs.
Tur's arm is draped across my waist, heavy and possessive in his sleep, though he'd never admit to the latter.
His breath stirs the fine hairs on the back of my neck, each exhale a whisper against my skin.
I don't move.
Not yet.
The quiet is rare and sacred—this moment between waking and choosing to step back into the world.
In this sliver of calm, I'm not commander, or symbol, or survivor.
I'm just Kimberly, barefoot and blinking in the slow gold of dawn, wrapped in the arms of a man who smells like cedar and salt and something warm that’s always felt like home.
His fingers twitch where they rest just below my navel, and I smile, sleepy and sated, and press back into him. He makes a low sound in his throat, somewhere between a groan and a question.
“You’re awake,” I murmur, voice still rough with sleep.
“Was,” he grumbles, nuzzling into the crook of my neck. “Then you moved. Now I’m awake and grumpy about it.”
I laugh softly. “You’re always grumpy in the morning.”
“That’s slander.”
I roll over to face him, pushing the sheet down enough to see him clearly. Light cuts across his chest in pale stripes, catching on the scars and the ridges of old bone-spur ports now sealed. I trace one with my fingertip, watching his eyes flutter open, heavy-lidded and still a little unfocused.
His voice softens. “What are you thinking?”
“That I want this. All of it. You. Us. Permanence.”
His breath catches. Not sharp—just still. A held note.
“No dramatic speeches?” he asks, voice teasing but quiet.
“Not unless you’re fishing for one.”
He shakes his head. “Plainspoken works.”
I shift closer, pressing my forehead to his. “Then here it is: I’m in. Fully. Forever. Not because of the bond. Not because of fate. Because I choose you.”
His arms tighten around me, slow and steady, as though he needs time to believe the words are real. “You know I’m not easy,” he murmurs.
“You’re not hard, either. Not when it counts.”
Tur snorts. “Kimberly—”
“I mean emotionally,” I say, biting my lip to suppress the grin already forming.
“Mmhmm. Liar.”
I kiss him before he can argue more. His mouth is warm and familiar, a question I’ve answered a thousand times and still want to answer again.
There’s no rush. No hunger that aches or claws.
Just the soft, deliberate slide of lips and tongue, the way his hand cups the back of my neck like I might vanish if he lets go.
I shift to straddle him, the sheet falling away completely now. His hands settle on my hips, reverent and steady, fingers brushing the curve of my ass as though rediscovering it. He looks up at me like I’m something holy, something feral, something his.
“I love watching you decide things,” he says, voice low.
“Is that what this is?” I ask, rolling my hips once—slow and purposeful.
His breath hitches. “Feels like a declaration.”
“Good.”
I reach between us and guide him inside, inch by inch, sighing at the stretch, the fullness, the perfect fit that makes my spine shiver. He doesn’t thrust up or pull me down. He lets me set the pace, the rhythm, the depth.
It’s not desperate. It’s not rushed.
It’s right.
He whispers my name like a prayer, like a promise, like he can feel me wrapped around every inch of him and still wants more. I lean down, kiss the corner of his mouth, then the scar on his cheek, then the spot just below his ear that always makes him sigh.
“I want you loud this time,” I murmur.
“You want a lot of things,” he replies, voice strained.
“Yes,” I breathe. “And you’ll give them to me.”
His hands tighten, grounding me as I ride him slow and deep, chasing a rhythm that speaks without words. Each movement drags sparks through my core, heat pooling low and bright. He meets me halfway, hips rising just enough to deepen the thrust, to remind me how thoroughly I belong to this moment.
To him.
“Say it again,” he growls.
“I choose you.”
His eyes burn. “Then don’t stop.”
We don’t. We move together like a tide, like gravity, like something ancient and inevitable. The bond between us hums steady—no spikes, no searing flames. Just warmth. Just safety. Just love, spoken with every breath and touch and trembling sigh.
When I come, it’s not fireworks. It’s sunrise. It’s breath catching in my throat and tears pricking my eyes and his name slipping from my lips like worship.
He follows, body shuddering beneath mine, hands gripping tight enough to bruise. His release is quiet but deep, a low groan that sounds like surrender and salvation all at once.
We stay like that, wrapped in sweat and skin and the scent of cinnamon and old stone from the walls around us.
Later, when I roll to the side and his arm slides under my head, he says, “So… what now?”
I smile against his chest. “We build.”
And we do.