The heavy oak doors of the royal bedchamber hadn't just closed; they had sealed the rest of the world away. Outside, the Spire was a fortress of stone and war, but inside, the air was thick with the scent of crushed jasmine and the metallic tang of ancient magic.
Lucian didn't break the kiss as he moved her toward the bed, his hands possessive and urgent. Every time his skin brushed hers, a spark of violet light flickered between them— a physical manifestation of the bond that had been forged in the fire of the Sun-Eater's fall. The amethyst mark above Lyra's heart was pulsing, not with pain, but with a rhythmic, low-frequency hum that seemed to vibrate in Lucian's very bones.
"I can feel you," Lyra gasped against his lips, her hands clutching the dark silk of his tunic. "It's not just the touch, Lucian. I can feel your heart... I can feel the hunger."
