“Remind yourself what?”

“That you’re very dangerous for mortal women with fragile human hearts.”

“Then it’s a good thing this mortal woman is too clever to catch feelings.” His head dips, lips shaping the words against my temple. “Stop thinking so hard, Devaliant. It’s inconvenient.”

“Is this…” I struggle to find the right words. “This gentleness. Is it just part of the biological process? Soothing your partner after breaking them?”

“Rut-fever comes in waves. I’m using the time between to give aftercare to the human I just found out was a virgin and didn’t tell me.”

I make a noncommittal sound but offer no real response.

He doesn’t press, just resumes his reverent exploration of my body. Skimming his fingers over my ribs, up and down, stroking until I’m drowsy.

With a kiss on my temple, he reaches over and snags a small glass bottle from the collection on the rim of the bath. “Drink all of this,” he says, pressing it into my hand.

I uncap it and sniff. The scent is medicinal, but not overwhelming. “What is it?”

“It’s rare for gods and humans to have children, but we’re biologically compatible. It prevents pregnancy.”

Oh. I down the entire bottle and set it aside. “Thank you.”

He returns to stroking my hair, pushing it back from my face. “Will you be mine for the rest of Aethertide? You can say no.”

I was prepared to reestablish boundaries, build up my walls, and return to my room. But the way he’s touching me—speaking to me—is so careful that I’m not ready to let it go. When was the last time someone took care of me like this? Let me be wild?

“Yes.” I settle my hand over his. “Do you need me again?”

I feel his smile against my nape. His breathing quickens with excitement. “In a few minutes. And again after that. Until neither of us can move.”

When the Wolf deems me sufficiently clean, he dries me off and settles me in his bed. The mattress dips as he slides in beside me.

He feels like safety, like shelter. And I’m too strung out and sex-stupid to question the complicated tangle of feelings I shouldn’t have for the god who’s going to kill me.

So when he rolls me under him, spreading my thighs with his knee, I let him.

He takes his time with me, drawing out every sigh and moan. Sucking bruises into my skin as he fucks into me, nice and deep and slow, like he’s savoring me this time. I lose myself to the hazy pleasure of it. To the filthy words he breathes into my skin, to the sweet ache building between my thighs.

He maps my reactions—every hitch in my breathing, the helpless arch of my spine. And when he’s wrung every drop of ecstasy from me, he hauls me into his lap and starts all over again. It’s too much. It’s not nearly enough.

When he finally pulls me on top of him, spent and satisfied, he says, “During Aethertide, I’m Evander.”

“Just Aethertide?”

He’s quiet for a long moment, his heart thudding under my ear. “Just Aethertide,” he says, very softly.

A few days to have this. To pretend this is something simple. Where I’m not a Devaliant, and he’s not my executioner.

You look like someone I’d keep, if you were anyone but you.

“Then I’m Bryony,” I whisper back.

He shuts his eyes and gathers me closer against him. “Night, Bryony.”

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34

EVANDER

I WAKE UP to cold sheets.

Of course, Bryony bailed as soon as the fever dimmed, and I managed to fall asleep. Who could blame her? I’ve been fucking her all night, touching her in ways I have no right to, saying too much in my half-mad delirium.

You look like someone I’d keep.

And I need her underneath me again.

Her scent pulls me to the gardens. The stars bleed light across the sky, the aetherlight casting everything in shades of teal. Thousands of stars fall like rain.

My skin is too hot now. The rut-fever is burning through my veins after the reprieve, a relentless drumbeat—need, want, take. Need, want, take. Drowning out everything else.

Her scent catches me halfway down the path—jasmine and dark spice, the lingering traces of sex. My magic is saturated in her skin. When rut has me in its grip, everything is primal, and last night, I wanted to mark her up all over. Claim her as mine.

I round the corner and stop.

She perches on a crumbling wall, one leg dangling over the edge, the other tucked under her. That sheer slip she’s wearing is practically useless. I can see the bite marks on her throat and the bruises I sucked onto her collarbone—handiwork I couldn’t bring myself to heal just yet.

I watch her. Doesn’t matter how many times I see this girl, the same thing always happens: it’s like a knife to the chest every time.

She shouldn’t matter to me. To an Eternal, mortals are ephemeral. But Bryony Devaliant? She’s shrapnel. She’s nails and broken glass, and I can’t dig her out of me, no matter how deep I cut. Some girls, once under your skin, can never be carved out. Not without taking pieces of you with them.

“You planning to stand there all night?” she asks, still studying the colors dancing above us.

“Depends.” I walk closer, crossing my arms. “You planning to sit out here all night and expect me to keep my hands to myself?”

She gives a little huff. “I just needed air. To think.”

“About?”

“Some demis in Caelestis were gossiping about trouble in Hellevig. I woke up worrying about my sister.” Bryony drags a hand through her hair. “What if Theo tried to take the throne? What if she—” She stops and swallows, rubbing her hands on her thighs. “She didn’t say anything in her letters.”

I snort. “Well, if your sister knocked Idris off his throne, I’d call it an improvement.”

“Yes,” she says quietly. “He hasn’t been right since losing his daughter. And Theo keeps trying to fix everything. She always does.”

“Amara will get answers.”

“I know. I just…” She catches her lower lip between her teeth. “I hate not knowing if she’s okay. Sorry about abandoning you like that.”

“Worrying about siblings?” I shrug. “I get it.”

Honestly, her family dysfunction has nothing on mine. If Bas follows his pattern from the last two Aethertides, there’s a village in Vartena that’s about to learn what it means to be in the path of a god who’s lost his humanity. My brother hasn’t fucked in centuries. Now he just kills.

“The Blade is your brother, right?” she asks. “You never talk about him.”

I give her a tight smile. “Nothing to talk about. We don’t see each other much.” Not anymore. For three hundred years, he’s been a stranger. “You and I have unfinished business, and you’re not going to get out of it by bringing up Bastien.”

“Is that so?” she asks, plucking at her chemise.

“Don’t play coy. You didn’t tell me I was your first.”

“It didn’t seem relevant.”

I swear, she’s the most deliberately obtuse creature I’ve ever met.

“Devaliant. I was half out of my mind from rut. I could’ve hurt you.”

“Please.” She rolls her eyes. “Amara’s broken practically every bone in my body daily for the last five weeks. And you’ve never cared about collateral damage before.”

“I’ve never fucked a virgin sacrifice before, either.” I drag a hand down my face, frustration spiking. “Forgive me for trying out this novel concept called giving a shit.”

She lets out an incredulous laugh. “Oh, so now that the post-coital glow has faded, you care? How many times were you inside me last night, again?”

I’m not answering that question. I lost count. The only reason she’s still able to move is because I keep healing her so I can have her again.