(Flashback)
He was asleep again.
Curled into the mess of blankets we never quite made right, one hand curled loosely near his cheek, the other resting on my pillow like it belonged to him. Moonlight poured in through the wide windows, throwing silver onto his pale lashes, the arc of his cheekbone, the slight part of his lips.
And I couldn't look away.
I sat beside him, cross-legged on the mattress, slowly combing my fingers through his soft white hair. He always relaxed under my touch—his brow smoothing out, breathing deepening, even in sleep. It made me want to never stop.
Gods, he was beautiful.
Beautiful in that too-fragile, too-deliberate way the labs had created him, yes—but also something else. Something that was entirely his. The slight twitch of his brows when he dreamed. The ghost of a smile when I whispered his name in the dark. The way he clung to me without shame or hesitation.
He was more than perfect. He was real.
And he was mine.
The thought hit me like a flush of heat—ridiculous, giddy, a little foolish. But I didn't push it away.
He told me he was jealous.
Jealous.
Nine, who was still relearning how to have wants of his own. Who barely ever spoke his desires aloud unless they were rooted in instinct or need. He hadn't tried to suppress it or twist it into obedience—he'd felt something and told me.
And then sat there sulking in a blanket like a territorial little storm cloud.
I covered my mouth with one hand to keep from laughing. Not because it was funny exactly—but because I didn't know what else to do with the warm, aching thing spreading through my chest. Nyx was no help, preening contentedly inside me like a wolf who'd been handed a prize mate and a kingdom all in one.
He was jealous, she hummed. Of your attention. Of others looking at you. Isn't it lovely?
It was. It was more than lovely.
Because he'd wanted me. Not because I gave him safety or warmth or orders—but because I smiled at someone else and he wanted that smile for himself.
There was something disarming about it. Humbling.
I reached down and gently traced the shell of his ear, then let my fingers drift down his jaw, careful not to wake him. His skin was warm under my touch, his expression unguarded in a way that made me ache with something I didn't have words for.
The mating mark on his neck had started glowing again.
Faint but there. Like it had simply been waiting for him to stop suppressing it. Like it had been holding its breath.
And now it pulsed, slow and steady, in time with the beat of our bond.
I bent forward and kissed just beneath it. He murmured something in his sleep—my name, I thought—and turned his face toward me without waking.
"I love you," I whispered, just to say it. Just because I could.
Because for all the blood and bone I'd spilled to reach this place—for all the power I held and the horror I'd inherited—it was this that made me feel like something in the world had finally, finally aligned.
Not the throne.
Not the orders.
Not even the revenge.
Just him. Asleep beside me. Breathing like I was the air he trusted to keep him alive.
I stroked his hair again, then let my hand settle on his back, content to just stay there.
Let the moonlight come.
Let the world wait.
Right now, I was exactly where I wanted to be.