Page 28

ARATON

M illie has mastered the art of resistance, a skill I suspect she inherited directly from her mother. Her small body thrashes against the sheets as I attempt to tuck her in for the third time.

"Just one more story," she pleads, those wide golden eyes—my eyes—staring up with calculated manipulation that shouldn't be possible in a three-year-old.

"That's what you said after the last one, sweetheart." I smooth her wild curls away from her forehead. Her skin is warm under my touch, her tiny silver-flecked wings peeking out from the special slits in her nightgown.

"But I'm not tired!" She punctuates this with a yawn so enormous it nearly swallows her little face. I know she's just worked up after worrying about her mother, but she needs to sleep.

"That yawn tells a different tale." I tap the tip of her nose with my finger. "Besides, your mama will have my head if I keep you up any longer."

My ears catch the soft tread of footsteps on the stairs.

Ronnie appears in the doorway, something shuttered and unreadable in her expression.

The sight of her makes my chest tighten.

Her hair is still slightly damp from washing up, and she's changed into a simple linen nightdress with a thick cardigan pulled over it.

The bruise forming on her arm is a stark reminder of how close I came to losing her tonight.

"Is a certain someone giving you trouble?" She leans against the doorframe, arms crossed.

"Mama, Papa was telling me about the lightning storm and how he almost got his wings singed off!"

"Was he now?" Ronnie arches an eyebrow in my direction. "Sounds terrifying."

"It was!" Millie sits up, wings fluttering with excitement. "But he did a...a dive...um...?"

"A diving roll," I supply, gently pushing her back against the pillows.

"Yeah! And he went whoosh!" Her small hands make a swooping motion. "Under the lightning!"

"Quite the adventurer, your father." There's something tight in Ronnie's voice, something that makes me wonder if she's thinking about my inevitable departure—the one I've been postponing without admitting why.

"I think that's enough excitement for one night, especially after all the monster business." I pull the blanket up to Millie's chin and press a kiss to her forehead. The scent of her—soap and childhood and innocence—fills my lungs. When did this tiny creature become so essential to my existence?

Millie yawns again, her small body finally surrendering to exhaustion. "Will you both be here when I wake up?"

The question hangs in the air between Ronnie and me like a physical thing. I feel her eyes on my profile, waiting for my answer.

"I'll be here, sweetheart," I promise, the words coming easily. Too easily. "Now close those eyes."

She struggles briefly against sleep, but her eyelids grow heavy. I stroke her hair until her breathing evens out, marveling at how something so small could hold such power over me. My daughter. My blood. My heart walking around outside my body.

When I'm certain she's asleep, I rise from the edge of the bed and turn to find Ronnie watching us, something soft and vulnerable flickering across her expression before she masks it.

"She finally surrendered," I whisper, following Ronnie into the hallway and quietly pulling Millie's door halfway closed.

"She fights sleep like it's her sworn enemy." Ronnie's voice is low, her arms wrapped around herself in that protective gesture I've come to recognize—her way of holding herself together when she feels exposed.

We stand in the narrow hallway, the silence between us thick with unspoken words.

The events of the night press against my skin like a physical weight—the terror of hearing that thassir's scream, the primal rage that overtook me when I thought of Ronnie hurt or worse, the desperate way I claimed her body afterward.

"I should probably go," I say finally, though the words feel like gravel in my throat. "I've imposed enough for one day."

Her eyes snap to mine, something flaring in their gray depths. "Stay."

Such a simple word. One syllable. But it hits me like a physical blow.

"You want me to stay?" I search her face, looking for hesitation or regret.

"I'd rather you did." She lifts her chin slightly, a hint of her characteristic defiance showing through. "If you want to."

"I want to." The words come too quickly, betraying the depth of my eagerness.

She nods once, then turns and walks down the hallway. After a moment's hesitation, I follow, my wings adjusting instinctively to avoid knocking against the walls. She leads me to a door at the end of the corridor and pushes it open, stepping inside.

Her bedroom. Territory I've never been permitted to enter before.

The space is distinctly Ronnie—practical, unadorned, yet somehow deeply intimate.

A simple wooden bed with a patchwork quilt.

A dresser with a cracked mirror. A chair by the window with what looks like Millie's clothing folded over the back.

Herbs hanging from the ceiling beams fill the air with their earthy scent.

"It looks exactly like your room in the last village," I say, trying to lighten the tension with a smile. "Right down to the herbs drying overhead."

I turn, expecting to see her roll her eyes or make some sarcastic remark. Instead, she's standing with her back against the closed door, studying me with unnerving intensity.

"What?" I ask, suddenly feeling exposed under her gaze.

She swallows, her throat working visibly. "Why did you save me?"

The question catches me off guard. "What do you mean?"

"If Millie was safe," she says, her voice steady despite the vulnerability in her eyes, "why did you come save me?"

I cross the room in two strides, my wings rustling with agitation behind me. Ronnie's question echoes in my mind like a slap. How could she not know? How could she possibly think I wouldn't move mountains to keep her safe?

"Do you really think I wouldn't care if you were hurt?" My voice comes out rougher than intended as I cup her face between my hands. Her skin is warm beneath my palms, her pulse fluttering like a captured bird against my fingertips.

For a moment, she resists—that stubborn tilt to her chin that both infuriates and captivates me—before something breaks. She sinks into my touch with a sigh that seems to come from somewhere deep inside her.

"I didn't think you cared," she whispers, gray eyes fixed on mine with a vulnerability that steals my breath. "Not about me."

The confession hits me like a physical blow. I take a half-step back, my hands still framing her face, wings extending slightly in sheer disbelief.

"What are you talking about?"

Her lips press into a thin line, a hint of the old defiance returning. "I thought you were only around for Millie. That I was just... an obligation that came with her."

"An obligation?" The word tastes sour on my tongue. "Is that what you think this is? What I am?"

"What was I supposed to think?" Her voice cracks slightly. "You never said?—"

"I love Millie," I cut her off, needing her to understand. "She could be my whole world."

Pain flashes across Ronnie's features, and she tries to pull away, but I hold firm.

"But I didn't stay for dinner or make surprise trips to your store or help you in that disaster you call a garden because of Millie." I trace the curve of her cheekbone with my thumb. "Can you really not see how much you mean to me, fierce one?"

She tries to look away, her lashes lowering to hide the emotion in her eyes. I release her face only to grab her wrist, lifting it between us. The bracelet gleams against her skin—amber and blue catching the lamplight, the metal threads woven together like our lives have become.

"I bought this for you before I came to see you and found out you were gone." My voice drops, the memory of that empty apartment still sharp enough to cut. "I searched for you for months."

Her fingers curl inward, but she doesn't pull her arm away. "Why did you keep it all that time?"

The question hangs between us, loaded with all the things we've never said. I run my thumb over the delicate beads, remembering how they'd reminded me of sunlight in her hair.

"For a while, I wasn't sure," I admit, the confession scraping my throat raw. "But now I know it's because I could never let you go, and that was all I had left of you."

Her eyes widen, something like hope flickering in their depths before fear chases it away.

She looks terrified and confused, like a wild thing caught in a trap.

I pull her closer until I can feel the rapid rise and fall of her chest against mine, my wings curving forward instinctively to cocoon us both.

"Can you not see that I am in love with you?" The words fall from my lips like stones dropped into still water, creating ripples I know we can never take back.

Tears brim in her eyes, catching on her lashes before one escapes to trail down her cheek. "It's hard to, when I've been trying to hide the fact that I fell in love with you."

The confession knocks the air from my lungs. Before I can recover, she rises up on her toes and presses her mouth to mine.

The kiss is different from any we've shared before—not frantic with lust or tinged with anger, but achingly tender.

My hands slide into her hair, cradling her head as I deepen the kiss, pouring three years of longing and regret into it.

She tastes like mint tea and something uniquely Ronnie that I've craved every day we've been apart.

Her fingers dig into my shoulders, pulling me closer as the kiss turns hungry.

I back her against the door, my body pressing into hers, feeling the soft curves I've memorized with my hands now yielding against me.

My wings unfold fully, instinctively creating a silver-blue canopy around us, shutting out the world.

"Araton," she breathes against my lips, her hands sliding beneath my shirt to trace the muscles of my back. The feel of her fingertips against my skin ignites something primal in me.

I lift her in one smooth movement, her legs wrapping around my waist as I carry her to the bed.

The patchwork quilt is soft beneath us as I lay her down, following her down to cover her body with mine.

My wings arch above us, the sensitive undersides brushing against her arms as I brace myself over her.

"I've wanted this for so long," I murmur against her throat, tasting the salt of her skin. "Wanted you." And I hope she knows that I mean her heart, her soul, her trust.

Her love.

Her hands pull at my clothing with newfound urgency, and I help her, stripping away layers until there's nothing between us but skin and breath and the truth we've finally spoken aloud.

"Say it again," she whispers, her eyes locked on mine as I hover above her.

I lower myself until our foreheads touch, until our breath mingles and I can see nothing but those gray eyes that have haunted me for years.

"I love you," I tell her, the words no longer a secret I've kept even from myself. "I love you, Ronnie."