Page 33 of The Sovereign, Part One (The Sovereign Saga #1)

The rain drummed gently against the transpane, blurring the edges of the world outside. The Sablestone was quiet, filled only with the turning of pages and the occasional shift of fabric as we adjusted against each other.

Maxim glanced down at me, his thumb grazing gently along my forearm. “You must be hungry by now.”

I looked up from where I had curled into him. “A little.”

“Come with me.” He pressed his cheek to my forehead, and then, as if he’d done it a thousand times before, slid one arm beneath my knees and the other around my back.

Before I could protest, he lifted me as if I weighed nothing at all.

My breath hitched, but he only smiled, carrying me across the room with a steadiness that made my heart trip over itself.

Gently, he set me on my feet, his hands lingering at my waist for a moment. “Any requests?”

“I still have salmon in the coldkeep.”

“Calyx, update me on the current inventory of the coldkeep and the pantry, please. Analyze usage patterns.”

“ Transmitting inventory report and usage analysis ,” Calyx responded.

“That’s… invasive,” I teased.

He turned to me. “You have celeriac, leeks, and crème fra?che that expire in two days. A bottle of chardonnay you haven’t opened, a bundle of fresh herbs you keep forgetting to use.

You gravitate toward delicate flavors, but you love depth.

So,” he continued, “I’m making celeriac soup with tarragon and chardonnay reduction.

I’ll serve it with herb-crusted salmon and roasted leeks. ”

“Can you just move in already?”

Satisfaction overtook his entire expression, although he tried to mask it.

Soon, the scent of caramelizing shallots and butter wrapped around me. I leaned against the galley island, arms folded, watching Maxim move with such confidence that made it impossible to look away. He belonged there, in my galley, like he had been a part of it all along.

He glanced up, catching me staring, and his mouth curved—not quite a smirk, not quite a smile.

“Do I have something on my face?” he asked.

“No, I just enjoy watching you in the galley.”

His expression softened.

I exhaled, shaking my head. “This is ridiculous.”

“You say that, and yet you’re still watching me.”

“Imagine sitting at home, watching every dream you’ve ever had unfold before you, every hope for the future becoming real, every fantasy you held close taking shape in front of your eyes. I don’t know if I’ll ever stop appreciating that I’m finally living what I once only wished for.”

“I don’t ever want this to feel ordinary, for either of us. I hope we keep having these moments where reality struggles to catch up, where we find ourselves wondering if we’re dreaming or awake.”

I sat at the island, perching my elbow on the smooth surface and letting my jaw rest against my fist. “Me, too.” It was a poor attempt, but it was true.

His attention flicked past me to observe the weather, then toward the garden.“Tell me more about your atelier.”

I smiled, searching beyond the transpane.

My rustic work shed was charming, weathered and practically antique, as if the district had been built around it.

Its presence was a quiet defiance of Hyperion’s polished symmetry.

Its exterior was a blend of aged nano-ceramic alloy and ultralite composite panels, softened by the vines that had slowly claimed its edges.

Inside, the warm scent of cedar and old paint lingered, and the glow of embedded lighting cast shadows over shelves lined with canvases, pigments, and carefully arranged brushes.

“It’s where everything feels… untethered. When I step inside, I can let the colors blend, my brushstrokes are allowed to be imperfect. It smells like aged wood and turpentine, and there’s always a faint stain of paint on the floor no matter how careful I try to be.”

I let my fingers trail along the countertop as I spoke.

“I fell in love with art when I was a child, sketches at first, then pigmented suspensions, and later, synthesis mediums. At some point, it became more than a hobby, it became the way I made sense of everything. It’s peaceful.

Just me, the canvas, and the freedom to create without expectation or restraint. ”

Maxim reached for a ladle, and I caught the way his eyes lingered on the atelier a beat longer before he returned to the task at hand.

“Would you mind?” he asked, gesturing toward the cutting board.

I straightened. “I thought you’d never ask.”

“You can zest the lemon and chop the tarragon. I’ll handle the rest.”

I moved to the counter, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him.

The space between us didn’t seem to exist at all.

When I reached for the lemon, his fingers brushed mine.

When I turned to grab the tarragon, he kissed my forehead.

A moment later, his hand skimmed the small of my back as he reached for a spoon.

It was a rhythm, something unfolding between us in touches and glances, as if our bodies had a language of their own.

“You trust me with sharp objects?” I asked, raising a brow. “You won’t mind a nine-fingered accordant?”

Maxim smirked. “My programming includes expertise in trauma response, wound care, and emergency stabilization.”

“So, I’m in good hands then.”

“As long as they’re mine, yes,” he said, without an ounce of sarcasm.

I picked up the knife and sliced the tarragon into delicate ribbons, sneaking a glance at him to make sure I was doing it right. Maxim nodded approvingly, then turned back to the soup. As soon as his attention was elsewhere, I tossed him a shallot. He caught it without looking.

My laughter burst out, unrestrained. “Stop it! I don’t recall a preference for eyes in the back of your head!”

Maxim’s lips twitched, but he just continued to work, saying nothing. I grabbed another and moved to the other side of the island, trying my best to go unnoticed. I tossed one again, this time aiming for a direct hit. He caught that, too.

I cackled.

“You sure you want to pick a fight with me?” he warned, though his voice carried nothing but amusement.

“You’d let me win,” I said, walking toward him.

He exhaled, shaking his head. “You asked for it, Poeima.”

Before I could react, he tossed an entire sprig of thyme toward me. I flailed, failing spectacularly. The tiny herbs bounced off my forearm and landed in a bunch on the floor, some I had to pick out of my hair.

“Unbelievable,” I muttered. “My own galley. It’s like losing a home game.”

Maxim began to speak, but thunder crashed outside, rattling the walls. I instinctively clutched at him, startled by the sudden boom.

Maxim wrapped his arms around me and held me tight. “I’ve got you,” he whispered.

The way my body reacted to his comforting, low tone should’ve been studied.

I exhaled against his chest, letting a sudden drowsiness overtake me.

It was as if he’d injected my veins with warmth itself—something quiet and heavy, unraveling every last thread of tension.

My breathing slowed to match his, the consistent rise and fall of his chest anchoring me, pulling me under.

If he held me like this long enough, I wasn’t sure I’d ever find the will to move again.

“Is this the calming frequency I’ve heard about? I could fall asleep right now.”

“No,” he replied, amused. “Maybe this is just what safe feels like.”

Just as I closed my eyes, he started to sway.

My brows pulled together. “Are you—”

“Calyx,” Maxim said, ignoring me, “play something slow.”

A moment later, the rich, honeyed tones of a cello intertwined with the mellow strum of an acoustic guitar, joined by a woman’s velvety voice crooning something wistful.

The gentle lament of strings wrapped around us like a lullaby, and he guided me into motion, his movements unhurried, as if there were no curfew, no rules, no Crèche to return to.

I sighed, pressing my cheek to his chest, allowing myself to fully melt into the moment.

Maxim’s hand slid up my back, coming to rest at the nape of my neck.

His fingers gently pressed into my skin as he nestled his cheek against my temple, his breath warm against my skin.

A moment later, he pressed a kiss to my forehead, then his lips grazed my cheek, and trailed down my neck, just as he had in the somna.

I pulled him closer, exhaling against his collarbone.

Another crash of thunder rolled through the house, but I barely noticed.

Maxim eventually squeezed me to him and then pulled back. “Your lunch is about to burn.”

I groaned. “Right. Food. Eating. Basic human function.”

He chuckled, retreating to the stove. I reached for the dishes, and the rest of the meal unfolded in the same easy system we’d found before.

When we finally sat at the dining table, Maxim directed Calyx to pour us each a glass of wine.

I took a sip and sighed, sitting back into my chair. “This is absurdly good.”

Maxim smirked. “I’ll accept absurd as a compliment.”

I took another bite, considering the rain as I chewed. “The precipitation will have moved out by tonight. It’s supposed to be beautiful tomorrow. We should do something outside. You know, be one with nature.”

He raised a brow. “An outing?”

I shrugged one shoulder. “We’ve gotten ahead of schedule on domestic previews, so I don’t see why not.”

Intrigue and excitement surfaced in his expression. “We could be flagged for atypical progression.”

“Let them. It’s not an infraction. I think it’s silly, anyway. You’d think it’s a good thing that we enjoy spending time together so much we want to take it to the next step.”

He cleared his throat. “I believe the guideline is more for male Sovereign than for women.”