Chapter 27 Tessa
TESSA
It’s the first quiet morning we’ve had in days.
The storm of Roman’s message, the tension in Darius’s voice when he talked about calling the Pact, the scent of strangers on our land.
It’s all still there, lingering in the corners like cobwebs you can’t quite reach, but for now, none of it’s breathing down our necks.
The wards Mary set are holding. The house feels warmer.
And the New Moon has draped itself over the sky like a blanket, cutting out the silver glare that usually pours in through the windows at night.
Darius is in the kitchen.
This would normally be a comforting fact, except I can already smell the faint edge of something… burnt. Not disastrously so, but enough to make me pause halfway down the stairs, hand on the banister, listening to the low rumble of him muttering to himself.
When I step into the kitchen, he’s standing at the stove, broad shoulders tense, holding a wooden spoon like it personally offended him. Whatever’s in the pan is sizzling in a way that sounds a little aggressive for breakfast.
“Should I be worried?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe.
He glances back at me over his shoulder, one dark brow lifting. “No. I’ve got it under control.”
The smell suggests otherwise.
I pad over, peeking into the pan. “What… exactly is that?”
“Omelet,” he says without hesitation.
I tilt my head. “Is it supposed to be that color?”
His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. “Yes.”
“That’s a lie.”
He sighs, turning back to the pan. “I don’t cook much.”
“Clearly.”
There’s no bite in my voice, though, and I know he can hear the amusement threaded through it. I reach around him to nudge the heat down a little, my fingers brushing the back of his hand. He doesn’t pull away—he never does anymore—and instead, he shifts just enough to let me stand beside him.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I say softly.
He shrugs one shoulder. “I wanted to.”
I look at him, really look, at the man who’s spent centuries fighting like the world was out to take everything from him, now standing here trying to make me breakfast even though it’s clearly not his strong suit. The thought warms me more than the fire crackling in the stove corner.
“You’re a grumpy mountain husband,” I murmur, unable to help the smile tugging at my lips.
His head snaps toward me, brow furrowed. “What?”
“You are.” I step back to the counter, grabbing plates. “You live up here like some brooding recluse, chopping wood, glaring at anyone who gets too close, and now—look at you—you’re cooking for me.”
His expression stays stern, but I catch the faintest gleam in his eyes. “If you keep calling me that, I’m not cooking again.”
“That’s probably for the best,” I tease, glancing at the pan.
He exhales, shaking his head, but there’s no heat in it. “Sit down.”
I do, sliding into the chair at the heavy oak table while he plates what I can only loosely call an omelet. The edges are crisp in some places and suspiciously pale in others, but I take the plate without hesitation.
One bite in, and I have to bite back a laugh. “It’s… interesting.”
His gaze narrows. “Interesting good, or interesting ‘please don’t make me eat this again’?”
I chew slowly, then swallow. “Both.”
For a second, I think he’s going to take the plate back, but instead, he picks up his fork and digs in, as if to prove something to himself. “It’s not that bad.”
“It’s edible,” I concede.
“Exactly.”
We eat like that, trading small barbs that don’t quite land as insults, and somewhere between the third and fourth bite, the heaviness that’s been pressing on us eases just enough to let a little light in. It’s not that the danger is gone—it’s that for this moment, it’s not in the room with us.
When we’re done, I start to stand to clear the plates, but he catches my wrist. “Leave it. I’ll clean up.”
“Really?”
He smirks faintly. “You don’t trust me to do dishes?”
“I trust you to do them. I don’t trust you not to break a plate in the process.”
He releases my wrist but doesn’t move away, just watches me for a long moment like he’s trying to memorize something. “You’re different today,” he says finally.
“How so?”
“Lighter. Even with everything going on.”
I shrug, though it’s not dismissive. “Maybe I’m just trying to hold onto the good parts while we have them.”
He nods slowly, like he understands that more than he can put into words.
And that’s when it happens. When the words that have been resting in the back of my throat for weeks finally slip free, quiet but certain.
“I love you.”
The air between us stills. His eyes lock on mine, the gold in them flaring just enough to catch the light.
“You’re sure about that?” he asks, his voice low, like he’s giving me a chance to take it back.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” I say, and it’s the truth. Every choice, every step that’s led me here, every moment we’ve fought and bled and almost broken, all of it’s brought me to this, and I wouldn’t undo any of it if it meant losing him.
Something in his expression shifts then, the kind of change that’s small enough to miss if you weren’t looking for it but big enough that I feel it, like the air in the room just got warmer. He steps closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him, and says, “I love you too, Tessa.”
It’s not rushed, not thrown out like a shield or a weapon. It’s steady, solid, the kind of thing you can build something on.
When he kisses me, it’s slow at first, but there’s nothing tentative about it.
His hand cups the side of my neck, his thumb brushing against my jaw, and I sink into him like I’ve been doing it my whole life.
The world outside the kitchen might still be waiting to take its shot at us, but right now, in this moment, it’s just us.
And I know, without a doubt, that no matter what’s coming, this—him, us, here—is worth everything.