Chapter 15
Serna
They threw Cullen into my cell an hour later.
He stumbled through the doorway and nearly collapsed.
I caught him, my arms wrapping around his torso as gently as I could manage, and guided him to the narrow bench that served as our only furniture.
His weight sagged against me, and I felt the echo of his pain—a dull, throbbing ache that radiated through every nerve.
"Easy," I murmured. "I've got you."
The guards had tossed a small medi-kit onto the floor before slamming the door shut. A mercy, though I suspected it was less about compassion and more about keeping us alive long enough for the performance. I retrieved it and knelt beside Cullen, my hands already moving to assess the damage.
His shirt was torn and bloodstained. I peeled it away carefully, revealing the marks the neural stimulator had left—angry red welts across his shoulders and back where the probes made contact.
Bruises bloomed across his ribs in shades of purple and black.
Blood had dried at the corner of his mouth and beneath his nose and his eye was swollen shut.
"Cullen," I whispered, my voice breaking despite my best efforts. "I'm so sorry. I'm so—"
"Don't." His hand found mine, his grip weak but steady. "Don't apologize for what he did."
I opened the medi-kit with trembling fingers. Inside were basic supplies—antiseptic, dermal regenerator, pain suppressors, bandages. Not much, but enough. I activated the dermal regenerator and began running it over the worst of the welts, watching as the angry red marks slowly faded to pink.
He hissed through his teeth at the initial contact, his body tensing.
"I know," I said softly. "I know it hurts. Just breathe."
My fingers were gentle as I cleaned the blood from his face, and applied the regenerator to the split in his lip and eye. I felt his gaze on me the entire time, felt the weight of his attention even as I focused on my task.
"You're good at this," he said quietly.
"I've had practice." I moved to his ribs, running the regenerator over the bruises. "Too much practice."
When I'd done all I could with the regenerator, I gave him a dose of pain suppressors and wrapped his ribs with bandages for support. Then I sat back on my heels and looked at him—really looked at him.
His face was still bruised, still marked by what Riuondo had done. But his eyes were clear. Focused. Alive.
"Thank you," he said.
I shook my head. "I should have—"
"Serna." He reached out and cupped my face, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone. "You did what you had to do. You saved my life."
"By agreeing to give him everything." The words tasted bitter. "By surrendering the Alliance to a monster."
"By choosing me." His voice was firm. "By choosing us."
I closed my eyes, leaning into his touch. Down the bond, I felt his love—steady and unwavering despite everything we'd endured. It anchored me, kept me from spiraling into despair.
"What are we going to do?" I asked. "Riuondo is setting up a call with the Council. Once I abdicate publicly, once the power transfers..." I didn't need to finish the sentence. We both knew what came next.
"We'll figure something out," Cullen said.
I wanted to believe him. Wanted to hold onto that hope. But sitting in this cell, with the weight of what I'd agreed to pressing down on me, it was hard to see a way forward.
For a long moment, we simply sat there together in the dim light of the cell. No words. No plans. Just the two of us, holding each other as if we could keep the universe at bay through sheer force of will.
I pressed my ear against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Strong. Constant. Real. His arms wrapped around me, pulling me closer, and I felt his chin rest on top of my head.
Via our synchronized heartbeat, I felt the physical echo of his body—the rise and fall of his breathing, the pulse of blood through his veins. And our hearts. Beat for beat. Breath for breath.
Cullen's hand moved slowly up and down my back, a gentle, soothing motion. Neither of us spoke. There was nothing left to say that hadn't already been said, no comfort that words could provide that this silence couldn't offer more completely.
I closed my eyes and let myself exist in this moment. Not as the Prime. Not as a prisoner. Just as someone being held by the person she loved, listening to the rhythm that connected them.
"If we survive this," he said slowly, "if by some miracle we escape... what do you want? What do you dream of?"
I laughed—a hollow, broken sound. "I dream of peace.
Of a life where I'm not constantly making impossible choices.
Where I can wake up beside you without worrying about political ramifications or succession crises or enemies plotting in the shadows.
" I opened my eyes and met his gaze. "I dream of being just Serna.
Still the Prime. Just different. A leader with a heart, not one who denies she has one. "
Something shifted in his expression—tenderness mixed with understanding. "That sounds wonderful."
"But it's not realistic, is it?" I pulled back slightly, though his hand remained on my face. "If we survive, I'll have to return to being Prime. It's who I am. What I've been for a century. I can't just walk away from that responsibility. The expectations."
"I know," Cullen said gently. "And I wouldn't want you to."
I stared at him. "You... what?"
"Serna, you're an incredible leader. You've held the Alliance together through crises that would have broken lesser people.
You've sacrificed everything—your happiness, your freedom, your chance at a normal life—for the good of billions.
" He shifted closer, ignoring the pain the movement caused.
"If we get out of this, you'll go back to being Prime because that's who you are.
And I'll be honored to stand beside you. "
"Behind me," I corrected quietly. "As Prime consort, you'd always have to walk a half-step behind."
Cullen smiled—that warm, genuine smile that had first caught my attention all those months ago. "As long as I get to walk with you, the number of steps doesn't matter."
I felt tears welling up, felt my carefully maintained composure cracking once again. "Cullen—"
"I love you," he said simply. "Not because you're the Prime.
Not because of your power or your position.
I love you because of who you are when all of that is stripped away.
The woman who mourns her mate even though he wasn't her true match.
The warrior who fights with a quarterstaff against impossible odds.
The leader who breaks herself to protect the people she cares about.
" He leaned forward, his forehead resting against mine.
"I love you, Serna. And I don't care if I have to walk ten steps behind you for the rest of my life.
As long as I'm walking with you, that's enough. "
I kissed him then—desperately, hungrily, pouring everything I felt into that contact. He responded immediately, his arms wrapping around me despite the pain it must have caused. Our bond flared between us, our synchronized heartbeats thundering in perfect unison.
"I love you too," I whispered against his lips. "More than I thought possible. More than I ever imagined I could love anyone."
"Then show me," he said. "Show me what we're fighting for. What we're surviving for."
I pulled back just enough to look at him. "You're injured. We shouldn't—"
"I need this." His voice was raw with emotion. "I need to feel alive. To feel connected to you. To remember that we're more than what Riuondo tried to reduce us to."
I understood. This wasn't about pleasure or desire—though both were present. This was about reclaiming ourselves. About defying the darkness that threatened to consume us. About affirming that we were still here, still together, still fighting.
I kissed him again, softer this time, and began carefully removing what remained of his torn clothing.
He helped as much as he could, though I could see the effort it cost him.
When he was bare before me, I took a moment to simply look at him—at the marks of torture, yes, but also at the strength that remained. The resilience. The love in his eyes.
"You're beautiful," I said.
He laughed quietly. "I'm a mess."
"You're beautiful," I repeated firmly. "And you're mine."
I stood and removed my own bodysuit, peeling away the black fabric until I stood before him as vulnerable as he was. His gaze traveled over me—not with the clinical assessment of a soldier, but with the reverence of a mate seeing his beloved.
"Come here," he said, reaching for me.
I moved to him carefully, mindful of his injuries. We arranged ourselves on the narrow bench—not ideal, but we'd make it work. I straddled his lap, my knees on either side of his hips, and lowered myself slowly until we were pressed together, skin to skin.
He gasped at the contact, his hands coming up to grip my waist. I felt his desire mixing with mine, felt the way our hearts raced in perfect synchronization.
"Slowly," I murmured. "Let me take care of you."
I kissed him as I began to move—gentle, careful motions that built pleasure without causing pain. His hands roamed my body, tracing the lines of muscle and curve, mapping me with touch. I did the same, my fingers ghosting over his chest, his shoulders, his face.
But as I shifted my hips, positioning myself above him, I felt the hard length of his arousal pressing against my inner thigh.
The sensation sent a jolt of electricity through me.
I was already slick with readiness, my body responding to his presence, to our bond, to the overwhelming need to be close to him.
"Serna," he breathed, his hands tightening on my waist. "Are you sure?"