Page 56

The priestess tilts her head, chanting a brief minotaur blessing. I catch a few words about lifemates, renewal, the bond of choosing each other. Then she beckons us close. “By Zukiev’s grace, we declare the goddess is pleased by this union. May your bond stand in the face of all storms.”

Freedmen, crafters, watchers—they erupt in applause.

My cheeks burn at the intensity of it. Another part of the ceremony remains, though, the private portion.

The priestess gestures for us to step behind a curtained partition quickly erected near the altar—an improvised enclosure ensuring no prying eyes see the final unveiling.

Freedmen respectfully turn away, continuing to celebrate outside.

My heartbeat surges as we slip behind the curtain, leaving the cheering crowd muffled. Inside, torchlight flickers against thin linen walls. Remanos stands close, the smell of burnt herbs clinging to his fur. Tension coils in the small space, a mixture of reverence and yearning.

He exhales, voice hushed. “You look breathtaking in these veils. Each layer is a piece of your life, a piece I vow to honor.”

My cheeks warm, knees unsteady. “I—I can’t believe we’re truly doing this,” I whisper, a soft laugh escaping. “I never wanted to be a ‘trophy bride.’ But this is different. It’s our choice. Together.”

He gently nods, large hands hovering near my shoulders. “No illusions, no Senate mandates. Only us.”

I swallow, heart hammering. Then, very deliberately, I lift the topmost veil, letting him see my face fully. My voice trembles, “The first layer, peach for my birth, my child self who learned to adapt under the sun and roads. You accept that girl’s story?”

His expression turns soft. “I do. She’s part of your strength, your wanderer’s soul.” He caresses the fabric, lifting it aside with care. It drapes down, exposing the deeper layers. My pulse thrums. The gesture is more intimate than any heated embrace, because it acknowledges me at my core.

We continue in a hush. I gesture to the second layer, lavender for adversity. “This is the part of me that endured orc capture, Senate scorn, the pain of feeling worthless.” My voice cracks. “Do you accept her, too?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “I do. I cradle that part of you. Your resilience shaped the woman who stands before me.” He carefully peels the second veil back, eyes brimming with compassion. My throat constricts, tears gathering, the power of this moment nearly overwhelming.

Layer by layer, we repeat the process. A soft green for renewal—my hope found in Freedmen’s solidarity, in forging new paths.

A rich gold for triumph—our shared victory in unmasking Vaelen, driving orcs away.

Each time, he acknowledges that piece of me and removes the veil, baring more of my arms and torso.

By the time the final tinted veil remains, my body feels flushed with emotional intensity.

My breath hitches at the closeness, the tender way his fingertips brush the fabric.

He hesitates, voice deep. “The last veil. Pink for love or new beginnings, yes?”

I nod shakily, recalling Tila’s words. “Yes. My life with you, free of illusions.”

In that flickering torchlight, he slips the final veil aside, letting it drift to the floor.

My entire body is exposed beneath the gently layered fabric, albeit I wear a simple underdress for modesty.

But the symbolism is stark: I stand bare of my past burdens, raw before him.

My heart stutters, seeing the admiration and vulnerability in his eyes.

He’s a minotaur who once hated the notion of taking a spoil. Now he cherishes me as an equal.

His hands tentatively slide up my arms, calloused palms trembling. “You are beyond beautiful,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “Thank you for trusting me with every layer.”

Tears slip down my cheeks. “And thank you for choosing me, not as spoil or trophy, but as your partner.”

He dips his head, muzzle brushing my cheek, warmth flooding me.

The thick hush dissolves any caution, and I press closer, sighing as our bodies align.

We share a kiss, not hurried or fueled by desperation, but reverent, layered with the significance of this vow.

My hands roam his chest, feeling the solid plane of muscle.

I sense the half-healed bruises, the old champion’s scar, each a testament to his unwavering devotion.

He shifts, letting the final scraps of my underdress slip from my shoulders, baring my upper body to the torchlight. My pulse roars, a heady mix of shyness and longing. I cling to him, inhaling the faint musk of sweat and herbs.

He pauses, searching my eyes. “Tell me if I hurt you, or if you want me to stop. This is your choice as much as mine.”

Emotion tightens my throat. I raise my hand to trace a scar across his collarbone, remembering how he earned it in the orc duel. “I don’t want you to stop,” I whisper, leaning in to brush my lips across that scar.

He shudders, tension flooding him. Our mouths meet again, deeper now, the hush of the ceremony swirling around us.

Each slow, deliberate caress ignites sparks along my skin.

My fingers wander across his broad shoulders, feeling him tremble at the contact.

The closeness is overwhelming—this is no forced union or political show, but a raw, intimate claiming of each other.

He maneuvers carefully, guiding me deeper into the curtained enclosure, away from the entrance.

The world beyond is a blur of Freedmen’s festivities, yet in this sacred space, it’s only us.

My pulse races, each beat reminding me I’m free to savor every moment.

He kisses along my throat, breath warm and reverent, while his hands rove my sides.

The tension in my belly builds, a yearning for him that’s both physical and soul-deep.

When he lowers me onto a soft pallet of cushions set upon the floor—a courtesy the Freedmen must have prepared—my nerves tingle with expectation.

My arms circle his neck, the press of his powerful body an anchor.

Gently, he lets his lips explore my shoulders, the slope of my chest, each kiss stoking the heat thrumming in my veins.

I gasp, arching closer, wanting no barriers between us.

His horns brush my cheek in a tender, almost shy gesture. “Mira,” he murmurs, voice raw. “I’ve never felt more certain of anything than I am of this bond.”

Tears prick my eyes again. “Nor have I. You are my lifemate, Remanos, freely chosen.”

With a trembling sigh, he pushes aside the last remnants of cloth.

I help him shed his own leathers, mindful of his bandaged thigh.

We move slowly, carefully, unveiling each other.

His body stirs an ache in me, his muscular frame marred by fresh bruises.

I press soft kisses there, silently vowing to love every scar.

Our mouths find each other again, the kiss deepening with quiet urgency.

I part my lips, letting him taste me, our tongues tangling in slow, unhurried discovery.

The sense of rightness swells, as if all the anguish of our journey melts into this shared vow.

My fingers roam, discovering the soft fur near his neck, the corded muscle of his arms. He moans softly, muzzle brushing across my collarbone, sending shivers racing.

His hands caress my waist, sliding down to cup my hips.

My breath stutters as desire coils low in my belly, a yearning sharpened by the knowledge we stand as equals in this union.

I yield to his touch, nails lightly scraping his shoulders.

Each point of contact sizzles with a slow burn, not rushed or frantic, but a tender claiming.

When he finally aligns our bodies, I can’t help a trembling gasp at the intimate pressure.

The torchlight flickers, painting his features in gold and shadow.

His eyes reflect such tenderness I feel tears threaten again.

Gently, deliberately, he eases us into the final act of this union, a measured push that draws a soft cry from me.

My mind spins, heart pounding, but I cling to him, welcoming every sensation.

He stifles a groan, muzzle dipping to my neck. “Am I hurting you?” His voice thick with concern.

I shake my head, smoothing my palm over his cheek. “It’s perfect,” I whisper. “Don’t hold back.”

A ragged exhale escapes him, and he moves again, seeking the rhythm of our new bond.

Each slow thrust kindles deeper waves of pleasure, a delicate harmony of muscle and breath.

I arch up, eyes fluttering as sensation blooms through every nerve.

The veil-laden ceremony, the burnt offering, Freedmen’s acceptance—they all swirl together in my mind, culminating in this precious union.

He murmurs my name, breath shaking, as our bodies find a pace that unites us in molten bliss.

I grip his arms, nails biting gently into fur, an anchor amid the surging warmth.

He presses a tender kiss to my lips, every motion soaked in reverence.

My heart leaps, enthralled by how careful he is, how fully we surrender to each other.

Soon, the tension builds to a near-painful pitch.

Our breaths sync, moans mingling in the curtained hush.

I feel the edge drawing close, a surge of ecstasy coiling in my core.

My entire body trembles, driven by the quiet power of his steady lovemaking.

When the wave breaks, I cry out softly, burying my face in his neck, overwhelmed by pleasure and gratitude.

He follows moments later, body shuddering against mine, gasping my name in a low, trembling roar that sets my pulse aflame.