“You nearly died bringing our son into the world. You needed to heal.”
“I'm healed now.”
I can feel his interest through the bond, the want he's been suppressing for my sake. His hand finds my hip, careful, questioning.
“The physician said eight weeks minimum.”
“The physician doesn't have to live with this need. I say I'm ready.”
He kisses me then, gentle at first, then deeper when I respond eagerly. Our son sleeps on, used to our presence, our sounds. When Khor enters me, slowly, so carefully, I have to bite my lip to keep from crying. Not from pain but from relief. From coming home.
“I missed this,” I whisper. “Missed you.”
“Never again,” he promises, moving gently. “Never that long again.”
When I come, it's quiet but intense, waves of pleasure mixed with something deeper. Love. Safety. The knowledge that we built this together.
THREE MONTHS AFTER BIRTH
The morning tradition has adapted.
Khor-Mara wakes us at dawn with his crying. I feed him while Khor's tail wraps around my waist, patient. When our son is milk-drunk and sleeping again, then it's my turn.
The tongue is gentler now. I'm still sensitive from nursing, from hormones still settling. But I need it just as much. Maybe more, because now it's not just need. It's choosing each other even when exhausted, even when covered in baby spit, even when we haven't slept more than two hours straight in weeks.
“He's going to be walking soon,” Khor says one morning, watching our son pull himself up on furniture. His scales are darkening, becoming more like his father's crimson. But his eyes stay that golden-yellow with human expressiveness.
“God help us when he does.”
“He'll be magnificent. Strong. Fierce.”
“Like his parents.”
Khor-Mara chooses that moment to knock over an entire shelf of supplies, squealing with delight at the crash.
“Exactly like his parents,” I amend.
ONE YEAR AFTER BIRTH
We're at the territorial gathering, an annual meeting where bonded pairs bring their offspring. It's my first time seeing other human women who've been claimed.
“Two years,” one tells me. She has twins clinging to her legs, scales green like their father. “Gets easier.”
“Does the need ever fade?” I ask.
She laughs. “No. Just changes. Becomes less desperate, more comfortable. Like breathing.”
I watch Khor across the gathering, holding our son who's charming everyone with his hybrid features. The sight makes my chest tight with emotion I didn't know I could feel.
“No regrets?” the woman asks.
The question is a ghost from another life. For a heartbeat, the image of my sister, healthy, laughing, the sound so real it physically hurts, cuts through everything. It's a sharp, clean pang of loss, an old wound that will never fully heal. But then I see Khor across the gathering, our son in his arms. He catches my eye, and the steady, unwavering love that flows through our bond is an anchor in a different universe. This is what that pain bought. This life. This family. The sacrifice was real, but what I gained was everything.
I turn back to the woman, a small, sure smile on my face. “Never.”
That night, in borrowed quarters, we fuck quietly while Khor-Mara sleeps. It's not the desperate violence of our early days or the consuming heat of bonding. It's something better. Deep, comfortable, knowing. When he knots me, I cry a little from the perfection of it.
“What's wrong?” he asks, alarmed.
