Page 56 of Kingdom of Darkness and Dragons (Empire of Vengeance #4)

I woke to warmth and the steady rhythm of breathing beneath my cheek. For a moment, I existed in that perfect space between sleep and consciousness where nothing mattered except the comfort of strong arms around me and the reassuring beat of a heart against my ear.

Then memory flooded back—the bridge, the river, the terrifying moments when I thought we would both drown in that churning torrent.

I raised my head carefully, not wanting to disturb him, and studied the face of the man who had become the centre of my increasingly complicated world.

For three days I'd tended him as he drifted between wakefulness and something deeper, his body fighting to recover from the blow that had nearly split his skull open.

Three days of fear that I was trying very hard not to examine too closely.

Because the truth was, I hadn't been afraid he would die. Well, I had been afraid of that, but there was something more complex underneath the surface fear. I'd been afraid I would lose him, and the distinction mattered more than I wanted to admit.

When had that happened? When had my captor become someone I couldn't bear to lose?

The transformation had been so gradual I'd barely noticed it happening.

Somewhere between his gentle care of me during our journey and the way he'd risked everything to save me from the river, the dynamic between us had shifted.

I was still his prisoner in the technical sense—I had no doubt he would stop me if I tried to leave. But it no longer felt like captivity.

It felt like choice.

I traced the line of his jaw with my eyes, noting the way exhaustion had softened the harsh planes of his face.

His skin was drawn beneath the geometric tattoos that marked him as Talfen, and there were new lines of pain around his eyes that hadn't been there before the accident.

The blow to his head had been severe enough that I'd genuinely feared he might never wake up.

The thought of that—of being alone in these mountains with his still, silent body—had terrified me in ways I was only beginning to understand.

He shifted slightly in his sleep, his arms tightening around me in an unconscious gesture of possession that should have annoyed me.

Instead, I found myself melting further into his embrace, savouring the safety and warmth he represented.

My men loved me, I knew that with absolute certainty.

They would die for me, kill for me, move mountains if I asked them to.

But this man… he had asked for nothing. He hadn’t wooed me with pretty words or sworn vows of fealty.

He had simply taken what he wanted, claimed me with a silent, brutal honesty that was more profound than any declaration of love.

He hadn’t moved mountains for me; he had thrown himself into a raging river with the primal instinct of a predator protecting its most vital prize.

The guilt was a sharp stone in my gut. My men deserved better than a mate who was finding solace in the arms of their enemy.

But the bond I felt with Taveth wasn’t a betrayal of them; it was something other, something that existed in a darker, more elemental space.

They gave me their hearts, their loyalty, their protection.

This man had laid claim to something deeper, something I hadn’t known was his to take.

He hadn’t just saved my life; in some strange, terrifying way, he had become it.

He was my captor, the enemy who had stolen me from a battlefield and carried me away from everything I knew.

By all rights, I should hate him. Should be planning escape or revenge or some combination of both.

Instead, I found myself studying the way his dark lashes cast shadows on his cheekbones and thinking about how his rare smiles transformed his entire face.

I was falling for him. The admission hit me with startling clarity, though some part of me had known it for days.

I was falling for the man who had taken me captive, who spoke to me in a language I was slowly learning, who made love to me with a desperate intensity that suggested I was something precious.

The realization should have filled me with shame or self-recrimination. Instead, I felt oddly relieved to finally acknowledge what my heart had been trying to tell me for the last few weeks.

His eyelids fluttered open, the strange irises hazy with pain but instantly finding me.

The cold, analytical focus was gone, replaced by a raw, unguarded vulnerability that made my chest ache.

There was something different in his expression now—softer than the predatory hunger I'd grown accustomed to, though no less compelling.

"Aeveth," he murmured, his voice rough with sleep and lingering pain. His hand came up to stroke my cheek with fingers that trembled slightly, whether from weakness or emotion I couldn't tell. "You didn't run."

The words were simple, but they carried a weight of meaning that made my chest tight.

He was right—I hadn't run. Even when he'd been unconscious and helpless, even when escape would have been as simple as walking away, I'd stayed.

I'd tended his wounds and forced water between his lips and held him when fever made him shake with chills.

I shook my head, unable to find words for the tangle of emotions in my chest. "I couldn't leave you like that. I couldn't leave you..."

The sentence trailed off because I wasn't sure how to finish it. Couldn't leave you to die alone? Couldn't leave you when you saved my life? Couldn't leave you because somewhere along the way you became important to me?

All of those things were true, but none of them captured the full complexity of what I felt.

His hand slid to the back of my neck, applying gentle pressure to draw me down toward him.

I went willingly, my lips meeting his in a kiss that was soft and questioning rather than demanding.

There was something almost vulnerable in the way he kissed me now, as if he was afraid I might disappear if he held on too tightly.

When we broke apart, I found myself studying his face with new eyes. "What's your name?" I asked quietly. "Your real name?"

He was silent for so long I thought he might not answer. When he finally spoke, it was with the careful deliberation of someone revealing a closely guarded secret.

"Taveth."

The name suited him—sharp and foreign on my tongue, carrying hints of the dangerous power he wielded so effortlessly. I repeated it slowly, savouring the way it felt to finally have something real to call him.

"Taveth," I said again, and watched something flicker in his pale eyes at the sound of his name in my voice. "I'm Livia."

He nodded, though something in his expression suggested he'd already known that. "Livia," he repeated, the syllables careful and precise. We lay in comfortable silence for a moment, both lost in our own thoughts. Then curiosity got the better of me.

"Why do you call me Aeveth?" I asked. "What does it mean?"

His thumb traced along my cheekbone, and I saw something almost tender in his expression. "Little flame," he said softly. "It means little flame."

"Little flame?" I repeated, not sure whether to be flattered or insulted by the diminutive.

"My magic," he said, his voice taking on a quality I'd never heard before—almost hesitant, as if he was sharing something deeply personal.

"My life... it is all darkness and shadow.

Cold places where light cannot reach." His pale eyes met mine, and I saw something raw and honest in their depths.

"But your flame... it called to me through the dark.

Through the battlefield, through the noise and chaos and death. I followed your light to find you."

The words hit me like a physical blow, stealing my breath with their unexpected poetry. This man who dealt in shadows and violence, who commanded darkness itself like a weapon, was telling me I was his light.

I kissed him again, pouring all the emotions I couldn't name into the contact. This time there was nothing hesitant about his response—his arms tightened around me, his mouth moving against mine with a hunger that was both familiar and newly precious.

When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing hard, the air between us charged with possibility and want.

"Taveth," I whispered, testing his name against my lips again.

"Aeveth," he replied, and the way he said it made it sound like a prayer. This time when I kissed him, I didn’t pull away.

His hands, still unsteady, tangled in my hair, pulling me closer as if he feared I might vanish.

I shifted, moving to straddle his hips, careful of his injuries.

The feathered cloak fell away, pooling around us on the hard-packed earth of the glade floor.

His breath hitched, a raw sound of need that echoed the frantic beating of my own heart.

This was different. This wasn’t conquest. It was a desperate, mutual craving.

My fingers went to the laces of my tunic, my eyes never leaving his.

He watched me, a storm of emotions churning in those pale depths—pain, relief, and a hunger so profound it felt sacred.

I shed my clothes piece by piece, not under the duress of his shadows, but with the slow, deliberate intention of a woman claiming her lover.

I would not be a passive prize this time. I would be a participant. An equal.

When I was naked, I reached for the leather belt that held his skirt, my knuckles brushing the hard ridges of his stomach.

He didn’t move, didn’t try to help or hinder, simply allowed it.

He gave me the power, and I took it. I leaned down and kissed him, a slow, deep kiss that sealed the unspoken pact between us.

Then I pulled the leather away. He was beautiful, all lean muscle and dark tattoos, his body a map of a life I was only just beginning to read. He was mine to explore. And I was his.