Page 105 of The Immortal’s Mark

Our fingers intertwine.

It is nothing. It is everything. It is the most terrifying thing either of us has ever done.

Tianlong, I think, and I am not certain if it is a warning or a plea.

But for once—for the first time since he chose me, since he burned away the boy I was and made me into something that could carry an empire—the dragon says nothing at all.

We lie in the darkness, her hand in mine, and neither of us speaks. The cat shifts at our feet, makes a small sound of complaint at our stillness, and eventually relocates to Tianlong’s travel pot in the corner.

“Your cat is going to be impossible tonight,” I say.

“He’s not my cat.”

“He sleeps on your face.”

“Near my face.”

“Lián.”

She is quiet. I can feel her pulse against my palm, quick and steady and alive.

“Fine,” she says. “He’s my cat.”

Something loosens in my chest. Something I did not know was holding tight.

She has claimed something. Admitted that she owns it, that it matters, that she is willing to stay for it. A cat is not much. A cat is not a promise. But from a woman who has spent eight centuries learning how to leave, it is a beginning.

Her fingers tighten around mine.

The night deepens. Neither of us sleeps. And for the first time in twenty-two years, I do not want the morning to come.