Page 17

17

AURELIE

T he darkness crawls gently across Rolfo's house, pooling in the corners before spreading outward, consuming the daylight. I click on the nursery lamp, its soft glow creating a pocket of warmth that holds the night at bay.

Sephy fusses against my shoulder, her tiny lips pursed in drowsy protest. Her silvery-blonde curls tickle my chin as I rock her, but her eyelids have grown heavy, fluttering like thalivern wings fighting against sleep.

"Someone's ready for her crib," I whisper, pressing my lips to her forehead.

Behind me, Rolfo's footsteps approach—quiet for such a large man, a hunter's tread that never fully disappears even in the safety of his own home.

"I can take her," he offers, his deep voice barely above a murmur.

I turn to find him watching us, silver eyes reflecting the lamplight. Something in his gaze makes my skin warm.

"She likes when you put her down," I admit, carefully transferring my daughter to his waiting arms.

His massive hands cradle Sephy with surprising tenderness, dwarfing her tiny form. She settles instantly against his broad chest, giving a contented sigh that melts something inside me. Without hesitation, his deep voice drops into a humming melody—something ancient and wordless that vibrates through the quiet room.

I step back toward the doorway, leaning against the frame. This unlikely tableau—my daughter cradled against this scarred, powerful demon—has become the most natural sight in my world. This man who collected me from the gutter, who has asked nothing in return for his protection, who crafted a nursery with his bare hands.

Rolfo moves to the handmade crib, lowering Sephy with practiced care. His fingers trail along her cheek before tucking the small blanket around her. The purple-black wood of the crib gleams in the lamplight, polished smooth by his patient hands.

"Sleep well, little one," he whispers.

When he turns, he startles slightly, finding me still watching from the doorway. Our eyes lock across the dim room. Something electric passes between us, a current I've felt building for weeks. His silver eyes darken, pupils expanding in the low light.

I push away from the doorframe, my bare feet silent on the wooden floor as I cross to him. My pulse hammers in my throat, but my steps don't falter. I've faced monsters and survived. This—reaching for something I want—shouldn't terrify me so, yet my hands tremble as I lift them to his chest.

His breath catches, sharp and sudden. I rise onto my toes, one hand sliding up to his shoulder for balance. His skin radiates heat through the thin fabric of his shirt.

"Aurelie," he breathes, my name a question.

I answer by pressing my lips to his.

The kiss is soft, hesitant. A test of boundaries I've kept rigid since arriving. His lips remain still beneath mine for a heartbeat, then another. Just as doubt begins to creep in, his large hand comes up to cup my face with impossible gentleness.

He steps backward, guiding us both from the nursery, his other hand finding the small of my back. In the hallway, illuminated only by ambient light spilling from other rooms, he pulls back. The loss of contact leaves me cold.

"You don't have to," he starts, voice rough with restraint. His fingers hover near my cheek without touching, as if afraid I'll shatter. "This isn't payment for anything. You owe me nothing."

I reach for his hand, intertwining our fingers, and guide it back to my face. His palm is calloused but warm against my skin.

"I want to," I tell him, my voice steady despite the riot in my chest. "I want…you."

His silver eyes search mine, looking for uncertainty or hesitation. I meet his gaze unwavering, letting him see the truth there. This is my choice—perhaps the first real choice I've made in years.

His hand finds mine, warm and steady as his fingers thread through mine. The simple touch ignites something primal within me—desire long suppressed beneath layers of fear and survival. Rolfo walks backward, leading me toward my bedroom—no, not my bedroom. His guest room. Yet in these weeks, it's become mine, filled with small traces of my existence. A hairbrush on the dresser. A shawl draped over the chair. The scent of the meadowmint tea I drink each night before bed.

His eyes never leave mine, silver pools reflecting questions, seeking permission with each step. I don't look away. Not even when my heart hammers against my ribs like a caged animal seeking freedom.

"You can change your mind," he murmurs as we cross the threshold. "At any point."

I shake my head. "I won't."

My back meets the edge of the bed, and I sit, drawing him down with me. The mattress dips beneath his weight. In the dim light filtering through the curtains, his features soften. The sharp angles of his face, usually set in stoic determination, now hold a vulnerability I've never witnessed.

"I'm not sure I deserve this," he whispers, his hand hovering above my cheek.

"You deserve everything," I counter, placing my palm against his chest where his heart beats strong and fast.

I lean forward, initiating our second kiss. This time, there's no hesitation from either of us. His lips move against mine, tender at first, then with growing hunger. His hand finally meets my face, calloused fingers cradling my jaw as if I'm made of glass.

I deepen the kiss, parting my lips in invitation. He responds with a low sound—half growl, half sigh—that vibrates through me. My fingers find the hem of his shirt, slipping beneath to touch the warm skin of his abdomen. Muscles tense beneath my touch.

"May I?" His fingers hover at the ties of my nightdress.

I nod, lifting my arms to help as he slowly draws the fabric upward. Cool air kisses my skin as the nightdress slides away, leaving me exposed in nothing but simple undergarments. A flicker of self-consciousness ripples through me. My body bears the marks of motherhood—stretch marks silvering my hips and breasts, the softness of my belly.

His eyes darken as they roam over me, not with disappointment but with reverence. "You're beautiful," he breathes, and the wonder in his voice makes me believe him.

Wanting to see him, I tug at his shirt. "Your turn."

He strips it off in one fluid motion, revealing a canvas of scars across his torso—stories written in flesh. He's gorgeous, all cut lines and signs of strength. I trace a particularly jagged line along his ribs, feeling the raised tissue beneath my fingertips.

"Does it hurt?" I ask.

"Not anymore." He captures my exploring hand, bringing it to his lips. "Nothing hurts when you touch me."

He lowers me to the bed, his body a warm weight above mine as he reclaims my mouth. His kiss deepens, and I open to him, tasting the sweetness of the amerinth he had with dinner. My hands map the planes of his back, the powerful muscles shifting beneath scarred skin.

His lips leave mine to trail down my neck, gentle kisses that send shivers cascading through me. When he reaches the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder, I gasp, arching into him.

"Tell me what feels good," he murmurs against my skin. "I want to know every part of you."

"This," I breathe as his hand cups my breast through thin fabric. "Everything."

He removes my undergarments with careful reverence, each new inch of skin exposed met with gentle exploration. His silver eyes darken with desire, but his touch remains worshipful. When he finally settles between my thighs, his breath hot against my center, he glances up, seeking permission once more.

I thread my fingers through his jet-black hair. "Please."

The first touch of his mouth against me draws a sound I barely recognize as my own. A keening, desperate noise that seems to please him as his silver eyes flick up to meet mine. His tongue traces patterns that make my toes curl, my back arch off the bed, my fingers clutching desperately at the sheets beneath me.

One large hand splays across my hip, keeping me steady as I writhe beneath his ministrations, pinning me gently but firmly to the mattress. His other hand joins his mouth, a finger slowly pressing inside me, then another, curling to find the spot that makes stars burst behind my eyes.

I gasp his name, trembling as he works me with a devotion I've never known before, thorough and attentive to every response of my body. Where I'd only known pain before, he brings pleasure so intense it feels like flying.

"Rolfo," I gasp, clutching at his shoulders. "I?—"

"Let go," he encourages, his voice a rumble against sensitive flesh. "I've got you."

I fracture beneath him, pleasure crashing through me in waves that leave me trembling. He works me through it, gentle but relentless, until I'm boneless and panting.

When he moves up my body, his expression is one of awe. "You're magnificent," he whispers, kissing me softly.

Afterward, we lie tangled in soft blankets, my head pillowed on his chest. His heartbeat thuds steadily beneath my ear, a rhythm more soothing than any lullaby. His hand traces lazy patterns along my spine, raising pleasant shivers in its wake.

"Are you cold?" he asks, pulling the blanket higher around us.

"No," I murmur, pressing closer to his warmth. "I'm perfect."

For the first time since fleeing Kaelith, I feel whole. Not broken or used or scarred beyond repair, but wanted. Cherished. In Rolfo's arms, I am not a possession but a person deserving of tenderness.

I close my eyes, my body heavy with contentment. Not because I'm hiding from the world or from myself, but because for the first time in years, I feel safe enough to truly rest.