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How could I not love him? Not Tristan, but Heartbreak itself—the wounded, ancient force that had spent seventeen hundred years believing his only purpose was to hurt. I loved the part of him that had refused to take me in Fabian's laboratory, choosing hope instead. I loved the part of him that had pulsed with joy when I'd absorbed his pain and given him tenderness in return. I loved the entity who had never been loved—not because he could not be loved, but because he had believed he could not be loved.

The pain shifted.

It didn't vanish. It settled like silt drifting to the bottom of a river. The devastation became an ache, the kind you felt when you remembered a love you'd lost years ago, bittersweet and bearable. It became what heartbreak morphs into when accepted—a worthwhile pain that teaches you how to love better. A ache that makes you smile, knowing what you went through to feel it.

And with my acceptance, Heartbreak found balance. And once balanced, he separated painlessly. No tearing sensation or pain. Heartbreak tensed inside me, and the tension increased until it snapped. The two halves moved like water away from each other, flowing into us. Half of Heartbreak settled in me, but I could feel the other half inside Tristan—severed, but not completely separate.

A name bloomed in my mind: Agrianimae. I didn't speak it, just held it in my heart, honored to have received it.

Tristan exhaled, a long, shuddering breath. When I opened my eyes, I found him staring at me, his face wet with tears.

“He's happy,” he whispered.

“I feel it too. He's at peace. Balanced.”

“Look.” Tristan's voice broke.

I followed his gaze to my chest. His hand was still pressed against me, and beneath it, something glowed. He lifted his palm slowly, and I saw the mark—a sigil.

It started at my upper chest, just below my collarbone, and swept down over my breast in a pattern of interlocking lines. The design continued across my ribs, curving with the shape of my body. It was gold, like Tristan's, but the pattern was different. I looked at his chest. His sigil was still there, still a complete design, but it was different. Pieces had been removed.

Looking back and forth, I realized my sigil had those pieces. “If we laid them over each other, they'd form the old one.”

“Yes.” Tristan reached out, his hand hovering over the mark on my chest. “May I?”

I nodded.

His fingers traced the lines of my sigil, following its path down and over my breast. His touch was reverent, gentle, and when he reached the curve of my ribs, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to my breast, kissing the mark. I felt the echo of Heartbreak hum beneath my skin. A reminder that I carried him now. We both did.

“You're beautiful,” Tristan whispered against my skin.

I cupped his face in my hands, lifted it, and kissed him. His mouth opened beneath mine, and the kiss deepened, turning hungry. I felt the relief in it, the joy, and the shock of how good it felt to be connected like this.

When we broke apart, I was breathless. “I told you so.”

“You did.” He smiled, and it was the most unguarded expression I'd ever seen on his face. “You know what this means? You're mine. Forever.”

“And you're mine. Ours.” I pushed him backward onto the bed, and he went willingly, his hands sliding up my thighs as I straddled him. “Forever.”

His shaft was hardening, pressing against my thigh. I reached down and wrapped my hand around him, stroking slowly. Groaning, he lifted his hips and pushed into my touch.

“Destiny.”

“Shh.” I positioned myself over him, guiding him to my entrance. “Let me.”

I sank onto him in one slow movement, ready and aching. When I pressed down on him, grinding him deep, we both gasped. The angle was perfect, the stretch and fullness making my toes curl. I braced my hands on his chest, one palm over his sigil, and it felt as if this were an integral part of the ritual. I was taking both of them into me.

“God,” Tristan breathed, his hands gripping my hips. “You feel—” He groaned.

I started to move, rolling my hips in a slow rhythm. The friction was exquisite, each stroke sending sparks of pleasure through me. I watched his face as I rode him, watched the way his eyes darkened, the way his lips parted, the way his control began to slip.

“Faster.” His voice came out rough, and he lifted his hips to meet my strokes.

I obeyed, picking up the pace. The bed creaked beneath us, and sunlight spilled across our bodies, illuminating every movement, growing brighter as if in response to our passion. I felt powerful like this, in control, and I loved the way he looked at me, as if I were the only thing in the world.

Tristan's hands slid up from my hips to cup my breasts, his thumbs brushing over my nipples. I moaned, arching into his touch, and the movement changed the angle, driving him deeper. Inside me, Heartbreak swirled, magnifying pleasure instead of pain for once. The pleasure built, coiling tight in my belly.

“Touch yourself.” Tristan lowered his gaze to my sex.