Page 132 of The Immortal’s Mark

“Then don’t use words.”

I move. Slowly at first. Teaching him the rhythm, letting him find it. His hands grip my thighs, not guiding, just holding on—like I’m the only solid thing in a world that’s tilting sideways.

And then he moves, and—

Oh. Fast learner doesn’t begin to cover it.

“How—” I gasp.

“I am paying attention.” There’s something almost smug in his voice, buried under the breathlessness, and I want to laugh and I want to cry and I want to stay in this moment forever, where the Emperor of the Jade Throne is undone beneath me and I’m the one who did it.

We find each other in the dark. Give and take. Push and pull. It builds slowly. A tide rather than a wave. His breathing ragged, my thighs trembling, both of us climbing toward something that feels too big to survive.

“Lián—” A warning. A question.

“I know. I’m—” I can’t finish. I’m past words. Past thought. There’s only this: his hands on my skin, his eyes on my face, the impossible fact of us.

When it breaks, it breaks us both.

I bury my face in his neck. He holds me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. We shake apart together, and it’s not graceful, it’s not the stuff of epic poems, it’s just two people who found each other against all odds and refused to let go.

After, I collapse against his chest, boneless, breathing hard. His heart pounds beneath my ear. His hand traces idle patterns on my back—shoulder blade, spine, the dip at the base of my ribs, back up again.

Learning me. Still learning me. Like he’ll never stop.

“You’re a fast learner,” I manage.

His laugh is a rumble beneath my cheek. “I had incentive.”

“Flatterer.”

“Truth-teller.” His arm tightens. A pause. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For letting me be new at something.” His voice is quiet now. Serious. “I am never permitted to be new at things. I must always know. Always be certain. Always have considered every possibility.” His hand stills on my back. “You let me not know. You let me learn. That is a gift I do not have words for.”

My throat tightens. This man. This impossible, infuriating, wonderful man.

“Stay,” I say. It comes out rougher than I intend. “That’s how you repay it. Just stay.”

“Always,” he says.

And the terrifying thing is: I believe him.

Dawn comes.

The sky turns gray, then pink, then gold. The fire is ash. The river keeps moving, because rivers don’t care about the small dramas of immortals and emperors and whatever we’ve become.

I wake up tangled in him. His arm heavy across my waist, his breath warm against my shoulder, his heartbeat slow and steady against my back. For a moment I just lie there, memorizing the weight of him. The smell of woodsmoke and something that’s just him. The way his hand curls around my hip like it belongs there.

It does belong there. That’s the terrifying part.

“You’re awake,” he murmurs against my hair. Not a question.

“You’re observant.” I don’t move. Neither does he. “How long have you been watching me sleep?”

“I do not watch you sleep. I simply happen to be awake while you are sleeping. There is a difference.”