The garden remained eerily quiet after Isshyr vanished into the mist, as if the entire world were waiting to see what Kyrax would do next. Blue blood gleamed on the stones like spilled starlight. The faint metallic scent of it drifted upward, mingling with the fragrance of the blossoms and the mineral tang of the waterfall.
Morgan’s breath trembled.
She still felt the imprint of Isshyr’s grip on her throat. Her skin burned where he had touched her. The adrenaline beating through her veins had nowhere to go now. Her knees loosened, threatening to give way.
Kyrax turned toward her.
His mask was splattered with blood, faint streaks darkening the carved metal. His armor was cracked in places, dented from the fight, still humming with the discharge of power. He looked like a creature forged for war—brutal, unstoppable, terrifying.
And yet the violence around him softened when his gaze found her.
“Morgan,” he murmured, voice lower than before, taut with something she didn’t understand. Not anger. Not even relief.
Something closer to… concern.
She swayed. The ground tilted.
Before she could even gasp, he was there—closing the distance, catching her around the waist. His hands were bare now, the gauntlets removed after the fight. His palms slid over her back and sides, searching for injuries with a gentleness that contradicted everything she had just seen.
He touched her the way she had always wanted—firm, sure, reverent—but there was a barrier still, something he held back, some careful restraint even while he held her so close.
Her body reacted instantly.
Heat blossomed under her skin, rushing down her arms, her stomach, pooling low in her abdomen. She hated that she couldn’t control it. Hated how deeply he affected her. And yet, when his hands moved—large, rough, warm—she leaned into him on instinct.
How dare he do this to me. How dare he steal me away, fight for me, kill for me, and then touch me like he cares.
She could feel the echo of his anger still radiating off him, but now it felt like a shield, not a threat. The violence she had witnessed—his blade through armor, the severed hand, the blood—thrummed inside her, resonating with something dark and fierce she didn’t know she possessed.
It was justified.
Isshyr had meant to take her. Maybe harm her. Maybe worse.
Kyrax had stopped him without hesitation.
And now… this.
He swept one hand up her spine, the other cupping the back of her head, tilting her face against his chestplate. The armor was hard and cold, but beneath it she could feel the warmth of him, a living furnace of controlled power.
Her breath stuttered at the scent rising from him—metal, ozone, the faint sweetness of Saelori blood. It reminded her of copper, but softer, almost floral.
The nausea hit without warning.
She pressed a hand to her stomach, fighting the sudden wave. Her knees buckled.
Kyrax caught her fully this time, one arm under her legs, the other securing her back. He lifted her as if she weighed nothing at all, cradling her against him with a steadiness that stole her words.
“You are distressed,” he said quietly. “Your chemistry is reacting to the threat. It will pass.”
“I’m not distressed,” she lied through clenched teeth, trying to hold onto the last shards of her dignity.
“You are trembling.”
She was, and she hated that he noticed.
He began walking, carrying her away from the blood-stained stones, through the archway into the interior hall. The shadows parted for him, the walls glowing faintly with violet light. His steps were silent, but she could feel them through his chest: deep, rhythmic pulses like the heartbeat of some colossal beast.
“I will have the garden sanitized,” he said, voice deepening. “If the incident distresses you, your chambers can be relocated elsewhere.”
