Chapter 45 The Perfect Morning
The Perfect Morning
Iwake to warmth before I open my eyes. It takes me a moment to remember why, and then I see him. Curled at the foot of my bed in siakar form, enormous and silver-gray, one gray eye already open and watching me in that quiet, unnerving way of his that no longer feels threatening, only attentive.
He transforms slowly, fur dissolving into skin, claws retracting, his spine lengthening until he is simply a man again.
A very naked man.
As he rises I feel as though I am looking at him for the first time, his broad chest tapering into a lean waist, the lines of his body drawing my attention lower to what is impossible to ignore in the morning light.
His hair has fallen loose across his forehead, making him look younger than usual, almost unguarded.
My eyes drift lower, catching the deep V of his hips and the quiet promise of something overwhelming.
He climbs onto the bed as though it is the most natural thing in the world and stretches out beside me, close enough that the warmth of him slides along my thigh through the thin cotton of my nightgown.
“You did not wake frightened,” he says softly. “No crying. No fighting shadows.”
I smile into the pillow. “It was either the handsome siakar, or the scandalous kisses, or the wine.”
He huffs something that might be amusement and leans closer. “I will assume it was the siakar.”
“Do not ruin the moment,” I reply, and lean up to kiss him before he can say anything else.
Morning kisses are different, slower. There is no rush in them, no edge of desperation. Only the quiet delight of discovering that the other person is still here. His mouth moves against mine in a way that feels open, as though he is learning me all over again.
His hand slides from my waist to the small of my back, fingers spreading as he draws me closer until there is no air left between us.
I feel the strength of him beneath my palm and the way he deepens the kiss without ever quite taking control of it.
I like that. I like that he could take it and chooses not to.
“I think,” I whisper against his mouth, “that I prefer having you next to me.” The words are simple, but they are not easy for me to say.
He studies me for a long moment before answering. “I like being here.”
I swallow.
“Thank you,” I say quietly, “for defending me to my sister yesterday.”
His mouth firms slightly at the memory. “I will always defend you.”
The certainty in his voice makes my chest ache.
“Will we really go live in the mountains if she is horrible?” I ask.
He brushes his knuckles along my side, unhurried. “Would you really go with me?”
There is no hesitation in me this time. “Yes.”
The word leaves softer than I intend, but truer than anything else I have said this morning.
He kisses me then, slowly at first, as if we have all the time in the world. My hand drifts down his chest before I remember that he is, in fact, completely unclothed.
I glance downward, noting the hardness between his legs.
Heat floods my face.
He notices. “Do not pretend to be modest now,” he murmurs, the corner of his mouth lifting. “You saw it last night.”
“That was after wine,” I protest. “Now somehow you look more handsome when I am sober. Which is unfair.”
“And what wicked conclusions have you drawn from that observation?”
I look at him with exaggerated solemnity. “If this is the sacrifice I must make to provide the realm with an heir, then I suppose I am willing to endure it.”
He laughs, the sound low and real, and something in me swells at having drawn it from him.
“If there were no realm,” he asks more quietly, “would you still want children?”
I think of the little carved bear and wings I made.
“You saw Asha Bear,” I say finally. “And Wings.”
“Why is he not Wing Bear, like the others?”
“I do not know,” I admit, blushing. “I just called him Wings.”
“I am glad I saw them,” he says gently.
I bury my face briefly against his chest. “I cannot believe you saw all of that.”
“My Asha Bear,” he murmurs, and the way he says it makes something inside me soften completely. His hand slides to the strap of my nightgown and eases it down my shoulder. I inhale, softening.
The door swings open.
“Your Highness—”
Maridale steps inside carrying a folded gown, and promptly freezes.
Her eyes widen. I am half sprawled across Colsar’s bare chest. His hand rests possessively at my hip. His hair is unbound, his expression distinctly unrepentant. She turns a shade of red that rivals the palace banners and backs out immediately, shutting the door with reverent haste.
I bury my face in his shoulder.
He sounds far too amused. “Some will be confused how we moved from hatred to love so quickly.”
“Do not use that word.”
“Which one?” he asks innocently.
“You know which one, you menace.”
He smirks. “Why?”
Because it is not a word to be thrown about like a coin in the street. Because it carries weight. Because it changes everything.
“I will be honest,” I say instead, looking down at my hands. “No one has ever said it to me before. Not a parent. Not even as a baby.”
The teasing drains from his expression.
“As you know from your cave stalking,” I add lightly, “my heart is fragile.”
He reaches for my hand and presses it flat against his chest. “Then give it to me,” he says quietly. “So I can make sure it is never broken.”
The earnestness in him undoes me far more than his bare skin ever could.
“Yesterday was the first time anyone has ever celebrated my birthday,” I murmur into his skin. “My first time with a real cake.”
His arm tightens around me. “I know.”
“And now?” I ask softly.
“And now,” he replies without hesitation, “you will have at least ten cakes every year.”
“Ten?”
“At minimum.”
“You are ridiculous.”
“Completely.”
“And if I demand twenty?”
“Then I will order the baker to sleep in the palace.”
I laugh again, and this time it does not feel borrowed or forced.
“You are spoiling me.”
“I am correcting history,” he says simply.
I kiss him again, slower this time, and let myself rest there in the space between his breaths.
Eventually I pull back. “I promised Torsin I would help with the horses this morning.”
He stiffens slightly. “Who is Torsin?”
I blink at him. “You do not remember Torsin?”
His brow furrows.
“He is one of the friends you allowed me to bring from the Baron’s house,” I remind him. “The tall one with the freckles and the loud laugh.”
Understanding dawns slowly.
“And he is your dearest friend?” he asks carefully.
“Yes.”
A low sound escapes him, somewhere between suspicion and contemplation.
I arch a brow. “Does it help that he does not like women?”
He exhales. “Yes. That helps a great deal.”
“Why?”
“Because you are,” he says.
I lean forward and kiss him softly. “I know.”
He brushes his thumb along my cheek. “You are mine.”
I hold his stare this time.
“I know,” I whisper. “I am yours.”
And for once, the words do not feel like a cage.
They feel like a choice.