Page 51 of Claimed By the Vykan

The thought of leaving her garden—the only place that felt familiar now—hit her like a blow.

“No,” she said sharply. “I like it there.”

He paused.

The sound he made was low, almost thoughtful. “Very well.”

He resumed walking, his grip tightening slightly—not possessive, but secure, grounding. She rested against his armor despite every instinct shouting that she should resist. Her body leaned into him as though she were made to fit there.

“For tonight,” he murmured, “you will remain in my chambers. You are unstable after the confrontation, and I will not leave you untended.”

Her stomach fluttered.

She should have protested. Should have insisted she didn’t need him. Should have reminded him she hadn’t asked for any of this.

Instead, she closed her eyes, exhaustion crashing over her in waves.

Because deep down, buried under fear and confusion and longing, one truth pulsed through her:

He protected me.

And she didn’t know how to reconcile that with everything she should feel.

All she knew was that she wanted to lean into him just a little more.

And she did.

Kyrax held her tighter, carrying her deeper into the bastion, away from the blood and the danger and the memory of what almost happened.

CHAPTER 24

Kyrax did not release her until they crossed the threshold of her garden. Even then, his arm stayed firm around her waist, guiding her through the dim corridors with a steadiness that made her breath catch. As they walked, Saelori attendants slipped into alcoves or bowed themselves low against the walls, lowering their eyes, making themselves small—no, not small, invisible.

Respect.

Fear.

Reverence.

It struck her then—he lived like this always. A figure so powerful that even his own people avoided his gaze. No wonder he felt like a storm contained within armor. No wonder loneliness clung to him like a shadow.

Maybe he has been alone for a very long time.

The thought unsettled her more than she expected.

He carried her not far at all—only a few strides past her own chamber door—before stopping at another entrance. The stone and metal parted for him with a deep, resonant hiss, revealing a room suffused with violet and gold light.

Her breath hitched.

These were his chambers.

They shared the same architectural language as the rest of the bastion—dark stone, metal inlays, bioluminescent channels—but the atmosphere here was different. The ceilings arched high, veined with slow-moving lines of violet energy. Massive stone pillars rose like tree trunks, supporting the vaulted structure. To the right, a wide balcony overlooked a sea of swirling mist, lit faintly from below as though the world itself glowed.

Softness softened the severity: rich, layered fabrics hung as banners; low lanterns burned with plum-colored flames; a hearth pulsing with quiet, reddish heat in the corner.

Not luxurious—exactly the opposite.

Everything here was purposeful, restrained, utterly him.