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He shifts, careful not to jostle me. His hands, those hands that have commanded me, worshiped me, now move with infinite tenderness. One arm slips beneath my knees, the other around my back, and he lifts me easily, carrying me a few steps to a small water basin tucked in the corner of the tent.

I blink, drowsy and dazed, as he sets me gently on a chair, my legs still parted, my pussy aching from the aftermath of our joining.

“Stay,” he says, voice deep and quiet.

I can only nod.

He wets a cloth in the basin, wrings it out with strong hands, and kneels before me.

The first touch of the damp cloth between my thighs makes me flinch, the sensation too raw, too much, but his hand is already there, large and cool, steadying my hip.

“Easy, little queen,” he murmurs, voice thick with a tenderness that cracks something wide open inside me. “I have you.”

He moves with exquisite care, cleaning me gently, the coolness of the cloth easing the lingering ache. I flush under his gaze, under the intimacy of it, but he looks at me with fierce pride, not a flicker of shame or disgust.

As if I am the most precious thing he has ever held.

When he finishes, he tosses the cloth aside and gathers me up again, pulling me into his lap this time, cradling me close.

I tuck my head under his chin, the roughness of his jaw scraping my forehead, and breathe him in.

His hand moves slowly up and down my spine, soothing. His voice is a low rumble in my ear.

“You were perfect,” he says. “So brave. So beautiful.”

Tears prick my eyes again, but I blink them away. I don’t want to cry now. I want to remember every second of this, every moment of gentleness, every whispered word.

He rocks me, a slow, instinctive motion, as if to anchor me to him.

“You are mine,” he says again, softer now. “And I am yours.”

I lift my face, searching for something in his amber gaze, but find only truth, raw and blinding.

I lean up and kiss him.

It is not a kiss of passion or heat. It is a kiss of belonging. Of gratitude. Of something vaster and deeper than either of us can name.

When we finally pull apart, he carries me to the bed and wraps himself around me, a shield against the world.

“My dragoste,” I whisper, the word settling deep into my bones, like it’s always been waiting.

He is mine. The one Tajss intended—my fate, my flame, my home.

“Sleep, little queen,” he murmurs. “I will watch over you.”

And for the first time since I was a child, I let go.

I let myself be held.

I let myself be loved.

I drift into sleep with his heartbeat under my ear, the promise of forever in every breath he takes.

49

RANI

Iwake to the scent of leather, sun-warmed sand, and him.