Page 133 of Stolen
I cannot.
Jules—my Myrrin, my viyella, myzharaya—is draped across my chest like she belongs there.
Because she does.
Her scent, wild and familiar, is laced with the heady truth that we are no longer just two souls bound by magic and choice.
We are more. A true family now.
The healer confirmed what my own instincts, and the zareth already whispered to me.
My mate carries our young.
Twins born of Dragon and heart, of shadow and hope.
Of love I never believed I was worthy of until her.
I press a reverent kiss to her forehead and feel her smile in her sleep.
Gods, she’s radiant.
Fierce and soft. Flame and stone. Mortal and magic.
The ache I feel looking at her is so vast I don’t know how to hold it all inside. I want to fight every enemy, burn every realm, and silence every whisper that might suggest she does not belong.
That she is not everything.
That she is not meant to rule beside me.
That our young are anything but miracles.
Screw them all.
Jules is the best thing that ever happened to me and I will spend eternity proving it to her.
And to that, that means I must make sure she is safe. Protected. Always.
Carefully, I slide from beneath her and pull the silk sheets over her bare skin.
She murmurs my name but doesn’t wake.
I move to the center of the chamber and raise my palms.
With words in the old tongue, I call forth the sacred wards—the same ones carved into the stone of The Eyrie centuries ago by the first Lords of Nightfall.
Sigils of protection and permanence. Of belonging. Of bloodline.
My silver fire licks the corners of the room as the magic seals into place, shimmering silver and red and gold.
No harm will touch her here.
Not while I breathe. Not while I burn.
When I’m finished, I return to our bed, gathering her close again.
Her head finds its home in the curve of my throat.
And I let myself breathe.
