The chamber Silaneth led them to was small—bare stone walls, a glowing sigil of protection above the door, and a single bed carved into the obsidian floor, with soft silks spread across it like a forgotten royal offering.
Anya stared at it.
Corven blinked. "One bed."
She didn't answer.
"You can have it. I'll sleep on the floor," he offered, already pulling off his coat.
No. She came in, shoving him out of the way. "It's fine. I won't spontaneously combust if we share the same mattress."
His lips twisted. "You sure? You're actually on fire."
Anya didn't crack a smile. She sat on the bed and looked up at him. "Corven. Sit."
The bite in her voice took away his sneer. He sat, beside her, close but cautious.
She wheeled about, her face a mask. "That mark on your palm. The god-mark. Did you know?"
He frowned. "No."
"Swear it."
"I swear," he answered promptly. "I did not know until Silaneth revealed it to me. I did not feel different. I did not hear voices. I did not—" He broke off. "The only thing that ever made me feel was. anger. And grief. And obligation.".
She stared at him, searching his face for a glimmer of dishonesty. But all she saw was that same infuriating sincerity he wore when he wasn't actually trying to get on her nerves.
He released a breath. "If my father knew… he didn't say anything to me. Or made me forget. That's not uncommon, you know."
She nodded slowly, her voice softer. "You're my tamer."
He stiffened.
"My dragon," she continued, "never quiets for anyone. Not even for my father. But when you're around… it listens. It leans."
Corven's forehead creased. "What does that have to do with anything?"
"It means," she whispered, "that when you're around, I don't feel like I'm one misstep away from setting the world on fire."
He said nothing.
She stood before him whole. "So now what, Corven? You're god-marked. I'm an apocalypse on legs. You're bound to me. And we share a bed."
A tight silence fell.
Then—
Corven's hand rose and pushed the lock of hair back behind her ear. "Then perhaps. we stop pretending we don't like that."
Anya's breath hung in the air.
His hand was against her jaw. His eyes skimmed hers, not for permission, but for truth. She gave it him with a glance.
He came forward.
They kissed—tenderly to start with, almost demure. A creeping pressure of fire against restraint. Then she changed, pushing in harder, and he did likewise in turn—hunger, replete with pent-up suffering.
Clothing slipped away with surprising gentleness. His shirt first—her fingers charted the unbroken flesh where rents used to rest. She bit into the hollow in his throat, where his pulse hammered a heavy beat. He shivered against her.
"You're like smoke and lemon," he whispered, biting her collarbone. "It's addictive."
"And you're like danger," she breathed back, tracing her lips along his chest, "but look at me here."
They leaned back against the silks, arms and legs wrapped around each other, breathing more quickly. Her legs were wrapped around his waist as his mouth moved from her lips to her throat, down to her chest, where he kissed her reverently, worshipfully.
Her hand crept to the top of his trousers and pushed inside, and he groaned in her neck as her hand wrapped around him.
"You're playing a dangerous game," he growled, rolling them so she was beneath him.
"I'm not playing," she whispered. "I'm choosing."
She guided him to her, and when he entered her, it was not frantic—it was deliberate. Slow. Deep.
Her flame danced about them but didn't burn. Glowed, red and gold, licking the walls but burning not. Corven moved around her as if he'd been made to do this very thing—ground, stabilize, counter her flame with something just as deadly: love.
He kissed her as if she mattered. Touched her as if she was sacred.
Anya moaned, bending beneath him, raking claws down his back. She sensed the cord between them tightening, sensed her dragon stirring—not with hunger, but with serenity.
And when she orgasmed, she cried out his name—not in anger or rebellion, but in awe.
Corven came after, growling deep in her ear, pressing his face into her neck, whispering her name as if it was all he'd ever known.
They stayed that way, wrapped in flame and breath, until the fire dwindled to an ember.
Anya rested her forehead on his.
"I think I'm in trouble," she breathed.
He smiled, eyes still closed. "You've been trouble since the day we met."
She laughed, warm and exhausted. "We can't go back after this, can we?"
"No," he breathed. "We're bound now."
He didn't mean the vowshroud.
And she didn't need to ask what he meant.
Because her dragon growled in the depths of her heart.
And exhaled a single word:
Mine.The room grew still, save for Corven's even breath.
Anya settled back into the silk sheets, her own body thrumming with their combined heat. She gazed down at him—one arm slung over her waist, lashes scattered across his cheeks, peaceful in a way she'd never seen him before.
But her mind would not rest.
The memory shard pulsed where she'd hidden it—beneath the folds of her cloak.
She rose, slipping off the bed. Bare feet made no sound on the cold stone floor. The shard glowed as she reached for it.
A breath. And then she shattered it in her palm.
The world fell away.
Fire. Gold. Screaming stars.
Anya stood in a room not her own. There was a woman by a cradle—tall, cloaked in billowing red and edged in black, her hair wind-and-starlight-tousled. The baby inside the cradle glimmered softly. Anya saw the pendant lying on its chest.
Her pendant.
The woman whispered, "They shall take her, but you must let her go. Bury her in the house of silence. Let her forget. Let her live."
A new figure appeared. A man clothed in divine armor, face hidden behind a golden mask.
"You will never see her again.".
The woman leaned, her lips to the baby's forehead. "Then I give her my flame. Let it burn through the lies."
The memory ripped itself free.
Anya gasped, stumbling back into the here and now.
She was shaking. She felt tears on the brink of spilling down her face, but she did not let them fall.
My mother gave me up. Not in fear—but so I could scorch the world that kept her imprisoned.
"Anya?"
Corven's voice behind her, sleep-rough and wary.
She turned.
He sat up, naked, rumpled, and glowering. "What did you do?"
"I saw her," she panted. "My real mother. She wasn't hiding me. She was planting me. A seed to kill the gods' roots."
Corven stood, eyes darkening. "And didn't see fit to tell me?"
"You think you're owed everything?" she spat. "You didn't even know you were god-marked!"
"I said I didn't know!" he roared.
"And you think I should just take your word for it?"
His face set in a hard line. "You don't trust me?"
"I don't trust anyone," she snarled. "Everyone lies. Even you."
He stepped closer to her, chest heaving rapidly. "You think I'm one of the gods? Like your father? I've lost blood for you. I nearly died for you."
She pushed him. "And now you're bound to me like a leash. What if that is not merely godly design?"
"You wish to reduce everything to ashes, Anya?" he growled. "Burning me too. Burn me, for holy sake."
Their eyes locked—feral, blazing, broken.
And they crashed together like fire and storm.
He pushed her into the wall, lips meeting hers in a savage kiss that was hot with fury and ash. Her fingers scraped down his back, digging deeply enough to leave bloody lines. He snarled into her mouth, biting her bottom lip.
She bit him back.
Blood.
They broke apart just long enough to look—her blood on his tongue, his on hers.
Something broke.
A thread.
Their connection sparked.
Her eyes flashed—molten gold, his deep crimson. For a moment, they exchanged. She saw through his anger, his grief, his longing. He felt her loneliness, her anger, her wild need for someone to stay.
They gasped, both reeling from the explosion of emotion—and then he grabbed her up by the thighs and slammed her against the wall, driving into her with a fury that matched her fire.
She gasped, biting down on his shoulder as her legs wrapped around him, holding him in place. He plunged deeper, pushing her against the stone as their bodies slammed together time and again.
There was no softness. No control.
Just heat and hunger and the terrible truth that they could destroy each other and crave more.
She pulled his hair, yanking his head back for another kiss—slower but no less ferocious. Their tongues were tangled together, sticky with blood and hunger, their hearts open now—feelings spilling between them with every glide of hips, every gasp.
He pressed his forehead into hers, trying to catch his breath. "I hate that I want you this much."
"Have it then," she snarled. "All of it."
He crashed against her again, rough, rough, grunting as she cinched tight around him.
She screamed his name as she spilled, fire flaring in back of her eyes, the knot shuddering in her heart.
He joined, choking out her name, holding her against him as to let her go would kill him.
They slid back between sheets, panting, battered, nipped.
Their eyes once again turned from a crazy to a normal shade.
But their connection did not fade.
It throbbed.
Alive.
Stronger.
And for the first time… terrifying.