That night, Kael refused to let her out of his arms.
The den was silent, wolves sleeping uneasily, but Kael pulled her into the furs, his body hot against hers, his lips finding her with desperate hunger.
"It may be our last night," he whispered, his green eyes fierce, his voice rough with truth.
Her heart cracked. "Then make it count."
His kiss was fire, his touch worship. Every scar, every curve, every trembling breath—he claimed them all, branding her as his with lips and hands and body. Their passion burned long into the night, flames licking along their skin, the den glowing gold.
When she cried his name, it was not only pleasure. It was vow. When he whispered hers, it was prayer.
And when the fire dimmed, they lay tangled together, his forehead pressed to hers, his breath hot against her lips.
"If I fall tomorrow," he whispered, "find me again."
Her tears spilled, her fire flickering faintly. "Always."