“Take more from me, Jaxxy. Keep going,” he says.
And gods, she does.Usually, taking is about control. About staying one step ahead of vulnerability. But here, beneath Ronyn’s hands and mouth and devotion, receiving feels unbearably safe.
One final surge of pleasure sparks through her core, and drags a whimper from her throat.
“That’s it,” he praises, and he pulls her down to his chest.
She pants, chest heaving.
“But you—” she starts.
“Had the privilege of being part of it,” Ronyn cuts her off. “I am not here for my own satisfaction. I told you that.”
His voice is final. Stern.
Shock floods her.
Oh.
“That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he murmurs.
Heat floods her cheeks. Something about his sincerity… his commitment to his word…
She realizes that perhaps anger has been lying to her for a long time.
“Thank you,” she whispers, and she nestles into the crook of his shoulder.
He pulls her in tight, wrapping an arm around her.
“See? I told you I could fuck,” he quips, and flicks the end of her nose.
And despite herself, she laughs.
CHAPTER FIFTY
The cruelest wars are fought within
Where monsters wear familiar skin
Marin leaves Saana behind.
The choice settles into her bones long before the distance does, long before The Perils disappear behind her as Seren’s Gateway of Threads snaps shut, and the world sharpens back into strategy and games and lines drawn in blood. Saana did not argue. Did not beg. She simply looked at Marin like she understood exactly what this war would cost, and what it would take for Marin to see it through.
That look follows her all the way back to Azhareth.
By the time she crosses its gates, it is buried beneath steel and expectation, beneath the rigid posture of a daughter returning to her throne. But it does not disappear.
It waits. And so does the war.
Maireth strides toward her across the courtyard, her face trained into neutrality, but Marin knows her. Sees the way her muscles are tensed and rigid.
She wears fighting leathers, armor of burnished bronze, a curved blade hanging from the belt at her waist. She won’t use it, of course. Shadowweave magic is always her preference—not that she lowers herself to use it save for the spectacle of war. She doesn’t need to—her word is war enough. Her hair is pulled back, taut and slick, pulling at the corners of her eyes.
“Where have you been?” she snaps at Marin, voice tight and restrained.
Marin doesn’t miss a beat.
“Patrolling the Outside, quelling their plans. Word of war has reached them, and you know how the uprisings swell with talk of freedom,” she scoffs, imbuing her words with feigned outrage.
