Esalyn's hand automatically reaches for her son's shoulder, her fingers gentle as they stroke his hair. The protectiveness in her gesture is familiar now—I've witnessed countless variations of it over these past days. She might appear delicate, but there's steel in her spine when it comes to Erisen.
"And what's this one for?" I ask, pointing to the wooden creature I carved him days ago—a stylized batlaz with exaggerated features that sits prominently among his collection.
"He watches over everything," Erisen explains, patting the rough-hewn figure with reverence. "He's the guardian."
Something lodges in my throat at the simple trust in his voice. This child who's known nothing but flight and fear still finds room for belief in guardians and protection. His eyes—so similar to mine in color yet unmarked by violence—begin to droop as he arranges his treasures in intricate patterns.
I don't notice when he falls asleep, his body gradually leaning against my side until his weight settles fully against me. His head rests near my knee, one small hand still curled possessively around the wooden batlaz. The trust in this unconscious gesture staggers me. Children have always given me a wide berth, instinctively sensing the violence that clings to my skin like a second shadow.
But not this one. Not Erisen.
Looking down at his peaceful face, another boy's features overlay his—dark hair, gold eyes, gentle spirit. Zevan used to fall asleep the same way, head dropping mid-conversation when he was small. The memory doesn't bring the usual knife-twist of pain. Instead, it settles like a warm weight beside the present moment.
With careful movements, I gather Erisen into my arms. He weighs almost nothing, this half-demon child with his mother's resilience and none of his father's cruelty. His head lolls against my shoulder, trusting even in sleep. I carry him to the narrow bed pushed against the wall, easing him onto the thin mattress before pulling the patched blankets up to his chin.
His fingers refuse to release the wooden batlaz, so I tuck it under the covers with him. Standing there, watching his chest rise and fall with each breath, I'm struck by how easily someone could take all this away. How fragile this peace truly is. How temporary.
When I turn, Esalyn is watching us from across the room. Her face is partially shadowed, making her expression unreadable, but there's tension in the line of her shoulders. She holds my gaze for a long moment before tilting her head toward the door, a silent invitation to step outside as we usually do now.
I follow, careful to keep my footfalls quiet around Erisen's sleeping form. Whatever waits in her silence, I know this moment of peace has reached its breaking point.
The night air wraps around us, thick with the scent of pending rain. Esalyn pulls the door closed behind her with practiced quiet—the same careful movement I've watched her perfect for days, always alert, always protective. The soft click might as well be thunder in the silence between us.
I open my mouth to speak, but the words die in my throat as she crosses the short distance between us. There's determination in her step, fear in her eyes, and something else—something hungry that mirrors what I've been fighting in myself since I first laid eyes on her.
Her fingers brush my jaw, feather-light and tentative. Then her lips find mine.
The kiss is soft, almost hesitant. A question more than a claim. Her mouth tastes faintly sweet, like the meadowmint tea we'd shared earlier. Heat blooms in my chest, spreading outward until my skin feels too tight to contain it. Time stretches, suspended in this unexpected moment of connection, before she pulls away.
Fear flashes across her face—the instinctive recoil of someone who's learned that reaching for what she wants invites punishment. Her body tenses, ready to retreat, to apologize, to reclaim the careful distance we've maintained all these days.
I don't let her run.
My hand lifts to cup her face, calloused thumb brushing the curve of her cheek. Her skin is softer than I'd imagined in thosemoments when I'd allowed myself to wonder. I hold her steady, anchoring her in place while her eyes search mine for rejection that won't come.
"Esalyn," I say, her name a rough whisper in the darkness.
The tension doesn't leave her, but something shifts in her gaze. Resolution replaces fear. She doesn't look away, doesn't apologize for wanting. This is the same steel I've glimpsed beneath her careful façade—the unwavering core that's kept her and her son alive against impossible odds.
When I lean in to reclaim her mouth, hunger overtakes restraint.
My lips find hers with none of her earlier hesitation. My free hand curves around her waist, drawing her closer until I feel the heat of her body through the thin fabric of her dress. She makes a small sound against my mouth—surprise melting into something deeper—and her hands come up to grip my shoulders.
I kiss her like I've wanted to since I first saw her in the marketplace, hair hidden beneath a scarf, eyes downcast but ever-watchful. I kiss her like I've needed to since watching her brush Erisen's hair from his forehead with such tenderness it made my chest ache.
Her fingers tangle in my hair, tugging just enough to send electricity down my spine. I back her against the wall beside the door, careful not to trap her, but needing to feel her body aligned with mine. Her breath catches, and I pull back just enough to read her expression.
No fear there now. Only heat and a fierce want that matches the inferno building in my veins.
"I shouldn't—" she begins, but her hands contradict her words, sliding down to press against my chest, not pushing away but exploring the contours beneath my shirt.
"Do you want me to stop?" I ask, voice rough with restraint.
Her teeth catch her bottom lip, and the sight nearly undoes all my control. "No," she whispers. "But I don't understand?—"
I silence her with another kiss, deeper this time. Her mouth opens beneath mine, and I trace the seam of her lips with my tongue, drinking in her responsive shiver. She tastes like longing and possibility, dangerous and sweet. Something primal in me wants to claim, to mark, to make clear to anyone who might come looking that she belongs to someone now.
The thought jolts me back to reality.
