30. Isolde
ISOLDE
T he galaxy outside the viewport spins in slow, drowsy spirals—like even the stars have finally exhaled.
The cruiser is quiet.
Not the cold silence of fear, or the brittle hush of grief. No. This silence is warm, soft-edged. The kind that wraps around you like a blanket at the end of a long war.
Pyramus is asleep in the next cabin.
I double-check the locks. Triple-check Reflector’s posted outside with all sensors primed. He doesn’t question my overkill. He understands.
I step into the main quarters. Bare feet on cool alloy flooring. The hum of the ship’s systems low and steady beneath my toes, like a heartbeat finally finding rhythm again.
Garokk stands by the window, shirtless, his back to me.
Stars reflect off his scales, casting shimmer across his spine like a second skin.
I cross the room slowly.
No rush. No games.
Just us.
His shoulders tense before I touch him. Just the faintest twitch—like he still doesn’t quite believe I’m real. That this is real.
I press my palms to his back.
He shudders.
“I didn’t think we’d get this far,” he murmurs.
I lean in, lips brushing the ridge where his neck meets shoulder.
“We haven’t gotten anywhere yet,” I say against his skin. “We’re just... here.”
He turns.
His eyes—molten gold, rimmed in midnight—search my face like it’s a map. Like he’s looking for the pieces he lost.
“You sure?” he asks, voice low. Hoarse. Not from lust. From need.
I answer with a kiss.
Not gentle.
Not rushed.
But certain.
His hands come up slow. One to my waist. One to the back of my neck, pulling me in like I’m the answer to every question that’s kept him awake at night.
My fingers find the edge of his jaw, the line of his ribs, the old scar down his side he never talks about. I trace it with my thumb.
He flinches.
I pause.
He covers my hand with his.
“No hiding anymore,” he whispers. “Not from you.”
The bed isn’t far.
But we don’t rush to it.
We drift.
Clothes peel away between kisses. My dress falls like smoke. His hands are reverent—almost too careful.
I stop him.
“Don’t worship me,” I whisper. “Touch me like I’m yours. ”
He growls—quiet and low—and that’s all it takes.
The next few seconds are a blur of limbs and gasped names. He lifts me like I weigh nothing. I feel everything. The weight of him. The heat. The tremble in his hands as he lays me down like I’m both fragile and unbreakable.
And then he’s over me.
Around me.
Inside me.
And everything burns.
But it’s not just hunger. It’s not some fever dream from the past. It’s now. It’s kisses that taste like promises. It’s hands that memorize instead of claim. It’s laughter between gasps, breath caught in my throat, tears I didn’t mean to cry when he whispers, “I never stopped loving you.”
We don’t speak for a long time after.
Words feel small.
Instead, I curl into him, head resting on his chest, his heartbeat like a drum beneath my ear.
Outside, the stars drift.
Inside, we don’t move.
He brushes my hair back.
“I don’t deserve this,” he says softly.
“You didn’t deserve the pain either,” I reply.
His arms tighten.
And then—like it’s the simplest thing in the world—he says, “I want to build something with you. Something that doesn’t burn down.”
I look up at him.
“We already have,” I whisper. “He’s sleeping in the next room.”
And it hits him.
The truth.
The hope.
The terrifying, beautiful possibility of more.
He kisses me again.
Softer this time.
And we fall asleep like that—wrapped in each other, no weapons drawn, no lies left between us.
Just skin and breath.