20. Torin
TWENTY
TORIN
Iwake to sunlight and warmth and the weight of a woman curled against my chest.
For a moment, I don’t move. Don’t breathe. Just lie there, letting the reality of it sink in—Sakura, in my bed, in my arms, wearing nothing but the claiming mark on her shoulder and a peaceful expression I’ve never seen on her face before.
She snores.
Tiny, delicate sounds that she would deny making if I mentioned them. Her hair is tangled across my pillow, black silk with that distinctive silver streak catching the morning light. One of her hands rests over my heart, possessive even in sleep.
Mine.
The thought rises with quiet certainty. No longer a desperate hope or a patient waiting. Just fact. She is mine. I am hers. The claiming marks on our shoulders prove it—hers like storm clouds, mine like bear tracks, both still healing into permanent scars.
I reach for my journal.
The movement is careful, slow, designed not to wake her. The notebook lives on my nightstand now—always within reach, because the poetry never stops even when I’m sleeping. Especially when I’m sleeping. Dreams give me the best material.
Sakura stirs against me, making a small sound of protest at the movement. Her hand tightens on my chest, nails scraping lightly over skin.
“Too early.” Her voice is sleep-rough and adorable. “No writing. More sleeping.”
“It’s almost noon.”
“Still early.” She burrows closer, pressing her face into my neck. “You kept me up late.”
“You kept me up late. I was prepared to sleep after the third time.”
“Third time was your idea.”
“Third time was your suggestion. There’s a difference.”
She laughs against my throat—warm breath, soft lips, the vibration traveling through me in ways that make my bear rumble with satisfaction. My arm tightens around her, pulling her closer because I can. Because she’s mine and I’m allowed to hold her now, openly, without restraint.
“I love you.” The words slip out easy now. Natural. Like I’ve been saying them for years instead of hours.
“I love you too.” She tips her head back to look at me, those bright dark eyes soft with emotion. “Even though you write poetry about my snoring.”
“How do you know I wrote about your snoring?”
“Your pencil makes a specific scratching sound when you’re being romantic.” She pokes my chest. “And you were definitely being romantic. You had the face.”
“What face?”
“The soft, tender, ‘I’m writing about my mate’ face.” She mimics an expression of exaggerated devotion. “Very obvious. Very adorable. Completely ruins your stoic reputation.”
“I don’t have a stoic reputation.”
“You absolutely have a stoic reputation. The entire town thinks you’re this strong, silent, emotionless protector type.” She grins. “If they could see you now, writing poetry before noon—”
I shut her up with a kiss.
It’s meant to be brief—a punctuation mark, an affectionate end to the teasing. But her mouth opens under mine, and her hands slide up my chest, and suddenly we’re tangled in the sheets again, morning light spilling over us as—
A knock at the door.
Sakura freezes. “Who—”
“Peach cobbler, dears.” Grandmother Peach’s voice drifts through the wood, cheerful and completely unrepentant. “I know you’re awake. The mist told me. Very specific about timing.”
“The mist needs to mind its own damn business,” Sakura mutters, but she’s already pulling back, reaching for my discarded shirt.
I’m less graceful about it—hauling on pants while trying not to trip over the bed frame, aware that keeping Grandmother Peach waiting is both futile and unwise. She’ll just appear inside if we take too long. I’m not entirely convinced doors actually stop her.
When I open the door, she’s standing on my porch with a covered dish in her hands and a smile that manages to be both warm and knowing.
“Good morning.” Her eyes sweep over us—Sakura in my shirt, me shirtless and rumpled, both of us wearing matching claiming marks. “I see the magic sorted itself out. Took longer than expected. Very stubborn, both of you.”
“Did you know?” Sakura comes up beside me, her hand finding my arm in a casual touch that sends warmth through my chest. “About the mate potential? About what would happen?”
“Knew? Perhaps.” Grandmother Peach sweeps past us into the cabin, depositing her cobbler on the kitchen counter.
She reaches into the folds of her shawl and sets a bundle of yellowed papers on my table—old parchment, faded ink, some of it in languages I don’t recognize.
“These are from Valesh’s personal collection.
” Her hand rests briefly on the stack. “Hidden in a compartment behind a compartment. Very paranoid woman. Very thorough about documenting the things she was trying to hide.” She steps back.
“Don’t ask how I came by them, dear. Some questions are less interesting than their answers.
They’ll keep until you’ve had time to celebrate.
The world’s problems can wait a few more hours. ”
She moves toward the door. Then she pauses, turning back, and fixes Sakura with the particular attention she’s reserved for her since the beginning.
“One more thing.” Her voice is quieter, something deliberate in it. “You don’t have a familiar yet. I know you’ve noticed.” A small, certain smile. “Your familiar will find you now that you’ve settled. These things take time.”
Sakura blinks. “How do you—”
“How do you always know things?” I ask. “The timing, the information, the way you appear exactly when you’re needed—”
“I’m old, dear.” Her smile is enigmatic. “Old people know things.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.” She pats my hand with surprising gentleness. “Have some cobbler. It’s my best batch yet. Celebratory peaches, picked at the perfect moment of ripeness.”
We eat cobbler for breakfast.
It’s not the most balanced meal—peaches and cream and flaky crust, consumed standing at my counter because sitting at the table feels too formal and we can’t seem to stop touching each other.
Every few bites, one of us reaches for the other.
A hand on a hip. Fingers brushing hair back.
Soft kisses that taste like sugar and contentment.
“This is ridiculous.” Sakura licks cream off her thumb in a way that’s probably not intentionally provocative but is doing things to me all the same. “We’re acting like teenagers.”
“You’re complaining?”
“Absolutely not.” She grins. “Just observing.”
“The cobbler is excellent.”
“The cobbler is magical. Literally. I can feel the enchantment.” She takes another bite. “Comfort. Warmth. The certainty that everything is going to be okay.”
“Maybe that’s not the cobbler.”
Her expression softens. “Maybe not.”
We finish the dish. Wash our plates. Get dressed in actual clothing—a process that takes longer than it should because every button fastened seems to require a kiss, and every kiss seems to require another.
“We should go outside.” Sakura buttons my shirt for me, her fingers lingering on each closure. “The town is probably wondering if we’re alive.”
“The town knows exactly what we’re doing. The weather has been suspiciously perfect since last night.”
“The weather is not a direct indicator of—” She stops. Considers. “Okay, maybe the weather is a little bit of an indicator.”
“The mist turned pink this morning.”
“It did not.”
“Ask anyone.” I kiss her forehead. “They’ll tell you. Pink mist at dawn. Very romantic. Very obvious.”
She groans, pressing her face into my chest. “The entire town knows we had sex.”
“The entire town has been waiting for us to have sex since the week you arrived.” I duck to catch her gaze. “They’re probably throwing a parade.”
“Please tell me you’re joking.”
“Only partially.”
Sakura’s studio has been rebuilt.
I’m not sure when it happened—sometime in the chaos of the past few days, while we were fighting Preservers and claiming each other and generally upending the magical order of things. But here it is: Radiant Aura Studio, looking better than before.
The glass walls gleam. The living vines climb fresh framework. The wind chimes hang silent in the still air—not because they’re broken, but because Sakura’s magic is calm now. Settled. No longer creating phantom breezes and unexpected gusts.
“Who did this?” She stands in the doorway, one hand pressed to her mouth.
“Everyone.” Leire appears from inside, champagne bottle in hand. “Surprise!”
The studio is full of people.
Anouk stands near the salt room, examining new crystals with professional interest. Zeph has commandeered a corner with what appears to be a portable beer station.
Aslan leans against the wall beside Leire, wearing the satisfied grin of someone who called it months ago.
Rhodes is there too, though he seems uncomfortable with the social nature of the gathering.
And on the reception desk, gifts.
“From Sunny.” Leire gestures at an elaborate cake decorated with a bear and storm clouds, tiny lightning bolts made of sugar crackling between the frosting. “She started working on it the moment she heard about the claiming. Apparently she’s been planning the design for weeks.”
“From the vampires.” Anouk produces a card signed with dramatic flourishes and excessive exclamation points. “‘Congratulations on your claiming! We always knew the weather witch would end up with the poetry bear. P.S.—We’re available for wedding consultations. Our experience spans centuries. —M&T’”
“We’re not—” Sakura starts.
“Not yet.” Leire grins. “But Marcus and Thalia play the long game. They’re already planning the reception menu.”
I pull Sakura against me—natural now, automatic, my arm around her waist like it belongs there. She melts into the touch, her hand finding mine.
“Thank you.” Her voice is thick with emotion. “All of you. This is—”
“What families do.” Anouk’s voice is dry, but her expression is warm. “You’re part of Mistvale now. Officially. The claiming just made it permanent.”
“Speaking of permanent.” Zeph approaches with two glasses of glowing amber liquid. “New batch. Special occasion. Side effects are minimal.”
“What kind of side effects?”