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  SAPHIRA

  The Lord’s Wing, Firestone

  Nocturne. He’s here. With me.

  As she woke, she felt his arm heavy across her chest, his body warm and solid behind her. She rested back into him without thinking, the weight of him reassuring.

  I’m no longer stopping Firestone from crumbling alone. She shifted further into his embrace. He stands between me and the world. Unmovable. Unshakable.

  For a heartbeat, she closed her eyes and took everything in. Her lips felt raw; her skin scraped by his beard, the tender protest of muscles not used to this yet. But his scent consumed her, his hands tightening instinctively as his breath moved steadily against the back of her neck.

  “Hmmm…” he murmured, lips brushing over her hair, as if to settle her.

  She relaxed again, letting the warmth ease the soreness, letting herself be held in completeness.

  Then something brushed the window—a soft, persistent scratching.

  Saphira stiffened.

  “What’s that?” she whispered, wide awake.

  The scratching came again—then a small, indignant mewl.

  “It’s just Dusty,” Nocturne murmured, thumb stroking her cheek, his voice rough with sleep. “She’s offended I locked the door. But I told you—no hell leopards in our bed.”

  “Well… that ship has long since sailed.” Saphira bit her lip, then looked up at him, eyes wide. “Will you let her be close to me, please?”

  He paused, his umber eyes raking over her face.

  “Seven hells, woman—you can’t look at me like that and ask for things.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

  Dusty rose onto her hind legs and scratched pointedly at the doorknob. With a quiet huff, Nocturne pulled himself away from Saphira and crossed the room to open it.

  Cool spring air spilled inside, and Dusty slipped past him at once.

  “Your spot is by the fireplace, menace,” Nocturne said, tossing a fresh log onto the coals. “Scratch up the couch, and you’ll be made into a rug.”

  “He doesn’t mean it,” Saphira said quietly. “He’s grateful you’re by my side.”

  She felt a flicker of jealousy—whether it came from Nocturne or Dusty, she couldn’t tell. Then, Dusty settled with her chin on her paws, watching Nocturne with open suspicion.

  He returned to the bed and drew the sheet back over them. “My bed smells of violets and lavender.” His arms found her waist, his lips brushing her shoulder. “They smell like you.”

  “If you want me here every night, you’ll have to get used to it.”

  His touch turned idle, tracing small, absent circles over her belly. “A man’s bed ought to smell of his wife.” He paused, his thumb stilling. “Your letter got me through Lux—more than you’ll ever know. I never doubted what I’d left behind.” He inhaled. “But I didn’t imagine this.”

  “Hmm?” Saphira tilted her head, a tease in her tone. “What do you mean?”

  “You. Me—” he leaned closer “—naked, in the hot springs. Should I continue?”

  “Can you handle continuing?” she teased. “You seem… distracted. And we have a keep to clean up.”

  “I recall—” he said, shifting, rolling her beneath him with deliberate care, “—you promised me a whole week in bed. And I’m not inclined to forget.”

  “You’re a cruel jailer,” she said, pouting. “What if I starve to death?”

  “Three meals a day,” he replied. “Sunlight in the afternoons. You’ll survive.”

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  Her fingers slid into his hair, firm and sure. She drew him down without a word, certain of where she wanted him.

  He let out a laugh—half unbelieving, half a groan—and slipped the strap of her dress from her shoulder. His mouth followed, brushing over the scar on her chest, where her father’s dragon’s claw cane had struck her.

  He stilled. His lips hovered over the toughened pink line, not quite touching.

  Her brows drew together. “It… doesn’t feel like me anymore.”

  “It is.” He kissed the scar lightly—and did not look at it again.

  Saphira nodded—but she had already felt the shift. The weighted pause. His mind has gone somewhere else—outside this room, outside this moment.

  Above: Nocturne sees Saphira's scar again.

  “Is everything okay?” She lifted her hands to his face, cradling it between her palms, her touch no longer coaxing but steadying.

  When she met his eyes, she saw it there—anger banked too deep to be fresh, horror sharpened by recognition. Something hard and newly made. Something that hadn’t been there before Lux.

  “Yeah,” he said, burying his face in her neck. “I’m fine.”

  “Nox.” Her thumb brushed his beard. “Stay with me.”

  “Always.”

  The darkness did not lift—but it drew inward. He held himself there for a moment longer, jaw tight, as if testing the strength of his restraint. Then his mouth came down on hers.

  The kiss was hungry—too hungry—but not careless. His hands held her firmly, as if touch were the only thing keeping the world from shattering. The silk of her slip tore softly as he pulled it away, the harsh sound of ripping sharp in the quiet.

  She gasped.

  He did not seem to hear it.

  His mouth found her skin again, seeking warmth, softness—claiming it with an urgency that bordered on desperation. His beard scraped; his hands were rough where they gripped her. But he did not return to the scar.

  Saphira clung to him, riding the surge of him like a tide she trusted to carry her—but the current kept rising, his need pressing harder, faster than she could follow.

  “Slow, Nox,” she breathed, gripping his shoulders. “Stay here. With me.”

  He froze.

  Then his hands softened.

  The change was immediate—so sharp it stole a breath from her. His touch gentled; his movements slowed, deliberate again. She wrapped her legs around him, holding him there as his breath steadied, his heartbeat gradually matching hers.

  She whispered his name—and this time, he stayed, more gentle than he had ever been. But where his touch was warm, his eyes remained cold.

  After, she went limp beneath him, breath shaking as he rolled onto his back. His hand remained locked around her wrist, not tight, but unwilling to let go.

  Her body trembled with the aftershocks—the pleasure, the urgency, the sheer overwhelming sensation of his touch.

  “What… was that?” she asked quietly.

  He stared at the ceiling. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and controlled.

  “There’s something I need to tell you, Saphira.”

  He pulled the sheet over her before she could answer.

  Her pulse quickened. “What happened?” She gathered the fabric instinctively. “You sound like—like someone died.”

  He shut his eyes.

  “That’s closer to the truth than you realise.” He exhaled. “It shouldn’t have come to that.” His thumb brushed a loose strand of her hair from her face. “I shouldn’t have needed you to pull me back.”

  “I’d rather talk first—”

  “Not like this.” His arm tightened at her waist—not harshly, but absolute. “I’m taking care of you.”

  Pulling on his trousers, he scooped her up and carried her outside without comment. Dusty followed at his heels, claws clicking softly against stone. He set Saphira down beside the hot spring, lifted her hands, and pressed a kiss to her knuckles—once, firmly.

  “I’ll get you something to eat,” he said, already turning away.

  Alone, Saphira eased herself into the water, the heat closing around her. One hand remained on Dusty’s fur as the hell leopard settled close, solid and watchful.

  Her thoughts spiralled despite herself.

  Had something happened to Valentino or Lucian—was that why they hadn’t ridden back with him? And Celestine… what if she’d been hurt?

  She sank deeper, letting the water ease the ache left behind by Nocturne’s lovemaking. The contrast made her shiver—the warmth against the memory of that cold, distant look in his eyes.

  Whatever he needs to tell me, it’s been tearing him apart. And my scar was what brought it to the surface.

  She closed her eyes, feeling the morning chill on her cheeks.

  When she opened her eyes, Dusty’s red gaze met hers, steady and intent, a low hum of comfort radiating from her presence.

  This distance he’s made—it’s not for my sake. It’s for him. Saphira exhaled. Let him gather himself.

  Footsteps approached. Nocturne set a tray beside the spring and knelt, close enough that his scent consumed her senses. She leaned forward, resting her chin on her folded arms at the edge of the pool.

  “Eat,” he said, holding out a spoonful of strawberry porridge. “Before it goes cold.”

  Guilt, she thought, opening her mouth to let him feed her. Guilt dressed up as care.

  She swallowed, barely tasting the sweetness. It's not the intimacy that hurts—it's the silence.

  Above: Nocturne feeds Saphira breakfast.

  “Please stop,” she whispered at last. “I’m not fragile. I can survive what you have to say.”

  He froze.

  Slowly, he set the spoon down and pushed the tray to the side. “I know.” His breath left him in a measured exhale. “But I can’t—yet.” He paused. “Did I hurt you?”

  “You scared me.”

  He flinched. Then he reached for her, lifting her from the water and wrapping her in a towel with careful hands. He dried her without haste, pressing a quiet apology into each place he touched. When he had settled her into a silk robe, he guided her to the couch by the fire and sat beside her, his arm firm around her waist.

  She did not press him again.

  She waited.