37. Aeryn
AERYN
The distance from the command center is intentional, and I don’t stop immediately, letting the space build between us and the encampment until the noise fades and the pressure of too many decisions no longer sits on my shoulders.
The air feels different here, quieter, stripped of urgency, and only when I’m certain no one is close enough to listen do I slow and turn to face him.
Vaedros follows without asking where we’re going.
He stops a few steps away, watching me with that same contained focus, as if he’s already measuring the shape of the conversation before it begins.
No one speaks, and the silence stretches just long enough before I close the distance.
We have postponed so much to talk about…
Now that we are in a room away from everyone and everything I know, it's time.
My hand catches his wrist. The contact is meant to be brief. It isn’t.
The vision hits before I can pull back, sharp and immediate, forcing its way through the moment with no warning.
The world fractures around me, not into fragments of possibility, but into memory that isn’t mine.
A messenger stands in front of him, voice low, precise, delivering terms already decided.
Recover the artifact. Eliminate the seer.
And Vaedros—listening. Considering.
The vision shifts, just enough to show the path that follows, a version where I don’t leave the forest, where the artifact changes hands cleanly, where he walks away with power restored and nothing left behind him that matters. Then it’s gone.
I release him as if the contact burned.
For a second, the present feels unsteady, like it hasn’t fully settled back into place. Then I look at him, and the words come without hesitation.
“You were going to trade me.”
There’s no shock in his expression.
“No,” he says.
I let out a breath, sharper than I intend, my gaze narrowing.
“Then why you didn’t even tell me?”
“You didn’t tell me what the artifact really does.”
That stops me.
“Don’t,” I say, but he doesn’t step back from it.
“No. You won’t make this one-sided.” His voice stays even, but there’s weight behind it now, something that doesn’t leave room for deflection. “That thing you’re trying to stop doesn’t come back through nothing. It needs a way in.”
I already know where he’s going with this.
“It comes through blood,” he continues, holding my gaze. “And mine is exactly what it needs.”
Silence settles between us, heavier now, grounded in something neither of us can ignore.
“That’s why you didn’t tell me,” he says.
“Yes.”
There’s no point pretending otherwise.
“In every version you saw,” he adds, quieter now, “what happens to me?”
“That depends on whether you take it.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
No hesitation. No retreat.
“You don’t survive it, at least your soul don't," I answer.
The truth sits between us, solid and unavoidable. He exhales once, slow, as if that confirms something rather than changing it.
“Then we’re aligned.”
I stare at him. “That’s your answer?”
“You think I didn’t see the same thing from the other side?” His voice lowers, steadier now. “This isn’t strategy.”
“No,” I say. “It isn’t.”
He steps closer.
“And I still chose not to take it.”
“You don’t get to hesitate,” I demand, my voice quieter now but sharper for it. “Not with this. Not with me.”
“I’m not.”
“You won’t decide later that I’m expendable?”
“I already decided you’re not.”
There’s no calculation in it. No angle to read past.
“Then prove it,” I say.
He closes the distance without hesitation.
His hand comes up to my jaw, steady, certain, and when he pulls me into him the kiss isn’t cautious or measured.
It carries everything we didn’t say, everything we did, every line that’s already been crossed.
I meet it without pulling back, pushing into it instead, testing the edge of him the same way he tests everything else.
He doesn’t take more. He answers.
The difference is subtle, but it’s there, and it changes everything.
His hand shifts at my waist, drawing me closer, the tension between us feels like it might fracture again into something sharp and unbalanced, but it doesn’t. It steadies instead, turning into something shared, something chosen on both sides rather than taken.
There’s no space left for hesitation after that.
His mouth opens against mine, his tongue finding mine, and the kiss turns from a statement into something deeper.
Something hungry. I bite his lower lip, pulling it gently, and he growls softly against me, one hand moving to my hair, tugging my head back just enough to expose my throat.
He doesn’t ask permission; he doesn’t need it.
This isn’t about permission anymore. It’s about claim.
“You want proof?” His voice is rough, right against my ear. “Here it is.”
He doesn’t wait for a reply. His hands find the clasps on my leather vest, working them open with quick, efficient movements.
I watch him, my breath already coming faster, and I don’t stop him.
I let him strip me, piece by piece. The vest falls to the ground.
He pulls the linen shirt from my shoulders, leaving my chest bare.
The cool air touches my skin, but his gaze is hotter.
“Every inch of you,” he says, his eyes moving over my breasts, my stomach, “belongs to me now. And every inch of me belongs to you.”
He says it like a vow. Not possessive, but shared.
I reach for him, my fingers finding the buckles on his own armor. I work them open, my movements deliberate, mirroring his. I pull his tunic up and over his shoulders. His chest is bare, scars mapping old battles across his skin. I trace one with my thumb. The one he got in the ruins.
“And what about this one?” I ask, my voice low.
“A reminder,” he says. “That I survive.”
He pulls me against him, skin to skin now, and the heat is immediate.
His chest is solid against mine, my nipples hardening against the rough planes of his muscles.
He dips his head, his mouth finding my breast, and he doesn’t tease.
He takes. His lips close over my nipple, sucking hard, and a sharp, electric pleasure shoots straight down to my core.
I gasp, my hands gripping his hair. “Vaedros?—”
“Say my name again,” he commands, his mouth moving to my other breast, his tongue circling the peak before drawing it deep.
“Vaedros,” I breathe out, and it sounds like surrender. It sounds like victory.
He lifts me, hands under my thighs, and carries me back against the stone wall.
The rough surface scrapes against my back, but he cushions me with his body, pinning me there with his weight.
One hand slides down between us, fingers finding the waist of my pants.
He tears the fastening open, not bothering with care, and pushes the fabric down my legs. It pools at my feet.
I’m naked now, fully exposed to him and the dim light. His gaze on me is a physical touch. “Look at you,” he murmurs, his palm smoothing over my stomach, then lower. “Open for me.”
His fingers find my slit, already wet, already eager for him. He spreads me, his thumb rubbing over my clit in a firm, knowing circle. I arch against the wall, a moan tearing from my throat.
“You’re dripping,” he says, his voice thick with satisfaction. “All this talk, all this tension… and here you are, ready for me to fuck you.”
He pushes two fingers inside me, deep and sudden.
I cry out, my hips bucking against his hand.
He works them in and out, a steady, demanding rhythm, his thumb still pressed against my clit.
The dual sensation is overwhelming, the stretch inside, the sharp pleasure outside.
My vision blurs for a second, not with prophecy, but with pure, physical need.
“Come for me,” he says, his eyes locked on mine. “Let me feel you shake.”
I don’t fight it. The command isn’t a command; it’s an invitation.
I let the pleasure build, let it crest, and when it breaks, my whole body tenses against his hand.
A sharp, gasping release, my inner muscles clamping around his fingers.
He holds them there, letting me ride it out, his expression fierce and pleased.
When I’m spent, panting against the wall, he withdraws his fingers. He brings them to his mouth, licks them clean, my taste on his tongue. “Mine,” he says again.
Then he undoes his own pants, pushing them down enough to free his cock. It’s hard, thick, already flushed with need. He doesn’t guide it to me gently. He grips my hip, angles me, and presses the head against my entrance.
“Take it,” he says.
I do. I push my hips forward, letting him slide inside. The stretch is immediate, profound. He’s big, and I’m still tight from my climax, but the wetness welcomes him. He pushes deeper, a slow, controlled invasion, until he’s fully seated inside me. We both stop, breathing hard, joined.
“Fuck,” he breathes, his forehead dropping against mine. “You feel… perfect.”
He starts to move. Not fast, not frantic.
A deep, grinding rhythm, each thrust pushing him as deep as he can go.
The stone wall scrapes my back, but the pain is a distant thing.
The focus is him, the feel of him filling me, the heat of his skin against mine.
His hands grip my ass, lifting me slightly, changing the angle, and the next thrust hits something deeper, brighter.
“There,” I gasp. “Right there.”
“I know,” he growls, and he does. He finds that spot again, and again, each push sending a shockwave of pleasure through my belly. My nails dig into his shoulders, marking him. He doesn’t mind. He encourages it.
“Mark me,” he says, his thrusts becoming harder, faster. “Let everyone see who I belong to.”
The pace builds. The friction turns fierce, wet, loud. Our skin slaps together, the sound echoing in the small space. His breathing roughens into grunts, each one timed with a deep drive into me. I’m moaning openly now, each sound pulled from me by his movement.
“Come with me,” he demands, his voice breaking. “Now.”
He reaches between us again, his thumb finding my clit, pressing hard. The dual assault, his cock pounding deep, his thumb rubbing sharp, is too much. It’s everything. My climax crashes over me, violent and consuming. I scream, my body locking around him, milking him.
The sensation triggers his own release. He groans, a raw, unfiltered sound, and pushes into me one last, deep time, holding there as he spills inside me. Heat floods my core, his pulse echoing within me. We stay like that, locked together, panting, sweating, claimed.
Slowly, he leans back, his cock still inside me, softening. He looks down at where we’re joined, then up at my face. “Proof enough?” he asks, his voice quieter now, stripped of its earlier edge.
I nod, my throat too tight for words.
He pulls back slowly this time, not far, just enough to look at me, his hand lingering at my waist as if he’s not ready to let the distance settle yet.
When I shift to stand, my balance falters for a second, and he steadies me without thinking, his hands firm at my hips, grounding rather than restraining. My legs are still shaking.
“Easy,” he murmurs, quieter than before.
I let out a breath that almost turns into a laugh, though it doesn’t quite make it. “I’m fine.”
His thumb brushes lightly against my side, just once, like he’s checking that for himself rather than taking my word for it.
“No more secrets,” he says, but it doesn’t carry the same edge as before. It lands softer, closer. “No more trades.”
I meet his gaze, close enough now that there’s no space left to hide behind anything we haven’t said. “No,” I agree. “Not between us.”
The quiet settles around us, but it doesn’t feel sharp or uncertain. It feels earned. His hand hasn’t left my waist, and I don’t step away from it.
I rest my forehead briefly against his, closing the last inch of distance without thinking. His breath warms my skin, steady now, matching mine.
“You can’t use that as an answer,” I say, softer than I meant to.
He doesn’t pull back. “Use what?”
“This,” I whisper, though I don’t move away from him.
A faint smile touches his mouth, more felt than seen. “I wasn’t aware it needed one.”
“It doesn’t,” I say, lifting my head just enough to meet his eyes again. “It just… doesn’t change anything.”
“It wasn’t meant to.”
There’s no pressure in it. No angle. Just truth, clean and unguarded in a way I’m not used to from him.
“This doesn’t give you leverage,” I add, though my voice has lost its edge. “It doesn’t make me easier to read.”
His hand slides slightly higher along my side, steady, present. “I wouldn’t want it to.”
“Good.”
The word comes out quieter than before, but I don’t take it back.
“You made your choice,” I continue, though now my fingers are caressing him. “You do not get to change it when it becomes inconvenient.”
“I won’t,” he says, and there’s no hesitation in it, no distance, nothing measured or withheld.
“And you don’t decide for me either.”
“I know.”
I don’t move, I am close enough to feel the warmth of him, to let the silence exist without needing to fill it. Then I draw back slightly, not far, just enough to breathe without losing the connection entirely.
“We should go,” I say, though I don’t move immediately.
“Soon,” he agrees, his hand still at my waist.
I smile at that.
When we finally step apart, it isn’t distance that returns between us, just space enough to move. He rises with me, slower because of the injury, and I don’t miss the shift in his balance this time. My hand finds his arm without thinking, steadying him the way he did for me.
He doesn’t comment on it. He just lets me.
When we start back toward the encampment, the question of position never comes up. I don’t move ahead to lead, and he doesn’t fall back to follow. We walk side by side, close enough that our shoulders brush once before we adjust, neither of us bothering to create more space than necessary.
Whatever this is now, it isn’t uncertain. And it isn’t temporary.