The fire crackled low in the stone-ringed hearth, its flickering light casting long shadows on the cave walls and sweat-slicked skin. The storm outside had softened to a distant rumble, as if the sky itself had grown weary of its fury.
Inside, it was warm. Quiet. Still.
Val and Yara lay tangled together in the heap of furs and discarded cloaks, their breaths slowly evening out in the hush that followed something primal, something irrevocable.
Her head rested against his chest, rising and falling with the slow thrum of his heart. His hand, strong and warm, lay across her back, fingers unconsciously tracing circles on her spine.
There was no regret in the silence.
Only tenderness—and a flicker of awkwardness that came when everything changed.
Yara swallowed hard, acutely aware of every part of her body that touched his. She shifted slightly, and a faint hiss escaped her lips. Her muscles ached in places she hadn't known could ache—deep places.
