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“What does that mean?” I asked breathlessly. “Durlan?”

“Beloved,” he murmured roughly, his breath heated against my skin with each kiss. His lips moved lower, down the swell of my chest, as his hands spanned my waist, holding me steady. “My beloved.”

My hands found their way to the hem of his tunic and tugged, desperate to feel his skin beneath my fingertips. He stopped only long enough to pull it over his head, tossing it aside before his strong arms were around me again, pulling me close.

I ran my hands over the broad expanse of his chest, feeling the ridges of scars beneath his skin—each one a story, a battle fought, a reminder of a life before this. He was still for a moment, letting me explore, before a deep rumble started in his chest.

He took my hands in his, kissing my palms before pinning my hands over my head and leaning down to take a pert nipple into his mouth. I gasped as his warm mouth closed around thesensitive peak, his tongue swirling, his tusks carefully grazing the soft flesh of my breast. I arched into him, desperate for more, as he lavished attention on one breast and then the other, his mouth teasing and tasting. My fingers flexed in his grip, wanting to touch him, to pull him closer, but he held me firmly, taking control.

And Seven save me, it was hot—this dominant side of him, the raw power, used to bring me pleasure.

He released my hands, trailing his fingers down my arms, across my collarbone, and down to my breasts, where he replaced his mouth with his hands, rolling and pinching the hardened nipples between his fingers.

I moaned, my head falling back, my eyes fluttering closed.

Vorgath's deep voice rumbled, as if the words had been waiting on his tongue forever. “Your breasts are so perfect.”

I froze for a moment, caught off-guard. Perfect? That couldn’t be right. My breasts were too big, too soft, far from the smooth, perky ones I used to have in my twenties. Years of nursing Elias had left their mark—stretch marks tracing circles around my nipples like little silver rivers, a slight sag that gravity had claimed.

They weren’tperfect. Not by the standards of the world, anyway.

But in Vorgath’s hands—there, in the forge where the light flickered, soft and warm—his touch, his gaze, made me second-guess everything I’d thought I knew about my body. His large hands molded over me as though I was something exquisite.

His intense eyes locked onto mine when he spoke again. “Perfect.”

And just like that, I chose to believe him.

I took a shaky breath, letting myself feel every inch of what he was showing me through his touch. There was no hesitation in the way he pressed soft kisses over the stretch marks that linedmy skin, no judgment in the way his big hands caressed the soft swell of my breasts. Just reverence.

And a burgeoning heat building slowly in the pit of my stomach.

I groaned, shifting my hips to press against him, feeling the hard evidence of his desire through the thick layers of his pants. We were just two imperfect beings, yet he worshipped me like I was the most beautiful thing in the world.

“Vorgath...” His name came out as a soft moan, my hands now tangled in the messy locks of his hair, urging him closer, lower.

His mouth trailed fire down my stomach, his breath hot and heavy as his lips passed the line of my navel, and I couldn’t stop the shiver of anticipation that ran down my spine.

He hooked his big fingers in the waist of my skirt. “I'm going to taste you,durlan. I'm going to make sure you are ready.”

I lifted my hips, helping him ease the skirt down, and when the warm air kissed my bare skin, I resisted the urge to clench my knees together. His eyes never left me, not for a second. The intensity of his gaze, the way it burned into me, was almost too much to bear. But I didn’t dare look away. Not this time.

This time, I wanted to see everything written in those molten, dark eyes.

Vorgath settled between my legs, his large hands spreading over my thighs. “You’re shaking,” he said softly.

“Maybe that’s because you’re about to... you know,” I whispered, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks. One look from him, and I was back to feeling like a maid in the spring of her first romance.

He gave a low chuckle. “I know,” he said, his voice dropping low—steady. “Relax.”

I opened my mouth to argue that I wasfine—that I wasn’t nervous—but before the words could leave my lips, his mouthpressed against the inside of my thigh, and whatever I’d planned to say turned into a breathless gasp.

I gripped the edge of the bench, knuckles white as he kissed his way up, slow, insistent, trailing the heat of his lips higher and higher. One of his large hands slid up to cup my hip, his thumb brushing in lazy circles that made my body arch despite myself. And then, finally, he reached his destination.

The first touch of his tongue was gentle—slow, deliberate,maddening.

I moaned, throwing my head back as my legs tightened around his shoulders. He teased at first, brushing over my most sensitive spot with soft laps of his tongue before withdrawing, only to return again with a flick that sent shudders through me. The contrast was exquisite—the heaviness of his touch followed by the delicate strokes of his tongue.

It was almost as if he was testing the limits of my patience and control, which, at this point, I had none.