Chapter 36
Cora POV
I lie sprawled across Garrion’s chest, my body heavy and aching from the intensity of him.
He hadn’t held back, and every part of me feels claimed, undone, yet cherished.
His heartbeat thunders beneath my ear, steady and grounding, while mine still races, trying to catch up with the storm he’s left in me.
His hand strokes lazily along my back, and then his voice breaks the silence, low and certain. “When do you want to have our wedding?”
The question pierces through the haze, startling me. A wedding. A choice. My choice. I want to answer, but my mind is still reeling, still trying to process what he’s done to me.
My eyes drift toward the dressing table, and memory floods back, the way he held me there, making me watch as the mirror reflected him taking me. The intensity of it, the command in his gaze, left me breathless. I want him to do that again, to claim me with that same fire.
The way he looked at me, like I was the only thing that existed, the way his teeth grazed my skin, sending shivers down my spine… those sensations are carved into me. They will be etched in my mind for the rest of my life, a memory I’ll never escape, nor would I ever want to.
“Cora?” Garrion’s voice is gentle but insistent, pulling me back from the haze of my thoughts. I blink, trying to anchor myself in the present, in him.
“How about your birthday?” I suggest, my voice soft, almost tentative. The idea feels simple, yet meaningful, tying our wedding to the day he first came into the world.
His lips curve into a teasing smile, the tension in his eyes easing. “Are you afraid I’ll forget our anniversary?” he jokes, his tone light, but the warmth behind it undeniable.
I shake my head, a laugh slipping past me despite the ache still lingering in my body. “No,” I murmur, “I just want it to be a day you’ll never overlook. A day that’s already yours, but now… ours.”
“I suppose it will give me a reason to celebrate getting older,” Garrion says, his tone half-serious, half-teasing.
I grin, unable to resist. “You’re going to be twenty-seven, not ninety-seven,” I shoot back, my voice light with mischief.
He chuckles, shaking his head. “No, but my body feels like it at the moment,” he admits, the humor in his eyes softening the words.
I arch a brow, feigning innocence. “That has nothing to do with me. Blame the wolves for that,” I retort, my lips curving into a sly smile.
His laughter fills the room, rich and unrestrained, and the sound warms me more than any fire could.
For a moment, the weight of battles, of duty, of everything beyond these walls fades away, leaving only us, our teasing, our laughter, and the quiet joy of knowing we can share even the smallest moments together.
I lift my hand, letting the candlelight catch on the obsidian stone. The silver setting gleams like starlight, and I can’t help but whisper, “It’s truly beautiful.”
Garrion nods, his gaze steady, though there’s a softness in his eyes that makes my chest ache.
“Do you have one for yourself?” I ask, turning the ring slightly, imagining it as part of a pair. “It looks like it should be a set.”
He shakes his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
“No. My great-great-great-grandfather made it for his wife. She was his true north, or so the story goes. He designed the ring to resemble the northern star, with the obsidian at its heart. It became the family heirloom, passed down through generations,
waiting for the one who would carry it forward.”
I stare at the ring, the weight of its history pressing against my skin. It isn’t just a piece of jewelry, it’s a legacy, a promise forged in love centuries ago. To wear it now feels like stepping into that story, becoming part of something larger than myself.
My throat tightens, words failing me. How do you describe something so achingly sweet, so profound? All I can do is look at him, overwhelmed, knowing that this ring is more than a symbol, it’s proof that he has chosen me as his true north.
An idea sparks in my mind as I lie beside him, I could have a ring made for Garrion to match mine. He is my north, my true compass, and it feels wrong that only I wear the symbol of it. I’ll speak to Soma in the morning; she will know how to make it happen.
I glance up at him. Garrion is already asleep, his chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. His body is still healing, though he hides the pain well. In sleep, he looks younger, softer, and I ache with the desire to protect him as fiercely as he protects me.
Morning comes too quickly. I wake at my usual time, though my body protests with every movement. Muscles I didn’t even know existed throb and ache, a reminder of Garrion’s passion and the night we shared. Still, I dress for training with Mika, forcing myself into discipline.
Outside, fresh snow blankets the ground, the world hushed and white. The biting chill settles deep into my bones, and I shiver as I grip my cloak tighter. Surely there must be somewhere warmer to spar?
“Morning, my lady,” Mika calls, his tone teasing, a grin tugging at his lips.
“Not in the mood, Mika,” I snap, shrugging off my cloak and reaching for a sword. The cold steel feels heavy in my hand, but the weight steadies me. My aches, my exhaustion, my lingering thoughts of Garrion, all of it will be burned away in the clash of blades.
I struggle through training today, every muscle screaming in protest. “Is there anywhere else we can practice?” I whine, an admission I’ve never made in my adult life. The cold bites into me, my body begging to shut down.
“The dungeons?” Mika suggests, half-serious.
“Anywhere but here,” I snap, shivering so hard I can feel my lungs freezing with every breath.
He studies me for a moment, then his tone shifts from teasing to commanding. “Go and have a hot bath, Cora.”
He doesn’t have to repeat himself. I practically run back to my chambers, desperate for warmth. Soma is already there, tending to the bath, the scent of soaps filling the air. Relief floods me, and I throw my arms around her. “Thank you for everything, Soma.”
She smiles, her voice soft. “It’s my pleasure.” She scatters herbs and soaps into the steaming water, the fragrance rising like comfort itself.
I glance around, realizing Garrion isn’t here. “Where is Garrion?” I ask.
“He’s sorting out a dispute between two neighboring farms,” she explains.
“Oh, good. So he won’t be back for a while?” My tone carries more meaning than the words, and Soma tilts her head, giving me a look that says she already knows what I’m about to ask.
I take a breath, my resolve firm. “Is there a jeweler in town? I want to make a ring for Garrion that matches mine.”
Her smile widens knowingly. “Yes. After your bath, we’ll go and see Jonah.” With that, she leaves me to the warmth of the water, and I sink into it, already imagining the ring that will bind us both, not by duty, but by choice.
I don’t waste a moment. Pulling on the green wool gown, I feel the comforting weight of the fabric against my skin.
Bira’s handiwork is flawless; she even made me wool stockings to guard against the winter chill.
Truly, she is an angel. I fasten my cloak, tug on my gloves, and decide breakfast can wait.
In the dining hall, Soma is already waiting, a plate of food set before her like a silent command. “Eat,” she orders, her tone leaving no room for argument.
I relent only enough to snatch a slice of bread, tucking it into my hand as I stride toward the door.
“You are just as stubborn as Garrion,” she scolds, her voice chasing after me.
I smile faintly at the comparison, though I don’t slow my pace. Stubbornness, after all, is the only thing that will carry me through today.
We walk through the town, the crunch of snow beneath our boots, until we reach a small workshop tucked between two stone buildings. The scent of metal and smoke lingers in the air. An elderly man looks up from his bench as we enter.
“My lady,” he greets warmly, bowing his head to Soma and me.
“Hello,” I reply, stepping forward. “We are looking for Jonah?”
He straightens, his eyes kind. “That is me, my lady.”
I extend my hand, showing him the obsidian ring gleaming in the candlelight. “I would like to create a ring for Lord Darkmoor to match mine.”
Jonah’s gaze lingers on the piece, reverent. “It would be my honor to do this for you, my lady,” he says, studying the craftsmanship. “Would you grant me a couple of days to think of a design?”
“How long would it take you to make it?” I ask, my voice firm. “I will need it in six weeks.”
He nods with quiet confidence. “I will ensure it is completed, my lady.”
Relief softens my features, and I smile. “Then I will see you in two days.”
As Soma and I leave the workshop and make our way back toward the fortress, she glances at me. “Six weeks… that’s Garrion’s birthday, is it not?”
I nod, my heart tightening. “And our wedding.”
Her gasp is audible, her eyes widening. “Then I had better get to work.”
“No,” I counter quickly, my tone firm. “It will be simple. No extravagance.”
We turn the corner and head to Bira’s shop, where the hours slip away as we sort through fabrics and designs. In the end, I choose what feels truest to me, a gown of cream-colored wool, long sleeves, plain and unadorned. That is all I want. No jewels, no finery.
When we return to the fortress, Soma insists I eat. She sets a bowl of stew before me, and though I oblige, I notice her only picking at a piece of bread.
“Aren’t you hungry?” I ask, concern flickering through me.
“Yes,” she admits softly, “but I don’t think I can stomach it right now.”
My brows knit together. “Why?” I press, genuinely worried for her health.
She hesitates, then lowers her voice. “I think I am with child. I was due for my monthly bleed last week, but it never came.”
My heart leaps, and I reach for her hand. “That’s wonderful news. Mika must be thrilled.”
But she shakes her head quickly. “I haven’t told him yet. I want to give it a few more days, just to be certain. Please… don’t say anything.”
“I won’t,” I promise, squeezing her hand in reassurance.
Yet as I sit there, my thoughts drift back to last night.
Garrion had taken me with such intensity, releasing in me again and again.
A shiver runs through me at the memory, but another thought follows close behind, what if I become pregnant?
Will he see it as a mistake, as something born of losing control, or will he embrace it as fate?
The question lingers, heavy and unspoken, as I finish my stew in silence.