“So perfect,” Nero breathed, holding still for Casteel to adjust.
“Move,” Casteel urged softly, weaving his fingers into Nero’s hair. “Need to feel you.” Nero obeyed, drawing back and driving forward in slow, powerful thrusts that became urgent, reckless. The bed groaned beneath them while Casteel’s fingers carved crescents into Nero’s skin.
“I love you,” Casteel cried out as Nero struck that perfect spot inside him. His voice trembled with need.
Nero captured his mouth in a fierce kiss, one hand slipping between them to stroke Casteel’s length in time with his thrusts. “Mine,” he growled. “Always mine.”
The dual pressure—Nero within him and Nero’s hand around him—sent Casteel spiraling. It had been too long, way too long. Silver light pulsed beneath his skin as he tumbled over the edge, a strangled cry splitting his lips. Nero followed seconds later, shuddering through his release and collapsing atop Casteel. Their sweat-slick bodies clung together as they fought for breath.
By the time their heartbeats slowed, Nero had rolled to his side, one arm draped possessively across Casteel’s chest. Casteel traced Nero’s jaw with a gentle finger and let out a soft laugh. “I missed that. Hard to find privacy in an army camp.”
“We’ll have plenty once we build our home,” Nero murmured against his shoulder. “Far from palaces and politics.”
Casteel turned his head to kiss Nero’s temple. “A family,” he whispered. “After everything, we get a family.”
Nero briefly cleaned them both then got back into bed, drawing Casteel against his chest. "Sleep. The kingdom will still need rebuilding tomorrow."
But sleep eluded Casteel, even as Nero's breathing deepened beside him. The wolf-soul paced restlessly beneath his skin, responding to something he couldn't name. After a bell of staring at the ceiling, he slipped from beneath Nero's arm and padded silently to the window.
The palace grounds stretched below, lit by moonlight. Beyond the formal gardens lay the royal stables. Something pulled him toward them, an instinct as inexplicable as it was insistent.
He dressed quickly and made his way through the silent corridors, nodding to the guards who recognized him instantly. The night air carried the first hint of autumn as he crossed the gardens, dew dampening the hem of his leg wraps.
The stable lanterns burned low, most of the grooms asleep except for a single night watchman, who came around the corner clearly doing his rounds.
"My lord," the man said, touching his forehead respectfully. "Is something amiss?"
"No," Casteel replied, though he couldn't explain the restlessness that had driven him from his bed. "I just... felt like checking on the horses."
The watchman nodded as if this were perfectly reasonable behavior for the kingdom's prophesied savior in the middle of the night. "I was just going in there. They've settled well, my lord. Even the war-mounts returned today."
Casteel told him to go get himself a hot drink from the kitchen and entered the stables, breathing in the familiar scents that hadonce been his entire world—sweet hay, leather, horse sweat, and the earthy musk of bedding. Each stall held a different memory: here he'd hidden from the master groom's temper, there he'd nursed a colicky foal through a long night. It warmed his heart to know each stall would be full, eventually.
He paused at a stall near the end, drawn by a soft nickering that raised gooseflesh along his arms. The door stood partially open, unusual this late. Casteel pushed it wider, lantern raised.
His breath caught.
The Skellarae mare, Miralisse, stood before him, her black coat gleaming like polished metal in the lantern light. The same mare that had saved his life. Taken the arrow meant for him and then led them to safety.
"Impossible," he whispered, hanging the lantern, and reaching out a trembling hand.
Her ears flicked forward in recognition. She stepped toward him, her muzzle soft against his palm. Warm flesh and the gentle puff of breath against his skin.
"How did you—"
Movement in the shadows caught his attention. A second horse stood in the spacious stall—a bay mare with kind eyes and a white star on her forehead. Her sides were swollen with obvious pregnancy, her belly a rounded drum in the final stages of foaling.
The bay nickered softly, stretching her neck toward Casteel with none of the wariness he would expect from an unfamiliar horse. When he cautiously extended his hand, she nuzzled it as if they were old friends.
“Where did you come from?” he whispered.
The bay mare pressed closer to Casteel, her pregnant belly brushing against the stall door. The Skellarae stood protectively beside her, tail swishing gently.
Casteel's hand moved to the bay's swollen flank, feeling the movement of the foal within. The kick was strong, vital, and something in that life stirring beneath his palm made tears prick his eyes. After so much death and destruction, this simple miracle of life felt like a new start.
Casteel's throat tightened. The Skellarae had somehow brought this pregnant mare to him. as if she understood what he needed.
"You’re close to foaling," Casteel observed. "Only days. Feeling restless, my beautiful girl?"
