Page 44 of Returned to the Vissigroth (The Vissigroths of Leander #6)

B y all rights, I should have been dead on my feet.

My legs ached, my shoulders screamed, and the furs on the bed looked like they had been spun by gods specifically for me.

But I knew I wouldn’t sleep. Not now. Not with everything still buzzing under my skin.

My blood was too loud. My heart refused to slow down.

I was wired, alive, full of fire and memory.

“Daphne,” Mallack began the moment the tent flap sealed behind us.

I didn’t let him finish.

If the past hours had taught me anything, it was how quickly everything could fall apart. How short a breath stretched between life and death. How easy it was to waste time you thought you had more of. I turned to face him, pulse thudding in my ears, and let the words rise, raw and real.

“I love you.”

He froze mid-step, mid-breath—his whole body went still as if the words had struck something sacred in him.

“I think I’ve always loved you,” I said, my voice steady despite the flood inside me. “Even before I remembered. I still don’t remember my life before… but I remember our love.”

He didn’t move for a heartbeat. Then another. And then?—

His whole face changed. The worry, the tension, the age carved by grief and battle— it all lifted, and in its place came light. Pure, undiluted light. His eyes softened like the sun rising over the Icelands, and before I could even take another breath, he closed the space between us.

Two strides. That was all it took. Then his hands were at my waist, strong and warm and anchoring, and his mouth crashed down onto mine.

The kiss was everything I couldn’t remember—and somehow, it was everything I did.

It wasn’t soft, not hesitant. It was a claiming, a reunion, a prayer in motion. His lips moved against mine with hunger and reverence, like he was trying to memorize every angle, every gasp, every part of me he thought was lost.

My fingers tangled in his hair as he deepened the kiss. His arms wrapped tighter, pulling me flush against his chest, and the feel of him—solid and alive and mine—unraveled something deep in me.

He tasted like desperation and promise. Like all the things we never got to say. Like ash and victory and the wind of the Pyme peaks still clinging to his skin.

My body remembered this even if my mind didn’t. The way he held me like I was breakable but indestructible at once. The way our mouths found a rhythm older than either of us. The way his breath hitched when I bit his bottom lip—just enough to remind him I wasn’t afraid.

When we finally parted, we were both breathless.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he whispered against my skin.

“You did,” I breathed back. “But I came back. For you.”

His thumb brushed along my jaw, reverent. “Fraysa herself couldn’t have crafted a more perfect seffy.”

“You’re biased,” I murmured.

“Utterly,” he agreed, and kissed me again—this time slower, deeper, like he meant to stay in that moment until the world forgot time existed. Like it was the first and the last time.

We stood there, breathless from the kiss, our foreheads pressed together, the heat of it still seared into my lips. My heart hadn’t slowed; it beat with a kind of frantic knowing, like something ancient was waking inside it. Like it remembered what I almost lost.

Mallack's hands trembled at my waist. Not from weakness. From restraint. From everything he wasn’t saying.

He stepped back slowly, his gaze locked to mine, and in it was everything he wasn't able to say.

I read torment and awe dancing in his eyes.

Then, with deliberate purpose, he dropped to his knees in front of me.

The world stilled.

This was not a gesture of apology, or even adoration. It was something else entirely. Reverence. Surrender.

“Mallack?” I whispered, startled by the crack in my voice.

His head bowed for only a breath, then lifted. He reached for my hand and placed it atop his head. His skin was warm beneath my fingers, warmer than it should have been. Alive with something... divine.

“You’re mine,” he said, hoarse with emotion. “From the moment I saw you— truly saw you—I’ve belonged to you.”

I couldn’t speak. The words tangled in my throat. He reached for my other hand and placed it over his heart. I felt it pounding wildly beneath my palm, like it was echoing my own.

“I tried to live without you,” he said. “I tried to carry on. For our son. For duty. But a part of me was always down there in the dark with you.”

I shook my head as tears blurred my vision.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he continued, voice raw. “I’m not asking for vows. I’m not demanding fate. I just need you to know, Daphne, I would kneel a thousand times over if it meant you’d stay.”

His words settled deep into my bones. Deeper than anything ever had. I didn’t know how I knew it—whether it was memory, instinct, or something whispered into my blood by the gods themselves—but I did know: the Leanders had three sacred mating rituals.

The first was the binding of the bodies—a public vow, often blessed by an elder or priest, where the couple swore their love and devotion to one another before witnesses.

The second and third were performed in private.

The second was a ceremony of submission, where both partners offered themselves wholly to the other. It was the binding of the minds, an act of trust and surrender, deeper than any physical bond.

The third was the binding of the souls, performed at one of Fraysa’s shrines. Together, the couple would light a candle from the Eternal Flame and swear that they would find one another in the next life, and the next—that their souls were joined from now until eternity.

The rituals didn’t have to be completed in any specific order, but this was the way it was most often done.

And right then, in that moment, I felt the second binding fall into place.

He was submitting himself to me. My heart hammered inside my chest in anticipation and willingness.

I knew we had done this before, not just before I…

died the last time, but before that. And before that.

He was my heart and soul, my mind and blood. Had always been and always would be.

And then I felt it.

A soft shimmer in the air. A warmth, brushing my cheek like a breath. A glimmering veil—barely there, like sunlight caught in frost—unfolded around us.

Fraysa’s veil.

The goddess’s blessing.

I gasped, and Mallack looked up at me with wonder, his lips parted as the shimmer bathed us. His shoulders straightened. But he didn’t rise.

“You are mine,” he said again, quieter this time. “And I am yours. Not because of the rituals. Not because of fate. Because we choose it. Again and again.”

I dropped to my knees in front of him, cupping his face with both hands.

“I do choose you, and I always will,” I whispered. “Every time. In every life. Even if I forget again, even if I lose myself, I will always find you.”

His eyes closed briefly, as if he was absorbing the words like light into his skin.

The veil shimmered brighter. The air around us hummed with something too sacred to name.

He leaned forward and kissed me again, not in hunger this time, but in devotion. His lips moved, slow and reverent, like he was savoring every second. Like this was the first kiss, and maybe the last.

And when we finally pulled apart, still kneeling, still wrapped in each other, the only thing that existed was the truth between us: We were no longer two broken souls.

We were one.

My body hummed as Mallack solemnly rose from his knees, each movement a sacred vow. The glow of Fraysa’s veil lingered faintly in the air between us, like stardust reluctant to fade.

“I need you,” he breathed against my skin, his words a warm caress at my temple.

“I’m yours,” I whispered, feeling an ancient force stir within me, something primordial and profound, far deeper than mere desire, devotion, or fate.

I turned away from him with deliberate languor, my back to him, a silent invitation.

Looking over my shoulder, I caught the exact moment his breath hitched as I began to disrobe, my blouse falling away like a shed skin.

His eyes widened with realization, and a raw, hungry need etched itself onto his face.

This was my surrender, my ancient, sacred offering.

With nimble fingers, he opened the fastenings of his drawers, pushed out of his boots, and let it all fall to the ground, followed by his shredded shirt.

Then his hands began a slow descent down my arms, tracing the curves of my body as if molding me from clay.

I could feel his heat, solid and unyielding, a bastion of strength at my back.

His fingers brushed against my hips, resting for a moment beneath my ribs as he stepped closer, his chest pressed against my spine, his breath felt warm on my neck.

A possessive yet gentle hand moved to the base of my throat; his touch ignited sparks across my skin.

“You’re sure?” he rasped, his voice sounded ragged, filled with a symphony of restraint.

“I’m not afraid of you,” I assured him, pressing back into his embrace. “I remember enough to know I never was.”

A low growl rumbled in his throat and vibrated against my back.

His hand tightened ever so slightly, anchoring me as I leaned forward, bracing my hands on the cool stone table near the bed.

A ceremonial offering bowl lay forgotten, pushed aside in our fervor—Fraysa forgive us.

Yet, I knew the gods would understand our primal dance.

When his other hand slipped around and dipped between my thighs, he found me slick and ready. A soft, almost reverent groan escaped him, as if he’d discovered a long-lost treasure, precious and rare.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured, his voice a gentle caress.