The room was dim, lit only by the low crackle of firelight licking across the stone hearth. The scent of herbs still clung to the air — sage, pine, something bitter. Elias had come and gone, after one last temperature check. He'd bring her a fresh tonic when she woke.
Finric hadn't responded with words. Just a sharp nod, jaw set, eyes locked on the sleeping form curled beneath a thick blanket.
He waited until the door clicked shut again.
Then he exhaled, long and slow.
Nova lay still, lashes dark against her cheeks, lips parted just enough to draw shallow breaths. Her skin was flushed from the fever, strands of silver-blonde hair clinging to her temple, her collarbone. She looked too delicate like this. Like something left out in a storm.
Finric reached for the edge of the blanket and carefully pulled it back.
Her clothes were damp. Fever-sweat soaked through the fabric, clinging to her skin. Elias had said she needed to be warm. Dry. Resting.
Finric hesitated — just for a second.
Then he moved.
One hand braced gently behind her neck. The other worked at the buttons of her shirt. Slow. Careful. Nova didn't stir — except for a soft exhale when the fabric slipped down her shoulder.
Down to her bra.
Then her tight pants — peeled away, slow and clinical. She was left in just the thin black fabric thong, heat still rising off her body like the last breath of a dying fire.
He didn't linger.
He undressed quietly, down to his briefs, and pulled back the blankets.
Then, with infinite care, he gathered her on top of him.
Nova's body was too light. She barely stirred as he shifted her onto him, so her head rested against his chest, her ear above his heart, her cheek against warm skin. He looped his arms around her tightly.
And then he just… breathed.
Long, even draws of her scent. Vanilla. Moonlight.
She smelled like home.
His thumb moved in slow circles over her spine, tracing the dip where her ribs thinned toward her waist.
She shifted once in her sleep — a soft twitch — and curled just slightly tighter against him, her leg brushing his.
He swallowed hard.
His chest ached in ways he hadn't felt since he was a boy — before the crown, before the blood, before all of it. This wasn't about power. Or mates. Or prophecy.
This was the part of him that had died once and was waking up.
"I'm sorry I messed up the first day," he whispered into her hair. "But I'll get this. I promise."
He kissed the top of her head. She didn't stir.
"I'll fix this." He said.
He didn't move or sleep.
He just held her.