Page 90 of Lustling

“I thought we were under attack,” Deimos mutters, stalking inside. His eyes flick over us—my bare shoulders, Cassiel’s torn expression—and something in him stills. Narrows. “Wait. You…”

He squints, suspicion sharpening.

“Oh,” Bastion drawls, catching on first. “Oh.” His grin widens, feral. “You bonded.”

Cassiel shuts his eyes, exhaling through his nose like he’s begging for divine execution.

I smirk, unapologetic, tugging the sheet up over my chest. I meet Deimos’s stare head-on, unflinching. “Yes. We did.”

Deimos lets out a low, stunned breath, then shrugs. “Guess it was bound to happen eventually.”

Cassiel groans louder, dragging a pillow over his face. “Please stop talking.”

But Bastion only leans in, elbow braced on the bed frame, his grin vicious. “No, no. I need to savor this. So…” He gestures between us. “Was it the wings? The silent devotion? The fact that he cries after orgasms?—”

“I do not,” Cassiel snaps, hurling the pillow at him without looking.

Bastion catches it easily, twirling it once. “Oh, you definitely do now. You’re bonded. That means you get the sacred right of post-bonding mockery.”

Deimos shakes his head and turns for the hall. “I’m getting a drink.”

“Good idea,” Bastion says brightly. “Maybe bring something for the happy couple. You know. To replenish.”

The door swings shut behind them, muffling their bickering.

Cassiel exhales hard, dragging me tighter against him. His chest is a steady rise and fall beneath my cheek.

“You okay?” I murmur, echoing his earlier words.

His eyes remain shut, but his voice is raw. “Yeah. It’s just… I’ve never felt anything like that.”

“Me neither,” I whisper.

His hand finds mine, weaving our fingers together, binding flesh over the bond that already sings between us. “Do you regret it?”

I pause, let the silence stretch. Let the truth anchor into me. “No,” I say finally, voice soft but steady. “I think… it was always meant to happen. We just didn’t see it yet.”

His eyes open, silver still glowing faintly, and he studies me like I’m the only holy thing left in the world. The bond humsbetween us—quiet, eternal, like a vow written in fire across the bones of fate.

FIFTY-FOUR

I’ve been a little distant since I bonded with Cassiel. Not enough to draw questions. Not yet. At least, I don’t think they’ve noticed.

Deimos is pacing, violet eyes sharp, thoughts already three steps into wars not yet fought. Bastion sits hunched over his blades, cleaning blood from the grooves with a cloth that’s already stained, each stroke precise and ritualistic. Cassiel is silent by the hearth, face shadowed in the flicker of flame, sitting like a man still trying to pray to a god he already knows is dead.

They’re planning. Preparing. Sharpening themselves for Zepharion.

But all I see is fire. All I feel is death.Theirdeaths. Because of me.

The weight presses in until my lungs can’t expand properly. Even when the hearth fire dies down, the fortress air tastes of ash, smoke curling phantom-thick at the back of my throat.

They can’t die for me. Not them. Not this way.

I force my gaze toward them anyway, try to pretend I belong here—in their war room, in their battle, in their future. My lips curve in time with their words, but my thoughts wander elsewhere. To coffins. To ruins. To endings.

And then I feel it. That slow, deliberate heat.

Deimos.