________

  SAPHIRA

  Brightwood Manor, Hart Mountain

  The crack of an axe splitting wood tore Saphira from sleep, the sound resounding through the master bedroom of Brightwood Manor. The faintest shade of grey leaked through the gap in the damask curtains.

  She turned and found Nocturne’s place beside her empty. Her hand lingered on the sheets, feeling his still-warm indent.

  The roosters aren’t yet crowing, and he’s out chopping wood.

  With a soft yawn, she dragged herself upright, lavender hair tumbling loose around her shoulders. She peeked through the crack in the curtain.

  Nocturne stood at the chopping block, sleeves rolled up, dark hair tied back with careless efficiency. The axe rose and fell in smooth, economical arcs, each strike precise rather than the butchering strikes of a spawnslayer. A neat stack of split logs already lined the wall.

  Saphira placed her palms on the windowsill, rested her chin on top, and watched him work.

  Above: Saphira watches him work.

  Valentino found mould throughout the thermal pipes heating Firestone. Felix offered us Brightwood during the repairs. This was supposed to be a holiday for just us. A loud snore rattled through the walls, followed by the clank of armour. Instead, half of Firestone's court has followed.

  She watched as he wiped the sweat off his brow and lined up another log. His head turned towards the window—but before he could catch her staring, she pulled herself away from the view.

  He gets so smug when he catches me ogling him. With a rushed breathlessness, she dressed in the blue sundress she knew he liked. After a moment's consideration, she brushed her hair and let it fall loose. Two can play that game.

  Buckling her belt and sheathing her Mountain knife with a familiar motion, Saphira slipped from the bedroom into the corridor. Every door along the passage was closed; the scent of too many people packed into too little space lingered in the warm summer air.

  Somewhere outside, an axe struck wood with renewed force.

  He’s not slowing, she mused, the stone floor cool beneath her bare feet. Someone better stop him before he cuts down a forest. Almighty, how I've learned that it is pointless to demand that Nox do anything. As she walked, she undid the first button of her dress, enough to make him notice. But redirecting his attention—far easier.

  A loud snore shook the closest door—Rell, unmistakably. Lysander’s muffled complaint followed, sharp with sleepy irritation, and a second later came a dull thump as Lucian lobbed a pillow with a half-hearted grunt.

  Saphira stifled her laugh with her hand as she descended the grand staircase. She heard the muted clink of crockery from the kitchen as Orson began his morning preparations, and then the faint scrape of Maxine shifting furniture to accommodate more guests.

  She paused at the study door, peering through the crack to see Valentino asleep at his desk, paper in his hand, ink still drying.

  Celestine's wedding was two moons ago. I wasn't invited. Saphira's hand found the brass doorknob; the rejection still stung her thoughts. I can't imagine how Valentino felt about it all. As always, Firestone's perfectly professional Castellean—but distant from everyone.

  Hiding her frown, she shut the door with a quiet click and moved on.

  The windows and doors to the rear courtyard stood open, allowing the cool morning air to flow through the manor. For a moment, she stood in the doorway and simply watched her husband.

  His back was to her, broad beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. The muscles in his arms flexed as he lifted the axe, sweat catching the pale light along his tanned forearms. He swung and the log split cleanly in two.

  Not fair. Saphira bit her lip. I really should look away.

  Nocturne turned his head slightly, catching her in his sharp, umber gaze. A faint smirk curved his mouth as his head tilted.

  He knows exactly what he’s doing.

  Above: Happily married.

  “Enjoying the show?” His voice carried that addictive, slow mountain drawl, rich with quiet amusement as he set another log onto the block.

  “You’re rather efficient at announcing dawn,” she replied lightly, slipping on her boots and wandering closer to him. “I had no choice but to wake up and investigate the rather—” her gaze traced him unabashedly, “—shameless display.”

  Chuckling, he set the axe aside and crossed the short distance to her. With hands still warm from the work, he brushed over her waist, touching her the way he learned she liked—present, steady, tender. She let her body fall into him.

  “This is the only time of day I can get any quiet,” Nocturne murmured, tucking a loose strand of lavender hair behind her ear. “Too many people.” He exhaled, then leaned closer, his breath brushing her ear. “I’d throw you over my shoulder and carry you to our room… but there’s the matter of those paper-thin walls…”

  “Nox,” she scolded softly, pushing at his chest, though it barely shifted the solid mass beneath her palms. “Only one thing on your mind these past three months. Will you ever give me rest?”

  “Never.” He caught her wrists gently, thumbs brushing slow circles against her skin. “My little villa,” he murmured, amusement deepening his voice, “it’s hardly my fault you make restraint such a losing battle.”

  Her smile lingered—but her gaze flicked briefly toward the open doors, where voices and movement continued to drift through the waking house.

  I love him, Saphira thought, I know we both feel it, but why hasn’t he said the words to me yet? Because we're never truly alone?

  “Let’s go bathe in the river,” she whispered.

  “Are you sure?” His umber eyes searched her; a man on the edge. “You hate cold water.”

  “I know—so hurry, before I change my mind.” She spun on her heels towards the meadow before common sense dragged her back into the warmth of their bed.

  He ran—actually ran—inside.

  As she ambled through the meadow, she saw shadows shifting. She caught a glimpse of Dusty slinking through the thick grass, returning after a night of hunting. The hell leopard’s ears twitched, always alert, always watching. Dusty’s size had doubled over the spring, and now, in summer, Saphira had taken to afternoon strolls, practising Lysander’s basic commands.

  Sometimes, she would have company—Verity, when she wanted to collect herbs—but mostly she went alone. After twenty years of living in a castle, the open fields and blue sky over her felt freeing—and Nocturne granted her the wish to be free. She ran the palm of her hand over the tall grass, feeling the soft tickle of the blades on her skin.

  He shows his love through actions, not words, she reminded herself. But Almighty, I can't help but wonder what it would sound like, hearing him say those words aloud.

  Marigold’s voice echoed faintly in her memory—patience, always patience.

  She was halfway across the meadow when Nocturne caught up with her. He wrapped his cloak around her shoulders, and instantly she felt the warmth from the soft wool. He had a towel over his shoulder and Shadowrend by his side.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Above: A early morning walk.

  “I can’t believe you ran all the way inside just for a towel,” she said, her voice softening as the tease returned. “You must really want some quiet.”

  He drew his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. “What I want is to hear you make that sound again.”

  “We’re outside." The blush crept up Saphira’s neck. “Just promise me you won’t do anything too adventurous, alright?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.” His umber eyes glinted, lazy and amused. “Not unless you ask nicely.” He let the silence stretch deliberately. “Or beg,” he added, with maddening calm.

  Saphira’s mouth opened, then snapped shut. The blush climbed from her neck and up to her cheeks; she hated—hated—how her skin betrayed her.

  Dusty huffed behind her, as if in judgment.

  “I think Dusty is starting to like me,” he said lightly.

  “She’s got good taste,” Saphira replied, resting her hand briefly on Dusty’s head as they walked.

  “Focus on her training,” Nocturne murmured, his tone deepening. “If something should happen to you while you’re out walking—” He broke off with a quiet exhale.

  “Nox…” Saphira caught his hand. “What is it you’re worried about? Assassins? ‘spawn? Bandits?”

  “Yes. And there’s Forest Folk aplenty in the mountains,” Nocturne said quietly. “You could get lost. Fall into a hole—”

  “Stop.” She tugged his hand, drawing him down to her. “You’re stressing.” Her fingers slid into his beard, stroking in the way she knew steadied him. “Always carrying too much of the load.”

  “Aye.” His breath eased out slowly. He gestured ahead, voice lower now. “There’s a spot up there. It’s secluded.”

  They walked on in companionable silence, weaving through sun-dappled trees until the sound of rushing water rose to meet them. For a moment, the sound of the river swallowed everything else—the birds, the distant stir of the manor, even their own footsteps—leaving only the clean rush of moving water. Saphira nestled closer to her husband, and his hand sought hers in response.

  Dusty slowed at the edge of the clearing, ears pricking as she tested the air, muscles coiled in quiet alertness before padding forward again.

  The river came into view—clear and winding, deep in the middle, shallow near the banks. River lilies scented the air, cool and sweet against the earthy scent of moss. Dusty drifted through the grass, her large paws delicately avoiding the flowers. She stopped by the water’s edge, sniffed the air, and then lowered herself to lap.

  Secluded and alone—finally. She bit her lower lip. I've never done something so scandalous before. Does he think I'm unladylike for suggesting it? Even kissing outside still feels dangerous.

  Nocturne took his cloak from her shoulders and spread it across the soft grass. He kicked off his boots, removed his scabbard, and then—with a maddening smile—unbuckled his belt. Then, he sat before drawing her gently onto his lap. He undid her belt with one hand and yanked off each boot with a single, clean motion.

  "Are you sure?" she whispered, feeling her stomach flutter. "We're outside, we're—"

  He silenced her worries with a slow kiss, his warmth seeping through the thin layers between them. His hand settled at the small of her back, holding her close while the other slid beneath her dress, slow and familiar. Three moons after Lux, he knew exactly how to make her melt into him—and she let him, fingers curling into the fabric at his shoulders.

  “We’ve never—” Saphira broke the kiss with a breathless giggle “—never gone this far outside before.”

  "We don't have to all the way," he whispered into her ear, his fingers slowing into a gentler stroke. "Just tell me to stop."

  She nodded. He had never pushed her beyond her comfort, never once asked for more than she freely gave—but she could feel how much he held back, coiled tight beneath that careful control.

  I want to try more things, she admitted silently, but it scares me—even this almost pushes me past my limits.

  Her fingers grasped his collar, pulling him closer. For a man so dangerous, he always gave her room to retreat. Instead, she leaned in.

  As their kiss deepened, the clearing seemed to fold in around them, the bright summer air thick and quiet, as if the world itself had politely turned its back. Hidden from the crowded manor and its listening walls, she let herself melt—just a little further—into the warmth of him.

  "Is it a safe day?” he murmured near her ear.

  “No,” she breathed.

  “Understood.” His hand slid higher along her back, steadying her as she leaned closer.

  Above: A private moment.

  Her fingers tightened in his hair, curling as his hands guided her hips—and for a while, there was nothing but warmth and the private world they had built between them.

  Time softened around them—breath and river blending into a quiet rhythm as she shifted against him. He did not rush; he rarely did with her. Instead, he let her set the pace, hands steady at her waist, his touch responding to every change in her expression.

  When at last they stilled, her forehead rested beneath his chin, his arms still wrapped around her. The tension in his shoulders eased, his eyes closing briefly as he finally allowed himself to rest. She smiled—cheeks flushed, breath still warm against his throat.

  “Saph… I—” His breath caught, as if a word hovered there—then he only exhaled, tightening his arms around her instead. “I’d say that—” he panted, catching his breath, “—was worth every risk.”

  I know he loves me. He made me feel it with my body. That’s enough.

  “Yeah,” she sighed, glancing down with a crooked smile at the mess.

  “Good thing there’s a river close by.” His mouth curved as he rose, helping her to her feet. He slipped the dress over her head. “Don’t worry, out here, I can hear anyone approaching.”

  “You’re perfectly happy if someone sees me undressed while bathing,” she teased, lifting her arms, “but not when we’re—”

  “Two entirely different things,” he interrupted mildly, already scanning the tree line.

  She laughed under her breath and stepped toward the water. “I won’t go in deep—I can’t swim.”

  His hands stilled. “Wait… all this time you—?”

  “Nox,” she chuckled, wading forward, “I grew up in a tower. I’ve never gone past my belly.”

  “Swimming lessons. Horse riding. Hunting with a hell leopard,” he muttered, half to himself, half to the river as he followed. “Seven hells, woman—my list keeps growing.”

  “I’ll make it worth your while,” she said sweetly. “Unless you’d prefer Valentino teach me?”

  “You’re being a brat,” he declared, sweeping her cleanly off her feet and carrying her toward the water. “There’s a ‘no clothes’ rule when I teach someone to swim.”

  “Hmm, maybe that’s why Lucian’s been asking you for lessons.”

  “What? Lucian never—” He paused, shifted his grip, and gave her a light spank on her behind. “Don’t put ideas in the universe.”

  “Discipline is part of the curriculum now?” Saphira laughed as he set her down at the river’s edge. She dipped her toes into the water and squeaked. “Oh my—! This is freezing.”

  “Sit there,” he instructed, tone gentle but firm. “The sun will warm it soon enough.”

  She obeyed, settling onto the smooth stones where the water lapped around her thighs, washing away the mess. The cold bit sharply at first, then eased into a steady chill.

  Behind her, Nocturne stood with his arms folded, watching the river’s slow eddies as much as he watched her—his gaze never still, always counting, measuring the shadows along the bank. Then, without ceremony, he stripped and waded into the freezing water without flinching.

  Saphira’s breath caught.

  Dappled sunlight moved over the hard lines of his back—and the fresh red scar slashed across his shoulder, raw against the pale lattice of older wounds.

  He disappeared beneath the surface. A moment later, he emerged, water streaming from his hair and down the hairy planes of his chest. The corner of his mouth tilted upwards when he met Saphira's gaze.

  Typical.

  He dried himself briskly, dressed with the same efficient precision, and—without looking at her—reached for her belt knife.

  “The edge is dull,” he scolded, inspecting the blade. “You’ve been cutting roots with it again.”

  “Herbs, not roots. Verity insisted.” Saphira huffed from the water. “I thought it was okay for a little while longer.”

  “I’ve lashed a subordinate for less,” Nocturne replied tightly. A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. “Good thing it’s my job to persuade you, not punish you.”

  “Persuade me?” she teased. “Bring me a strawberry tart and we’ll discuss your chances.”

  He chuckled softly as he drew a whetstone from his belt. The humour faded as steel met stone. “Frankly, Saphira, you need to keep it sharp. The mountains don’t forgive sloppiness—and neither do its people.”

  She watched him a moment, the river curling around her waist. A flicker of irritation rose—not at him, but at being reminded of danger. “I understand you,” she said at last, softer but steady. “I’ll keep it sharp.”

  "Thank you," he murmured.

  Slow, rhythmic strokes whispered through the trees, the sound steadying both her and Nocturne. In the water, she leaned back on her elbows, feeling the warm sun on her bare skin. She closed her eyes and felt the breeze tease along her shoulders.

  Above: Bathing in the river.

  Never in this lifetime did I imagine I’d be bathing naked in a stream. She glanced back at Nocturne, catching the way his focus faltered—one moment scanning the shadows, the next lingering on her where the light caught every curve. I wonder if he feels it too—how precious these moments are.

  Saphira pretended to bask in the sun while her gaze betrayed her. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, forearms taut as he worked the blade with maddening precision.

  Almighty, I'm getting greedy. Heat stirred beneath her skin again, and she scolded herself silently. Once a day is enough.

  Saphira trailed her fingers through the current, watching the ripples slide around her skin. “You’ve done well as Count,” she murmured. “You have the people’s respect. After Gorda, after Quintus—no one will dare try that again. We’re safe from inside threats.”

  Nocturne’s gaze remained on the water rather than her. The whetstone slowed against the dagger’s edge.

  “Safer,” he said at last, though not in agreement. His jaw shifted, thoughtful. “Just don’t mistake quiet for safety.”

  She shifted deeper into the river, water rising to her hips, scooping fine sand to scrub away any dirt. The chill prickled her skin. Her fingers combed through the damp strands as the river’s steady motion lulled her senses.

  A strange awareness brushed her nerves.

  I’m being watched. She tensed. But it doesn’t feel right.

  “Nox…” She straightened and glanced over her bare shoulder. “Stop worrying about me.”

  “Easy now—no further than that.” He stood now, shifting closer to the water’s edge. “I mean it.”

  “I'm fine! My feet are touching the ground.” She took a breath and ducked beneath the surface, scrubbing her scalp as the cold seeped deep into her bones.

  Cold—too cold!

  She resurfaced and closed her eyes, trying to shake the lingering sensation. She took a deep breath and plunged under.

  “Saph, out—!”

  Then, without warning, her head yanked to the side.

  Water surged into her mouth as she gasped, the scream dying in her throat. Fingers—rough, webbed—fisted in her lavender hair and dragged her down. Her limbs thrashed as she clawed blindly at the grip, vision blurring in the churn of light and shadow. She screamed for Nocturne, taking in a lungful of water.

  A guttural hiss vibrated through the water.

  “Vilaaaaa…”

  The hand wrenched her deeper, pulling her into the deep.