Chapter 12: Reunion in Ruins
The quiet that settled after Ithan’s departure was a fragile, humming thing. Aria stood motionless in the center of her room, the canvas-wrapped Firegard still clutched in her hand. The brush of Dae’s lips on her hair was a fading ghost of warmth. Practicalities were supposed to come next.Clothes. Schedules. Saying goodbye to the wolves Ithan would assign.
The bond, so long strained by distance, pain, and healing, snapped.
It was a purely physical reflex, a backlash of released tension. Dae moved first. One second he was by the window; the next, his body was a solid line of heat against her back, his arms locking around her waist. The cloth-wrapped sword thudded to the floor, forgotten.
“Aria.” Her name was a raw scrape against her ear.Not a request. A claim.
She turned in his arms, her hands flying to his face. The desperation she’d been holding at bay for weeks—months—flooded out, a dam breaking. She grabbed two fistfuls of his white t-shirt and yanked him down, crushing her mouth to his.
It wasn’t gentle. It was a collision.
His tongue swept into her mouth, hot and demanding. The taste of him—sharp mint and something darker, uniquely his—drove a low groan from her throat. She rose on her toes, trying to get closer, but his height made it a frantic struggle. He solved it by gripping her ass with both hands and lifting her effortlessly. Her legs wrapped around his waist, the thick material of her leggings straining. Her core pressed directly against the hard, thick ridge of his erection through his infirmary pants.
He carried her the three steps to her bedroom door, never breaking the kiss. He fumbled for the lock, his new hand awkward for a second before the mechanism clicked with finality.Safe. Sealed. Alone.
Then he was moving again, carrying her to the bed. He didn’t lay her down gently. He tumbled onto the mattress with her, his weight driving the air from her lungs in a satisfying rush. They were a tangle of limbs, of frantic hands. Months of stolen, chaste kisses in corridor shadows, weeks of watching him waste away in a cell, days of fearing his death had sanded away any pretense of patience. Need was a live wire between them, sparking and dangerous.
He broke the kiss to wrench his shirt over his head. The muscles of his chest and abdomen were defined, pale in the soft light, but her eyes went instantly to his right shoulder. The new arm moved with perfect fluidity as he tossed the shirt aside. The skin was flawless, unmarred, as if the terrible wound had been a fever dream. A miracle she’d paid for. The sight of it whole, of him whole, ignited something desperate and possessive in her gut.
Her own clothes were a frustration. He growled against her neck, his teeth scraping the sensitive skin where her shoulder met her throat. “Off. Now.”
She wrestled with the hem of her own shirt, but he was faster. His hands—both of them, the familiar left and the miraculous right—closed on the neckline of her soft tank top. With a sound of tearing fabric, he ripped it straight down the middle. Cool air kissed her skin, followed an instant later by the heat of his palms covering her breasts through her lace bra. The thin cups strained against her full curves.
“Fuck, Aria,” he breathed, hazel eyes dark with hunger as he looked down at her. He palmed her, his thumbs rasping over her hard nipples. The sensation shot straight to her core, making her clench around nothing. She arched into his touch, a whimper escaping her.
He dispensed with the bra just as ruthlessly, the clasp giving way under his insistence. Her breasts spilled into his hands, heavy and full. He bent his head, his mouth closing over one peaked nipple. He sucked hard, tongue circling, teeth grazing. The bolt of pleasure was so sharp it bordered on pain. She cried out, her fingers tangling in his sandy hair, holding him to her. His other hand kneaded her other breast, pinching and rolling the nipple between his fingers. The dual assault lit up her nervous system, a feedback loop of pure sensation.
His free hand—the new one—slid down her belly, over the soft curve of her stomach, and hooked into the waistband of her leggings and underwear. He tugged, the material resisting for a second before yielding. He pulled them down her thighs in one rough motion. The cool air hit her wetness, a shocking contrast.
He moved off her just long enough to strip the rest of her clothes away and shove his own infirmary pants and boxers down his hips. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, curving slightly upward. It was slick already at the tip. The sight of it, after so long imagining, sent a jolt of pure lust through her.
He didn’t give her time to look. He came over her again, settling between her spread thighs. The blunt head of his cock nudged against her entrance, slipping through her wetness. He was breathing hard, his forehead pressed to hers. His hazel eyes were wild, the pupils swallowed by black.
“Tell me you want this,” he gritted out, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. “Tell me, or I stop.”
“Yes,” she gasped, lifting her hips. “God, Dae, please.”
It was all the permission he needed. He drove into her.
There was no slow slide, no gentle accommodation. He filled her in one deep, punishing thrust, burying himself to the hilt. The stretch was immense, shocking, perfect. A ragged shout tore from her throat. It wasn’t pain—her body was more than ready for him—it was the sheer, overwhelming relief of fullness, of connection, after so much emptiness.
He went still for a heartbeat, buried inside her, his whole body rigid. “Aria,” he choked, as if her name was a prayer and a curse.
Then he moved.
He withdrew almost all the way and slammed back in. The force of it scooted her up the mattress. He set a relentless, brutal pace from the start, each thrust punching the air from her lungs. The bedframe groaned in protest. This wasn’t making love. This was claiming, marking, confirming they were both alive and whole and his. It was a physical conversation, raw and obscene and necessary.
“You,” he grunted, pistoning into her, “almost died.” Thrust. “For me.” Thrust. “You hollowed yourself out.” Thrust. “I felt it.” Thrust. “I felt you fading.” His voice broke. He leaned down, capturing her mouth again, swallowing her moans. The kiss was sloppy, frantic. “Never again,” he snarled against her lips. “You hear me? You are mine to protect. Not the other way around.”
She clawed at his back, her blunt nails scoring his skin. “You’re an idiot,” she gasped, bucking her hips to meet his plunging cock. “It goes… ah… both ways.” She pulled his head down to whisper filth directly into his ear, the words raw and sticky. “Now fuck me harder, Prince. Show me what your new arm is good for.”
A dark, feral sound rumbled in his chest. He shifted his weight, bracing himself on his left forearm. His new right hand snaked down between their sweat-slicked bodies. His fingers found her clit, already swollen and aching. He didn’t tease. He pressed the pad of his thumb directly onto the tight, sensitive bud and rubbed in harsh, rapid circles.
The combined assault—the deep, driving penetration and the precise, ruthless pressure on her clit—unmade her. Her vision whited out at the edges. Pleasure coiled, tight and unbearable, low in her belly.
“Dae… I’m going to…”
“Come,” he commanded, his breath hot on her neck. His thrusts became shorter, harder, losing all rhythm as he chased his own peak. “Come on my cock. Let me feel it.”
It detonated. The orgasm ripped through her like the silver fire she’d wielded, seismic and blinding. Her inner muscles clenched around him in violent, rhythmic spasms. She screamed, a raw, unfiltered sound she didn’t recognize as her own.
The fierce, tightening grip of her around him was his undoing. With a guttural roar, he buried himself to the root and shuddered, his release pumping hot and deep inside her. He collapsed on top of her, his full weight pinning her to the damp sheets, his face buried in the crook of her neck.
For long minutes, the only sounds were their ragged, slowing breaths and the frantic beating of their hearts. The air smelled of sex and sweat and them.
Slowly, sensation returned. The ache between her thighs was a delicious throb. The weight of him was a comfort. The bond, which had been a screaming torrent of need, was now a deep, satiated hum.
He finally rolled off her, pulling her with him so she lay half on his chest. His new arm came around her, holding her close. They lay in the wreckage of her bed, in the silence of her room.
His fingers traced idle patterns on her bare back. “We didn’t pack a ballgown,” he said, his voice rough but threaded with amusement.
Aria snorted, a soft, exhausted sound. “Priorities.” She tilted her head to look at him. His eyes were closed, but a faint, real smile played on his lips. The harsh lines of tension she’d grown used to were softened. She reached up with one hand, touching his right shoulder. The skin was warm, real. “Does it… feel the same?”
He opened his eyes, meeting her gaze. He flexed the arm around her. “It feels like it was always there. But stronger, maybe.” He paused, his expression turning serious. “It aches sometimes. A deep ache, like a phantom of the pain you took away.”
She kissed his shoulder, her lips lingering on the unmarred skin. “We’ll figure it out.”
He was quiet for a moment. “They’ll see you as a weakness,” he said, the words quiet in the dim room. “The wolf pet of the broken prince. A distraction. They won’t understand the Firegard. They won’t understand you.”
“Let them think what they want,” she murmured, her eyelids growing heavy. The crash after the adrenaline and orgasm was pulling her down. “Right up until they don’t.”
He held her tighter. “Sleep,” he whispered. “We leave at first light.”
The last thing she felt before sleep claimed her was the steady, strong beat of his heart under her ear, and the solid, unshakeable reality of his new arm keeping her safe.
She woke to the unfamiliar weight of an arm draped over her waist and the even warmer unfamiliarity of deep, undisturbed sleep. Sunlight, thin and pale, cut through a gap in her curtains and striped across Dae’s bare back. For a single, disorienting moment, the panic of a strange bed and a strange body gripped her. Then the hum of the bond settled in her chest, a low, contented thrum, and the memory of the night washed over her—the desperation, the release, the raw sound he’d made into her skin.
She shifted slightly, and a pleasant ache bloomed between her thighs. A soreness lingered in her muscles, a catalog of the previous hours written into her flesh. Dae murmured something unintelligible in his sleep, his new arm pulling her tighter against him. The skin of his shoulder was flawless under her fingertips, a stark, impossible contrast to the scarred and calloused palm of his left hand resting near her breast. She lay there, listening to him breathe, trying to memorize the feel of this peace before the world crashed back in.
A sharp knock at the door shattered the quiet.
“Aria? It’s Knuckle. Prime says wheels up in thirty.” The wolf’s gruff voice was unmistakable. “You decent?”
Dae’s eyes snapped open. The hazel was clouded with sleep for only a second before sharpening into focus. He looked at her, at the door, then back at her. A lazy, possessive smile touched his mouth. “Doubt it,” he called back, his voice raspy.
Aria elbowed him in the ribs. “We’re up!” she yelled, her face heating. “Give us ten!”
They disentangled themselves, the warm cocoon of sheets giving way to the chill of the room. Moving felt like wading through thick water. She slid from the bed, her body protesting, and gathered the torn remains of her tank top from the floor. Dae sat up, running a hand through his disastrous hair, watching her pad naked to her dresser.
“I could get used to that view,” he said.
She tossed the shredded fabric at his head. “Get dressed. You have a kingdom to claim.”
The next twenty minutes were a blur of pulled-on clothes and hasty packing. Aria operated on pure, frantic instinct, yanking drawers open and dumping their contents into a series of large black suitcases open on her floor. Jeans, t-shirts, hoodies, leggings—it all went in. She wasn’t thinking about court etiquette or Fae fashion. She was thinking about comfort, about having pieces of home she could wear when the gowns and the politics became too much.
Dae, having only the clothes he’d arrived in—which were still stained with blood and grime—borrowed a pair of Ithan’s sweatpants and a pack t-shirt that strained across his shoulders. He moved around her room, a quiet, efficient presence, folding a few items she’d missed and checking the window.
“Did you just pack like six suitcases of…jeans and t-shirts and Converse and Vans?” Dae asked, eyeing three of the six open cases now overflowing with casual wear.
“Noooo,” she said, now sitting on the suitcase filled with sneakers, trying to get it to zip. The damn thing bulged ominously. “The other three have dresses and jewelry and heels and makeup.”
He crouched beside her, applying his weight to the lid. The zipper groaned, then finally closed. “You realize Avallen is an island, not a desert island. They have stores.”
“They don’t have my stuff,” she muttered, standing and surveying the battlefield of her room. A weird, hollow feeling was opening up in her chest. This was it. She was leaving. She grabbed her journal from the desk and shoved it into a side pocket of the nearest bag.
Another knock, this time followed by the door opening. Knuckle filled the doorway, his massive frame blocking the light from the hall. Behind him stood Track, leaner and sharper, her dark eyes taking in the scene with unnerving acuity. Both were dressed for travel in dark, tactical-style clothing.
“Convoy’s ready,” Knuckle said, his gaze flicking to Dae, then back to Aria. No judgment, just assessment. “Prime’s at the main door.”
Track’s eyes landed on the canvas-wrapped bundle leaning against the wall. “That the famous toothpick?”
“Something like that,” Aria said, hefting the Firegard. It felt heavier today, or maybe she was just weaker.
Dae took two of the suitcases, his new arm handling the weight without a flicker of strain. Knuckle wordlessly took three more. Track picked up the last one and the canvas bundle, cradling the sword with surprising reverence. The procession felt funeral. Aria took one last look at her room—the bed still tangled, the posters on the wall, the empty drawers—and followed them out, closing the door on a life that already felt like it belonged to someone else.
The main entrance of the Pack House was a gallery of tense silence. Ithan stood at the center of the vaulted space, dressed in his Prime’s leathers, arms crossed. A small cluster of pack warriors lingered near the walls, their postures alert, watching the Fae contingent assembled by the doors. Ruhn was there, talking quietly with a tall, severe-looking Fae female in polished armor—Captain? Commander? Aria didn’t know. Bryce and Hunt were conspicuously absent, likely already back in Lunathion dealing with their own fallout.
Ithan’s eyes found her immediately. They tracked from her face, down to her simple leggings and sweater, to the packed suitcases, and finally to Dae standing just behind her, a silent guard. His expression was carved from stone, but the grief in his green eyes was a living thing.
“Knuckle. Track,” Ithan said, his voice carrying in the hall. “Your orders are simple. You protect her. You report to her. You bring her home in one piece.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice so only their small circle could hear. “If that court gets its fangs into her, you call me. Immediately.”
Both wolves dipped their chins in a sharp nod. “Understood, Prime,” Track said.
Ithan then turned to Aria. The stone mask cracked. He pulled her into a hug so tight she felt her ribs creak. He smelled of pine and leather and home. “You call every night,” he whispered fiercely into her hair. “You feel a single bad vibe, you get on a damn boat. You are a Holstrom. You don’t bow.”
She nodded against his chest, her throat too tight for words. When he released her, his hands stayed on her shoulders. He looked past her, at Dae. The air between the two men thickened, charged with unspoken threats and a reluctant, grinding respect.
“Keep your word,” Ithan said, the words flat and final.
Dae met his gaze, holding it. “With my life.”
Ithan gave one last, stiff nod and stepped back. The dismissal was clear. The space he left between them felt like a canyon.
Ruhn approached, his shadows subdued in the morning light. “Ship’s waiting at the marina. Quick sail to the nearest gate. We’ll be in Avallen by nightfall.” He glanced at Aria, offering a small, strained smile. “Ready for your debut?”
She looked at the suitcases, at the sword in Track’s hand, at the determined set of Dae’s jaw, and finally at the fading image of her brother standing alone in the hall. The hollow feeling in her chest filled with a cold, sharp resolve. She hefted the bag with her journal in it, the weight a manageable anchor.
“No,” she said, turning towards the doors where the Fae soldiers stood waiting. “But let’s go anyway.”
The wind off the ocean was a slap of cold, damp salt. It whipped Aria’s hair across her face the moment they stepped from the armored SUV onto the weathered wooden planks of the marina. The boat waiting for them wasn't a yacht or some elegant Fae vessel. It was a brutal, functional thing of dark steel—a cutter, Ruhn called it—all sharp angles and humming engines. It sat low in the water, looking like it could cut through anything.
“Home sweet home for the next six hours,” Dae said, his hand finding the small of her back. His touch was steadying, but his eyes were already on the deck, where his cousin and the severe Fae captain awaited.
Aria followed him up the gangway, her suitcase wheels thumping on the metal grids. The deck shifted under her feet, a subtle, rolling motion. She paused, gripping the railing. Her stomach gave a faint, uneasy lurch. “Okay,” she muttered to herself. “It’s just like a car. But wet.”
Knuckle and Track moved past her with the other bags, their sea-legs seemingly already acquired. “You’ll get used to it,” Track said, not unkindly. “Or you won’t. Then it gets really messy.”
They were ushered inside, down a narrow corridor of riveted grey steel, to a small common room with bench seating bolted to the floor. Windows showed the churning, green-grey water of the bay. The engines’ vibration was a constant buzz in the metal, deep in her bones. Aria sat beside Dae, clutching her bag with the journal in it like a talisman. Ruhn leaned against a doorway, looking tense. The captain—Lyr, she’d heard someone say—gave a sharp order from the bridge, and the vibrations intensified.
The cutter slid away from the dock with a powerful surge. Through the window, Aria watched the land shrink, the Pack House becoming a speck on the cliffside. The hollow feeling returned, carved a little deeper. Then the boat hit the open sea.
It was a different motion altogether. Not a gentle roll, but a violent, corkscrewing pitch. The bow rose on a swell, hung for a nauseating second, then slammed down with a shudder that rattled her teeth. Up. Down. Sideways. Her stomach tightened in immediate, violent protest.
“Oh, no,” Aria breathed, her knuckles going white on the seat edge.
Dae looked at her. “Not a fan of maritime travel?”
She swallowed hard. A cold sweat was pricking at her hairline. “It’s… bouncy.”
Another swell lifted the boat and dropped it. Her stomach sloshed, a hot, acidic wave rising in her throat. She clapped a hand over her mouth. The cabin, which had smelled of diesel and stale coffee, suddenly seemed overwhelmingly pungent. The thick scent of Track’s leather jacket, the faint ozone of Fae magic, even the clean smell of Dae’s skin—it all curdled into a nauseating cocktail.
“You’re turning green,” Track observed from across the room, her head tilted. “Definitely the messy option.”
“Helpful,” Aria groaned, closing her eyes. But that was worse. The darkness behind her lids amplified every sickening lurch and drop.
Dae shifted, putting an arm around her shoulders. “Breathe through your nose. Look at the horizon.” He tried to guide her face toward the window.
“The horizon is trying to kill me,” she muttered, but she opened her eyes. The fixed line of grey sea meeting greyer sky did nothing. Her stomach clenched like a fist. Saliva flooded her mouth. This was beyond dizziness. This was a mutiny.
“I need air,” she gasped, lurching to her feet. The boat pitched violently at that exact moment. She stumbled, colliding with Dae. He caught her, but the motion had sealed her fate.
She barely made it to the deck railing. Leaning over the churning water, she lost the minimal breakfast she’d managed to eat. It was a humiliating, violent process that left her shaking and spitting. Cold salt spray misted her face, mixing with tears of frustration. She heaved until there was nothing left, until her muscles ached.
A large, warm hand settled between her shoulder blades. Knuckle. He held her hair back from her face without a word. When she was finally spent, sagging against the cold rail, he offered a canteen. “Rinse,” he grunted.
She did, the clean water a blessing. She became aware of Dae standing guard a few feet away, his body blocking the view from the bridge windows. His expression was a mix of concern and something else—a protective fierceness that would brook no laughter from his crew.
“All right?” he asked softly, approaching as Knuckle stepped back.
“Peachy,” she croaked, wiping her mouth with the back of a trembling hand. The boat continued its vicious dance beneath her feet. The nausea, temporarily relieved, was already coiling back in her gut, a sullen promise of more to come. “I think my stomach and I are formally filing for divorce.”
A faint smile touched his lips. He shrugged out of his borrowed jacket—Ithan’s jacket—and draped it over her shoulders. It was huge on her, swallowing her frame, but it held his warmth. “Come on. Let’s get you out of the spray.”
He led her not back inside, but toward the stern, finding a more sheltered spot tucked behind a large storage locker. It was still cold, and the motion was just as brutal, but the wind was less direct. He sat against the steel bulkhead and pulled her down between his legs, her back to his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, locking her against the solid wall of his body.
“Try to move with it,” he murmured into her hair, his new right arm snug around her midsection. “Don’t fight the boat. Be loose.”
She was taut as a bowstring, every muscle braced against the next lurch. His breathing was steady at her back, a rhythm she tried to mimic. Slowly, incrementally, she forced herself to relax into his hold. The world narrowed to the chill air, the growl of the engines, the relentless rise and fall, and the anchor-point of his body grounding her.
Hours bled together. She dozed fitfully, woken each time by a particularly violent roll. He never let go. At one point, Ruhn appeared with a box of saltine crackers and a sympathetic wince. “Captain says we’re hitting the cross-currents. It gets rougher before it calms.”
Aria just groaned and buried her face against Dae’s chest.
The roughness was a living beast. The cutter slammed into waves, shuddering through its entire length. Spray constantly soaked the deck. Aria lost the crackers. She was shivering uncontrollably now, a miserable, sodden, empty husk of a person wrapped in a damp jacket. The fierce wolf who had wielded god-killing fire was reduced to this: a queasy, trembling girl who hated the sea with every fiber of her being.
“I’m never doing this again,” she mumbled into his shirt. “We’re taking a plane home. Or a bridge. You can build a bridge.”
Dae’s chest vibrated with a quiet laugh. He rested his chin on top of her head. “Noted. For the record, you’re the worst sailor I’ve ever met. And I’ve known some truly pathetic Fae.”
“Your confidence is overwhelming,” she muttered. But a tiny, weak smile touched her lips. Even here, wretched and sick, he was with her. The bond hummed a low, steady tune of presence.
Finally, after an eternity, the violent pitching gradually lessened. The sea’s fury settled into a more predictable, heavy roll. The green-grey water began to change, taking on a peculiar, milky turquoise hue. A strange, heavy stillness permeated the air, muffling the engine sounds.
“We’re entering the mists,” Dae said, his voice hushed. “Avallen’s ward.”
Aria forced herself to look. A wall of pure, opaque white fog loomed ahead, reaching from the sea surface into the low clouds. It was unnatural, dense as cotton. The cutter slowed, engines dropping to a murmur, and slipped into the blank whiteness. Sound died. The world vanished. There was only the milk-white mist, the gentle lap of water against the hull, and Dae’s steady heartbeat against her back.
Then, they were through.
The mist fell away like a curtain dropping. Sunlight, gold and clear, washed over the deck. The air was suddenly warmer, smelling of exotic flowers and rich, damp earth. Before them, rising from a sea of impossible aquamarine, was an island of soaring, crystalline cliffs and emerald forests. Nestled atop the highest cliff, glinting in the sun like a sharpened tooth, was a palace of pale silver stone and glittering glass.
Avallen.
The sickness in Aria’s stomach didn’t vanish, but it solidified, twisting into something new. Dread. Anticipation. The sheer, intimidating beauty of the place stole her breath. This was the viper pit. This was his home.
Dae’s arms tightened around her. He pressed a kiss to her temple, his lips lingering. His voice, when he spoke, was low and thick with a complex emotion she couldn’t name.
“Welcome to my prison,” he said.