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