Then I lock it away. Recenter myself in the weight of my Chosen, broken but breathing in my lap.

“If I get the Devaliant’s weapons,” Bastien says, “it doesn’t mean I approve of her and you.”

A laugh escapes me. “Damn me, but I can’t wait until someone comes along and cracks open that frozen wasteland you call a heart. I’ll enjoy every second of watching you lose your shit.”

Bastien doesn’t so much as blink, but the temperature plummets another ten degrees. “Unlikely. But given an infinite timeline, I suppose anything is possible.” He turns toward the door. “Try not to choke on your arrogance before she finishes martyring herself for you.”

“She needs new clothes,” I call after him. “Let the servants know.”

“Enjoy being chained to the bed.”

“Love you too.”

The door snicks shut.

In the silence, there’s only the rasp of Bryony’s breathing, the drum of her heart against my chest. Pain brackets her mouth. I measure each shift against me, each half-muffled whimper, and feed her the dregs of my magic in careful, measured pulses. Knitting together the splintered places, soothing the hurts.

Healing is delicate work. I’d barely had time to master it as an Eternal before the war started, but I always struggled with the complexity of it. The balance of using power to mend and soothe rather than rend and burn. It feels clumsy, this language of tenderness. The syllables are strange after so many centuries of knowing only carnage.

But I learned it for her.

When Bryony’s lashes finally flutter open, I slump against the headboard in relief. “There you are. Thought I’d lost you for a minute.”

“You know I’m too stubborn to die.” Her voice sounds raw, so I push a little power into her vocal cords to soothe the ache.

“One of your best qualities,” I tell her.

She’s quiet for a long moment. “Evander?”

“Hmm?”

“Can you… Can you use the deeper healing for the rest? The kind that feels good. I want it the way it’s meant to be.”

There’s an unbearable vulnerability in the request. The trust of laying down her armor when she’s weakest. How many ways can you unravel a god, I wonder? Rip out all the rotting viscera, scoop out the fetid snarls of him, and fill the void with softness and grace.

What a dangerous thing, to hand a wolf the knife and trust he won’t cut. That he’ll mend instead of mangle.

“Okay,” I tell her. “Settle against me since I can’t put my hands on you. I’m going to need you to help me out of my shirt first, all right? The more skin contact we have, the easier this will go.”

Bryony shifts in my lap, reaching for the fastenings between my wings, making quick work of them. Her hands map the skin she’s uncovering. Tracing over my abs, my pecs, with a deliberate sort of slowness that borders on reverent.

Absolute menace, this girl.

“Enough teasing. Lean against me and let me work.”

She nuzzles her head against my shoulder.

I rest my cheek against her hair and just… breathe. Calm and steady. It’s harder to reach for my power. The shackles have choked it down to guttering embers, but I still feel the spark. It takes more concentration to stoke it higher, hotter, to turn it into something I can use.

Fire sears me with the first surge I push into Bryony. I clench my teeth through the wave and shove the pain down deep. That’s a hurt to deal with when she’s not counting on me.

Because what’s one more lashing for my Chosen?

So I flood every corner of myself with light and heat, with the intent to heal, to soothe, to pleasure—

My girl relaxes as I work, giving herself over to it completely. Letting me in. Slow and measured, feeding power into her veins. Her lungs. The secret shadowed places carved out by hurt. I trail heat and honey-gold light over her hurts in a reverent touch. Sealing split skin. Soothing the contusions, learning the shape and texture of each as I coax it to fade. Easing the aches.

I drag more power up from that bottomless well inside me and let it sink through layers of dermis and hypodermis, encouraging sluggish blood to reroute. Coaxing splintered bone to fuse, ligaments and cartilage to stitch back together. The internal bleeding takes more concentrated effort.

My magic floods the bond. Stroking, igniting, leaving shuddering ecstasy in its wake. Her breath catches as pleasure winds her up. Each rock and grind of her hips against my cock stoking the fire building low in my gut.

There’s a fierce sort of pride in pushing her to this point. A savage triumph in the knowledge that every shudder and moan is because of me. I did that. I made her feel that.

Bryony throws her head back as she shatters. A choked cry escapes her lips.

“That’s it.” I brush the words against her temple. “Ride it out for me.”

Seeing her lost to bliss, to the wildfire of my magic moving inside her, is nearly enough to undo me. The most exquisite torture.

I could lose myself in this. In watching her and knowing I’m the only one who’s given her this pleasure. I’m the only one who’s seen the expression on Bryony Devaliant’s face when she lets go.

Minutes go by as she shudders through the aftershocks. Her now healed skin sheened in sweat, gilded by the dying firelight.

“I can’t believe you.” Her words slur together. “You were holding out on me.”

I grin. “The offer was always on the table. Not my fault you never took me up on it.”

A soft huff of laughter. “So, how much of your power does Alexios’ leash usually let you access?”

“Usually? About half my full strength. But with these?” The chains clink as I rattle them. “Ten percent, if I’m being generous.”

Her brows shoot up, eyes wide. “Wait. Are you telling me that mind-melting orgasm was you at ten percent?”

“Mmhm. You have no idea the things I’m going to do to you when I have access to all of me.”

Desire floods the bond, hot and hungry. “When these chains come off,” she says, “you won’t leave our bed for a week. I have plans.”

Our bed.

Two words said so simply. As if it’s already an inevitability, the pair of us tangled up in each other long after the dust of this ordeal settles. An unthinking promise of a shared after.

Something squeezes in my chest, too big to be contained even in the body of a god. I need her. I need to be inside her.

“Go.” I jerk my chin toward the bathing chamber. “Get yourself cleaned up. Then you’re going to come back to this bed and let me fuck you until we break it.”

A little shiver goes through her. She slides off my lap and pads into the adjoining room, leaving the door open—because of course she does. My Chosen delights in tormenting me.

She’s barely over the threshold before she’s shucking off her torn clothes. My breath catches at the sight of her. The elegant taper of her waist, her gorgeous tits, those long legs. She turns the tap for the tub, and steaming water pours forth, and she gives me a view of that luscious ass, and it’s…

It’s the kind of sight that could bring a god to his knees.

Suddenly, I understand the appeal of worship. The base, primitive urge to prostrate myself at her feet and serve her pleasure until she forgets everything but me. My cock. My touch. My mouth.

The metal edges of the shackles dig into my wrists as I flex my hands, nearly driven out of my mind with the visceral need to feel all that wet, warm skin and lay my claim a thousand different ways. I want to map her body. Learn every scar and blemish and perfect imperfection until I can trace them from memory.

In the bath, Bryony tips her head back with a sigh, rubbing soap into a lather on a washcloth and washing herself with economical motions. Somehow, that makes it worse—the complete lack of artifice, the unselfconscious way she touches herself. How she erases the remnants of the night’s brutality, like she hadn’t bled out a piece of her soul for me during that test.