When the meal ends, we stand, and Skeela offers a genuine smile when she sees our hands find each other. “Rest well,” she says. “Tomorrow, the road to peace begins.”
We step away from the grandfather flickers of conversation. I slide my arm around his waist. Even renewed, war drips from his chest like dark honey, but here—tonight—we don’t breathe smoke. We breathe each other.
The room fades behind us as we make our way through lantern-lit corridors. Tapestries whisper, guards smirk with relieved exhaustion, shadows clutch corners untouched by fire.
We slip into our quarters—linen-draped pillars and soft candle flame. When the door closes, it is like tide rolling back from war's edge into sanctuary.
Kragna stands across the bed, silhouetted in candle haze, wounded but proud, armor set aside for gentleness.
I climb in and he lets me. Knees bump, bruised hip throbs, but I hardly feel it. I reach for him, tracking the scars scattered across his chest. Each is a story I’ve almost wept to hear.
“You did amazing,” I murmur, palms gliding over bone and muscle still warming.
“Not without you,” he says, voice catching.
The space between us collapses when he climbs in beside me. Feet tangled, breath mingling. His hair tangles with mine, scent of cedar and smoke. We fit. Body to body. Breath to breath.
He cups my face, thumbs resting just beneath my eyes.
There’s no haste tonight, only reverence. Fingers trace the lines of my jaw, spine, ribs still tender. I map every ridge of muscle, every scar he bears.
His gaze drops to my face, unguarded, soft. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he whispers. “That you ... stayed.”
I close my eyes, feeling the tremor in that word—stay. The only answer I can think to give is to let him keep tracing those quiet lines.
I drift down to his shoulders, exploring. His skin is rougher than mine, seasoned by battle, but warm and constant. I brush a fingertip over a raised knot—bone healed under skin—an echo of a wound that nearly ended us.
He breathes, still and hushed. “Don’t go anywhere,” he says in a voice that stills everything.
I touch his chest, feel the ribs beneath thin skin. My palm warms the wound. He winces. I press closer.
“I’m not going,” I vow. “Not ever.”
We move—slow, lantern-bright momentum—because intimacy isn't an escape. It's an armor built of trust.
Fingers lace through broken leather, soft flesh, scars both hidden and proud. We make breathless prayer of lips, slow and worshipful.
His lips find every contour of me—cheek, collarbone, shoulder. There are no words, no fear. Just devotion.
I trace his shoulder muscles, following lines to his neck. My breath puffs in the cold space between us.
“Love you,” I murmur against his chest.
“Good,” he breathes, voice strained by exhaustion and gratitude. “Cause I love the hell out of you.”
I smile into his shirt, soft laughter bridging pain and promise.
We lie together until night flows thin and dawn’s ghost tugs at the curtains. The city is still broken—but here, in bed with the man I love more than war, peace tastes sweet.
We don't sleep.
But we rest.
Because tomorrow is the real test.
22
KRAGNA
