Page 98 of The Threads Between

I fisted my hands in his hair and pulled his mouth to mine. The kiss was savage, graceless, my teeth catching his lip, my body arching into his until even skin felt like too much distance. Through the bond I poured everything I had, every ounce of fury and want and refusal to lose him, until his breath shattered against my mouth.

“Then have me,” I said against his teeth. “Have all of me. I fought death for you—I'm not going anywhere.”

His hips drove deeper. Faster. His hands gripped my hips hard enough to bruise, tilting me until the angle changed and something electric lit up my spine. My vision blurred at the edges, pleasure so sharp it stole language.

“There,” I breathed. “Right there, don't stop⁠—“

“I know.” His voice was wrecked.

Through the bond, his desperation bled into mine—how close he was, how brutally he was holding himself back, waiting for me.

“I can feel exactly what this is doing to you.” His jaw clenched. His hips drove deeper. “And it's taking everything I have not to lose myself in it.”

The pleasure was building, unstoppable now. I wrapped my legs tighter around him, pulling him deeper, needing him in my very core.

His hand slipped between us. Found exactly where I needed him. “Don't close your eyes. I need to see you—to know this is real. That you're real. That I'm allowed to have this.”

I held his gaze. The wave crested. And broke.

The release tore through me—white-hot, endless, pulsing outward in waves. Through the bond, he followed a heartbeat later, my name ripped from his throat, his whole body shuddering as he poured himself into me. And because of the bond, both his release and mine, intertwined, feeding each other, crashing over us again and again.

This was what the bond meant. Not knowing what he felt—being what he felt. Two people unmade and remade into something that had no name.

We collapsed together. Still tangled. Still joined. His face buried in my neck, breath ragged against my skin. Through the bond: contentment. Bone-deep satisfaction. A peace that had not existed until this moment. We held each other. Neither of us let go.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke. We simply lay there as the pleasure slowly ebbed, leaving warmth and heaviness in its wake.

“That,” August said finally, his voice muffled against my skin, “was significantly better than strategic planning.”

I laughed. The sound surprised me, bright, real, and unburdened.

“We should probably go back downstairs.”

“Probably.” He made no move to leave. Instead he shifted, rolling to his side and pulling me with him so we lay facing each other on the narrow bed. His hand traced idle patterns on my hip. “In a moment.”

I studied his face in the afternoon light. The softness around his eyes that had not been there before. The faint curve of his mouth, not quite a smile, but close.

“You look different,” I said softly.

“I feel different.” His hand came up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Lighter. For so long there was this weight. The pendant. The corruption. My father's voice in my head, telling me what I was. And now⁠—“

He trailed off, searching for words.

“Now it's quiet,” I finished.

“Yes.” His thumb traced my cheekbone. “Quiet except for you. And that I would choose every time. For the rest of my life, I would choose the sound of you in my head over any silence.”

My heart clenched.

“I know we have a war to fight,” he said. “I know my father is coming. I know there will be blood and death and choices I cannot yet imagine. But I need you to know—whatever comes—this was worth it. You were worth it. Every moment.”

I kissed him, soft and slow, pouring everything through the bond so he would know—would feel—that it was the same for me.

When we broke apart, his eyes were bright.

“Now,” I said, “we should probably make ourselves presentable before someone comes looking.”

“Five more minutes.” He pulled me closer instead, tucking my head beneath his chin.