Page 231 of The Devil May Care

“I prefer to think it was fate.” I press my mouth to the smooth line of his pectoral. “The universe already knew you were mine.”

The moment the word slips out, I freeze, but he doesn’t. It hangs between us, soft and unintentional—and true. Something flickers behind his eyes. Not fear. Not surprise. Relief.

He presses a kiss to the hollow under my ear, humming against my skin, but all he says is, “Let me take you home, Kay. Please.”

He gathers me in his arms like I weigh nothing, like I’m precious. I don’t protest. I’m tired—bones and breath and flame, too full and too empty at once. His hand presses against my abdomen, again, low Daemari words hanging between us. When I raise a brow in question he presses his mouth to my forehead.

“None of my research indicates you could bear my child, but better safe than sorry.”

I can’t believe I didn’t think of that. I’ve never been so reckless before. Well, other than the first time, or the whole Demon rite thing. I guess that counts as reckless. I try counting back days. Have I missed a period? The man bought me goddamn tampons but I can’t remember—Caz must see the worry on my face.

“I should have thought of our… biology after our first night together, but you do not carry my child.”

I feel like I should have had a period though.

“Are you sure?” I’m not opposed to babies, but this is the absolute wrong time to even make a dumb mistake.

“Yes.” His hand goes back to my stomach and this time the knowledge seeps into my own consciousness with a surety that has to be magic. He carries me from the water, our Embermarks glows faintly on his chest and mine. Matching. Answering.

I rest my head against his shoulder and whisper, “You’re not going to let me fall, are you?”

His hold tightens. “Never.”

I believe him. The heat of the spring lingers on my skin as Caziel carries me through the still air of the Wastes. I should probably care that I’m naked, but I don’t. Caz’s glamor settles back over his skin, but I can still see the glow of his mark under the false façade. His chest rises against mine. His heartbeat’s steady, strong. Even through the glamor I can see the lines of his brand. I trace them with my fingers where they glow low on his skin. I feel a deep hum inside my own.

I wonder what it means. I wonder if I want to know.

His steps are slow, deliberate. Like he’s memorizing the path. Or maybe savoring it—this quiet return, this final passage between fire and shadow. I’m too tired to speak, but not too tired to feel. We pass the basin where it all began, steam still curling upward like smoke from a forgotten offering. I want to turn my head and watch it vanish behind us, but I don’t.

I keep my eyes on him.

And when the citadel gates finally rise before us, glowing red-gold in the night, I realize I’m holding my breath. He doesn’t take me back to the barracks. Doesn’t hand me over to anyone else’s care. Instead, he carries me up the winding stairs of the Ember Spire, past guards who look away politely, past shadows that hush as we pass.

Straight to his chambers. His home. Somehow, it feels like mine too.

He lowers me gently onto the massive bed, all soft furs and dark linen, the air still faintly spiced with smoke and cedar. I sit there, blinking up at him, suddenly unsure what to do with myself.

“I should—” I start, but he crouches in front of me, hands on my knees, eyes dark and steady.

“No shoulds,” he says quietly. “Just rest.”

I study his face. The sharpness of it. The quiet undercurrent of worry still lingering in his gaze.

“You okay?” I ask.

The question surprises him. “You’re the one who—”

“I know,” I say. “But you always carry so much. I just… I want to know if you’re alright.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Then he leans forward and presses his forehead to mine.

“I’ve never been moreokaythan I am in this moment. I doubt I ever will be again.”

His voice is low. Honest. A little raw. I nod, throat tight, and shift to sit cross-legged on the bed. He moves beside me, reaching for one of the blankets to pull over us. And for a while, that’s all we do. Lie side by side in silence, our breaths syncing, our hands barely touching beneath the covers. I want to say something. To thank him. To tell him I’ve never felt more seen, more wanted, more real.

But the words won’t come. Not the right ones.

Instead, I curl into his side and whisper, “You smell like the spring.”