My wrathborn mate. You are now mine in all the ways God divined. My life is yours.
I kiss her to seal that vow.
Orán
I let them have their moment, but that does not mean I don’t burn to do the same.
Jealousy is not an inherent part of my personality. It never has been. But here it is. It does not roar or bare its teeth. It moves more slowly, heavier—rifling through my thoughts, settling beneath my ribs, pulsing there in a quiet rhythm with each breath I draw.
Still, I’ve had my time with her. And I will again. That certainty steadies me and reminds me to be patient.
Plus, this is as it should be. After all, they aren’t just a bonded pair; the three of us are a union of souls.
Yes, she is Pollock’s mate in the way wolves understand such bonds, and their instincts will demand nothing less than taking what they believe is theirs.
So I allow it.
Because I know it is not the only bond she carries.
The power I gave her was not Dagda’s alone. It was mine as well. My essence moves beneath her skin just as surely as his mark does. She is mine in a way he may not see as equal to his claiming, but it remains true all the same.
And she has already chosen me in quieter ways.
In glances that lingered too long. In questions asked only when the world was silent. In the way her anger softened differently when it turned toward me. She pulled me into her bed, clear of mind and certain of her choice. What we share was shaped in those early days here—before Pollock arrived—when time was slower, and trust was earned breath by breath.
I thank God for that time, because it changed the course of her fury when she woke. It kept me from standing fully in the crosshairs of her wrath.
Now, as she calms in Pollock’s arms, I see the shift happen. Her body relaxes. Her breathing evens. And then she turns—seeking.
Me.
When she reaches for me, I close the distance and palm her face, my thumb brushing along her cheek. I take my time with the kiss I press to her lips. It is not devouring. Not urgent. It is tender, loving.
Pollock draws out her fire and passion. I intend to give her something else.
To make her feel what I feel—that this is more than bodies colliding in a moment of heat. That my heart has already made space for her. That she lives in my thoughts, in dreams and waking alike. That I desire not only her body, but the years ahead—the unfolding of who she was, is now, and will be in the years to come.
“Give her to me,” I say to Pollock.
It is phrased as a request, but the weight in my tone leaves little room for refusal.
He hesitates. I see it in the tightening of his jaw, the way his hand lingers at her waist before he releases her. Reluctant—but trusting.
Eridessa unfolds from him and turns, pressing herself into me. She buries her face in my neck, and I gather her close, adjusting our bodies until we are stretched lengthwise along the bed. I settle her against my chest while Pollock shifts behind her.
For a moment, there is no rivalry.
Only breath.
Only the steady rhythm of three heartbeats finds a shared cadence in the dim red light.
Pollock runs his knuckles slowly up and down her back, the light touch almost reverent, while I hold her as tightly to my chest as I dare.
She is still trembling from the aftershocks of their joining. Her breathing has calmed, but it remains heavy against my skin, warm and uneven. Each exhale brushes across my collarbone, and I feel the faint tremor that lingers beneath it.
I comb her hair back from her face and tilt her chin upward until her light eyes meet mine.
“Are you all right?”
