Diarvet sucked in a sharp breath, his entire body going rigid. Then, slowly—so slowly it felt like watching a flower bloom—he inclined his head until his forehead came to rest against mine. The gesture was achingly intimate. Not saying a word, not needing to, just being completely present with each other.
“Why did some of your scales remain black?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, afraid to shatter the fragile peace between us.
Diarvet was silent for a long moment, his breath soft and warm against my skin, carrying the faint scent of spice and jungle air that I’d come to associate with him. “The black scales,” he said slowly, each word carefully measured, “are a mark of memory. Of the pain I cannot forget. They are the scales the queen repeatedly cut from my flesh.”
A single tear escaped my lashes, trailing hot down my cheek as the horror of what he’d endured crashed over me. Part of me wished desperately for the queen to still live, simply so I could have the satisfaction of making her pay for every moment of agony she’d inflicted on this beautiful soul. Instead, I bent my head, letting my lips press against each black scale in the softest of kisses. A gesture that, while it might not heal him physically, might help heal his heart.
Diarvet went completely still beneath my lips, every muscle in his powerful frame freezing as if time itself had stopped. His breath caught in a sharp, audible intake that seemed to echo in the misty air around us. For a heartbeat, I wondered if I’d overstepped, if the gesture was too intimate, too presumptuous for whatever delicate thing was growing between us. But then I felt it—the tremor that ran through his entire body like an earthquake, starting deep in his core and radiating outward. His scales seemed to warm and shimmer beneath my touch, responding to my acceptance with what felt almost like disbelief.
When I lifted my head, his eyes were wide with something that looked like wonder, as if he’d witnessed a miracle he’d never dared hope for. His hands came up to cup my face with trembling fingers, his thumb brushing over my cheekbone with such reverent care that I felt precious, cherished, .oved.
“Zeihava,” he breathed. There was something broken and beautiful and hopeful in the way he said it. “No one has ever....” He swallowed hard, his throat working visibly as emotions too large for words threatened to overwhelm him.
The black scales I’d kissed seemed different somehow. Not lighter exactly, but less stark against his skin, less like wounds and more like badges of survival. As if my acceptance of them, of him, of all the broken and beautiful parts that made him who he was, had somehow softened the harsh edges and transformed them into something else entirely.
“You are....” he started, then stopped, shaking his head as if words were inadequate to capture what he was feeling. Instead, he pressed his lips to my forehead in a kiss so gentle that it made my chest ache with the sheer intensity of emotion it conveyed.
When he pulled back, his azure eyes shimmered—not with pain this time, but with something else entirely. Hope, maybe. Or healing. Or the first tentative stirrings of a love that might just be strong enough to mend what had been broken, for both of us.
“So, what does this mean?” I ventured, my voice hesitant but hopeful as I searched his gaze.
Diarvet cupped my face between his large, warm palms, his touch infinitely gentle as his thumbs traced the line of my cheekbones. “It means you are mine.”
Chapter 12
Diarvet
“Mine.”
The word echoed through my soul, reverberating in the deepest chambers of my being, the truest thing I’d ever spoken.
Jolie glanced up at me, her honey-colored eyes shimmering with an intensity that stole my breath. Not with regret or anxiety, but with raw, undeniable want. The same kind of want that thrummed through my veins, burning away everything except this moment, this female.
Slowly, deliberately, I lowered my head and captured her lips with mine.
A faint moan broke from deep within her throat, soft and needy, and then Jolie was leaning forward, parting her lips beneath mine. Her breasts pressed against my chest, soft and warm, the sensation sending electricity racing along every nerve ending. It was the most wonderful feeling in the universe—like coming home after centuries of wandering. I deepened the kiss, letting my mouth claim hers with a hunger I could no longer contain. My tongue swept against hers as I tasted her sweetness, memorizing every texture, every flavor. Jolie met me kiss for kiss, giving and taking with equal fervor, her fingers threading through my hair.
“Fuck, zeihava,” I growled when we broke apart for breath, our foreheads pressed together, both of us panting. “You have no idea how much I want you.”
She couldn’t know. I didn’t even realize how much I craved her until this moment—more than the air flowing into my lungs, more than the blood pumping through my heart.
Jolie tilted her head, studying me for a long moment with those luminous eyes, a faint grin playing at her kiss-swollen lips. “What does zeihava mean?”
“It means mate in the Zarpazian language,” I told her, my voice thick and roughened with the weight of raw emotion. Each word scraping past the tightness in my throat as the confession settled between us. “But more than that. It means my mate, my heart, my everything.”
A single tear slipped down her cheek, catching the light as it traced a path along her flushed skin, and then she was in my arms again, pressing against my chest, her hands linked around my neck, fingers tangling in my hair as she kissed me with wild abandon.
“I want you too, Diarvet,” she whispered against my lips. Her breath was warm and sweet as it mingled with mine, each syllable dripping with longing, before she claimed my mouth again with renewed hunger.
Something low in my gut tightened and coiled at the sound of her voice—that breathy, desperate quality that spoke of needs matching my own. Her words hung in the air, charged and electric, and my fingers brushed over her skin, feeling the slight tremor beneath them. Her breath mingled with mine, warm and inviting, as a soft breeze stirred the leaves around us, carrying with it the scent of earth and promise. To hear her say those words, to know she wanted this as much as I did, poured through me like a rush of adrenaline, a current that set my heart racing. It was validation, permission, and a gift all wrapped into one perfect moment.
I felt a little unsteady on my feet as I stood, the world tilting slightly as desire made my head swim. Lifting her in myarms, I cradled her against my chest, feeling the warmth of her body seeping through the fabric between us. I carried her to a nearby patch of earth covered in thick, soft moss, nature’s own bedding. Part of me felt bad that there was no proper bed on which to lay her, no soft sheets or plush mattress worthy of this moment. But another part of me—the primal, desperate part—knew I didn’t have the restraint to wait until we returned to the village.
She kept kissing me as I walked, her lips moving against mine, uttering those breathy little noises that went straight to my cock, making it throb and strain against the confines of my pants.
Lying her down on the soft moss, I watched as the verdant cushion compressed beneath her weight, cradling her body. I settled beside her, my heart hammering in my chest, elated at how she immediately turned to me, pressing her curves against the hard planes of my body. One of her legs wound around my hip, pulling me closer. Her body radiated heat, warming me from the outside in, while desire burned me from the inside out.
“I’ve wanted you for so long,” I growled against her throat, letting my mouth explore the delicate column of her neck, tasting the salt of her skin, feeling her pulse flutter wildly beneath my lips.
