30. Valefar
Valefar
Vesper leads me to her special place: a small, hidden spring, fed by a babbling creek that runs cold through the granite rocks.
She introduces me to the art of “skinny dipping” in the cool, clear water.
And I find it quite agreeable. The chill of the stream is a sharp, immediate shock against my newly acquired mortal crust, but I pull Vesper against my chest, her body heat radiating like a solar flare against me.
Under the pale moon, we couple in the water.
We don’t fuck. This time, we make love. Slowly.
Deeply. Intimately. Her skin gleams like starlight beneath the current, and I tell her she reminds me of a silver siren.
Because we now possess mortal vessels, we require physical nourishment. I had anticipated this requirement. We slip into the kitchen to retrieve my saccharine surprise for our own private Halloween treat: warm chocolate fondue with fresh berries, pound cake, and marshmallows.
We return outside.
But after a few bites, I do not consume it traditionally.
I secure her wrists to the smooth bark of a pine tree, coating her breasts and her pussy with the decadent, warm chocolate.
I systematically lick every drop of the treat from her skin, my tongue moving with a maddening, agonizing precision.
Through our shared soul, her rising pleasure echoes in my own chest, delivering four distinct, trembling orgasms before I cut her loose and she practically falls right onto my dick.
As she curses me for the high, claiming how I’m beating her pussy to hell, I laugh and fuck her through two more climaxes.
I must throw her over my shoulder, commending myself for her inability to stand.
We shower, but the hot spray only reignites the heat.
I take her against the tiled wall. Then on every surface imaginable in our house.
Our home. I find my mortal stamina to be remarkably resilient.
I fuck her all through the night, our heartbeats synchronized through the half-soul.
We finally cease our efforts just before dawn. Her pussy is burning red, highly sensitive and thoroughly claimed.
Even though she is close to passing out from sheer exhaustion, I assume the duty of her care.
I massage soothing oils into her skin: fragrant lavender for her outer thighs, ass, and breasts, and cool, pure coconut oil for her intimate parts.
I continue to stroke her until her breathing settles, and she falls asleep under my touch.
* * *
CHRISTMASTIME
The transition to mortality is marked by a series of highly fascinating, highly inconvenient discoveries.
For example, the sudden compressed freezing water directly to the sensitive back of my mortal neck produces an extraordinary sensory shock.
I whirl around, my shoulders tensing in my now sodden coat as the icy slush melts down my back. Across the snowy lawn, Vesper is practically doubled over, hiding her face in her woolen mittens to muffle her highly disrespectful laughter.
I cross toward her, but any irksome irritation vanishes beneath the adorable state of her snorting giggles. “It is a sensory masterpiece,” I inform her, dusting the freezing remnants of the snowball from my collar. “The cold is so sharp, so immediate. It is entirely brilliant.”
“You’re an idiot,” she smiles, her voice warm in the winter air, following with, “I love you.”
“That goes without saying.”
“Say it anyway,” she urges.
“I love you to the Evening Star and back.”
“Smooth, Big Guy.”
Nearly two months have passed since the night the veil thinned.
The backyard is blanketed in a pristine layer of fresh December snow. I wear a soft, highly comfortable cashmere sweater Manny personally selected for me during our last excursion to the city.
Near the porch, Bethie is diligently patting a heap of snow, attempting to construct what she defines as a snowman.
After kissing my beautiful mate, I approach Bethie and crouch beside her in the drifts, using my gloved hands to help her roll the base into a stable sphere, while my bright Vesper stands near, capturing the moment with her phone camera.
It has been a season of quiet reconciliations.
Vesper’s mother finally made peace with us, offering a tearful, long-overdue apology, given my new state of being.
And especially after Rick returned to a destructive cycle of gambling and alcoholism.
The court has completely revoked his visitation privileges, and his deadbeat disappearance is of little concern to Vesper now.
He is merely a ghost of a past she has outgrown.
Vesper’s Vessels is also thriving during this holiday season, and I have assumed the role of managing the inventory and shipping logistics, a task I find highly satisfying.
My physical height of six feet and five inches is still a source of mild consternation for local doorways, but the mortal community of St. Johns has acclimated to my presence with surprising ease.
Vesper still wrinkles her nose whenever customers flirt with me. And I hope her possessive instinct to rush in, claim my hand, and drag me away will never fade.
After building a snow friend with Bethie and engaging in a snowball battle, we return to the warm house and change our clothes.
Now, I am analyzing the complex, highly strategic art of decorating our first Christmas tree.
The evergreen stands in the corner of our living room, draped in glowing warm twinkle lights and handmade ornaments.
The scent of pine and cinnamon fills the air.
The absolute thrill of belonging here—in this kitchen, in this life—settles deep in my marrow as I scoop Bethie up and lift her onto my shoulders.
She stretches her small arms upward, carefully placing a glittering silver star onto the very top branch.
I find the star to be very agreeable indeed. A perfect symbol for our new life.
Vesper then announces she and Bethie must depart to execute some last-minute holiday shopping, leaving me behind in the sanctuary of the house to finish the supper I planned earlier.
An hour later, I stand at the stove, carefully monitoring a steaming pot of holiday beef stew. The rich, savory scent of root vegetables and rosemary fills the kitchen, bringing a great comfort to my chest.
A second later, the front door flies open as they stamp the snow off their boots, and Bethie hurtles into the kitchen.
She is carrying a half-eaten sugar cookie, her blonde curls bouncing.
I catch her in my arms and lift her effortlessly.
She giggles, pressing her sticky, cookie-covered hands against my cheeks.
“You have acquired a significant amount of frosting,” I inform her.
“Da Da!” She offers me a chunk of the cookie, and I smile and thank her but tell her she is welcome to finish it, which she heartily agrees to.
Vesper walks into the kitchen, carrying a box with an evergreen wreath. A beautiful, brilliant smile lights up her face. The tiny, permanent glint of gold in her eyes catches the holiday lights filtering through the window.
“How’s the stew, Big Guy?” she asks, setting the box on the counter.
“It is reaching optimal temperature,” I tell her.
Instead of returning to her work, she reaches into her coat pocket and presents me with a small, neatly wrapped package. “An early holiday present,” she says.
I carefully unwrap the green tissue paper to find a perfectly insulated green leather sheath, custom-tailored for the arrow-tip of my tail.
I stare at it, deeply touched by her thoughtfulness. “I am ever so grateful, Vesper. But I had believed the tradition of gift-giving does not commence until Christmas.”
She shrugs playfully. “I can’t have your tail catching frostbite through the holiday season, Vale.” She stands on her tiptoes, kissing my cheek.
I slide the sheath over the spade-tip of my tail, the fit incredibly precise. I look down at my mate, then at our daughter, who is watching us.
“May I offer a present then to both of you?” I ask.
Bethie instantly perks up, radiating with pure excitement. “Pwesent, pwesent!”
I smile down at her, raising a single finger to indicate I will return shortly. I step into the study, retrieve two packages I have carefully hidden, and return to the kitchen.
I hand the first to Bethie. She eagerly tears into the pony-covered paper, paper shreds flying across the floor, and immediately jumps up and down.
She clutches a large, incredibly soft green stuffed rabbit tightly to her chest. “Bunny wabbit!” she squeals in triumph.
“Read?” She points to the family room, indicating the Runaway Bunny story.
“After dinner,” I assure her, tousling her curls, my chest swelling with emotion I never knew existed. I then turn to Vesper, offering her the smaller, square package.
She knits her brows in immediate suspicion, though a soft curiosity lights her eyes. “What is this, Vale?”
“Open it,” I instruct gently.
Her fingers move slowly, peeling away the paper to reveal a small, velvet ring box. A soft gasp leaves her mouth. She opens the lid to reveal a beautiful, gold ring in the shape of a star—a stunning emerald nestled at the center, surrounded by tiny, encrusted diamonds.
Now, she learns I have already dropped to one knee on the kitchen floor. I look up at her, having spent many weeks researching the intricate mortal art of the proposal as well as the geometry of the ring. I hope my performance is worthy of her.
“Vesper,” I say, my voice steady and formal, yet carrying the absolute weight of my devotion.
“I wished to mark our new life with a vow of eternal magnitude. For seventeen centuries, I carried only the dark. You gave me the brightest star in the night. If you will have me, I wish to spend the remainder of my mortal days protecting you, loving you, and building our home together. Will you marry me, my Evening Star?”
Vesper parts her lips, tears sparkling on her cheeks. “How did you—how did you get this?”
I grin, reaching up to take her hand. “Well, I did not steal it. Not exactly. But the former Duke of Thieving is not without his resources. Lucifer owed me a minor favor after seventeen centuries of loyal service. He was…surprisingly cooperative when I demanded he forge a gold bar from the deepest vaults of the Pit to fund my request.”
I do not mention to her how the gold bar was generous enough to secure more than just the ring.
I internally reference the documents currently locked in my desk: the mortgage on our house is paid in full, the local property taxes are settled, and Vesper’s outstanding bills are completely cleared.
She and Bethie deserve a life of absolute security.
A life of peace. But she will need to wait until Christmas Day to receive those papers.
“Vesper?” I prompt softly.
She puts the ring on her finger immediately, her hand trembling, and throws her arms around my neck.
I rise, bringing her with me, holding her strong and safe against my chest. Her jubilance fills my senses, and I rest my cheek against her soft curls.
“I trust this is an official gesture of acceptance,” I murmur.
“Yes,” she whispers, her voice thick with tears. “Yes, with all my heart and soul.”
A sudden, vibrant rush of pure, bubbly joy ripples through the shared bond in my marrow. I step closer, my tail—now safe and warm inside its green sheath—looping playfully around her waist to hold her secure. I lower my head, pressing my forehead against hers.
Through our shared soul, her absolute, quiet contentment flows through me. Her love, the gentle rhythm of her breathing, and the deep, unshakable peace of our home.
All my life, I belonged to hell. But now, as I hold my future wife and our daughter in the sitting room, surrounded by twinkle lights and holiday joy, I know the truth.
I have finally found heaven.