His expression doesn’t change. “Kept you alive.”
“That’s not—” I stop. Start again, forcing my voice to stay steady. “The poison was killing me. Divine toxin designed for Anchor witches. There’s no cure. No treatment. I would have died in that canyon.”
“Yes.”
“But I didn’t die. I’m—” Another pause as I search for the right words. “I’m better. Stronger than I’ve been in years. My magic isn’t?—”
I reach for the power that has been both a gift and a curse since childhood. The Anchor magic that lets me make death permanent, that lets me pin reality in place with the force of my will.
It responds instantly. Cleanly. No pain. No drain. No sense of my own life force bleeding away with every use.
“What did you do?”
He risesfrom his position against the wall. The movement costs him—I see the way his muscles seize, the careful control required to mask how much his body is fighting each step. He crosses the distance between us with deliberate grace despite the damage.
Stops directly in front of me.
This close, the heat radiating from his skin is overwhelming. Dragon fire barely contained beneath human form, burning so hot, I feel it from three feet away. His scent fills my awareness—smoke and violence and the particular metallic tang of old blood.
“I mated you.”
The words confirm what I already know. The fire running through my blood is the answer. I remember asking for it.
Dragon mating. The thing every witch learns to fear before she learns to walk. The permanent bond that can never be broken, the surrender of autonomy that lasts until death and possibly beyond. The trap that has destroyed more powerful women than me.
“You mated me.” I say the words aloud, feeling their weight settle. “I asked you to.”
“Yes.”
The permanence settles over me. Not with dread—with the particular weight of an irrevocable choice made clearly, at the edge of oblivion, and kept.
“Why?”
The question emerges quieter than I intended. Not accusation—genuine curiosity. He’s spent weeks fighting this, denying every protective instinct, rationalizing proximity as tactical necessity. What changed?
His eyes meet mine. In the orange glow of the cave, they burn with an intensity that has nothing to do with the flames heating the stone.
“I couldn’t let you die.”
Such a simple answer. Such a massive admission from a creature who has built his entire existence around emotional isolation.
I study his face. The hard lines, the unyielding set of his jaw, the refusal to look away or soften or pretend that what he did was anything other than exactly what it was. A decision made in desperation, because he couldn’t accept a world where I didn’t exist.
“I should hate you for this.”
“Probably.” He doesn’t flinch. “Are you?”
I consider the question seriously. Search inside myself for the resentment that should be there.
“No.”
His pupils dilate. Fractionally, barely visible—but I’ve been watching him long enough to recognize the tells he thinks he’s hiding.
“Why not?”
“Because I’m alive.” The words come easier, gaining momentum. “Because for the first time since my power manifested, breathing doesn’t hurt. Because the magic that’s been killing me for fifteen years is finally, finally not.”
I lift my hand. Call a thread of Anchor power and let it flow across my palm. No pain. No drain. No nosebleed, no trembling, no sense of my remaining days ticking away.
