Page 125 of Taken

“Phoenix healing.” He shrugs, then winces slightly. “Not perfect, but damn close.” He glances at the door. “What happened to the others? Your daughter…”

“Elena left to let you rest.” I smooth wild strands of hair from my face, suddenly self-conscious. How long did I sleep, curled against him like my heartbeat could keep his going? “She was here all night.”

“I know.” His eyes never leave mine, something unreadable flickering behind them. “I remember fragments. Your voices. Your hands. The Shard’s energy threading through me.”

I remember too. The phoenix fire flowing from Juno’s hands. And before that, Elena’s magic joining mine through the Shard, pouring strength into Talon’s broken body. The way his heart fluttered beneath my palm—a bird fighting to stay in flight.

“You almost died.” The words scrape my throat painfully.

“Worth it.”

“Don’t say that.” Heat builds behind my eyes. “Nothing is worth what I saw on that rooftop. Your body—” My voice breaks. “I thought I’d found you just to lose you.”

His hand finds mine in the tangled sheets, warm and solid and alive.

“I couldn’t let them take you again,” he says, voice dropping lower. “Not after everything you survived. Not after finally getting you out.”

“So you faced them alone.” My fingers tighten around his. “Why would you do that?”

“For you.” His eyes burn into mine, no hesitation, no artifice. “I would do it again.”

The simplicity of his answer steals my breath. No one has ever sacrificed for me. Not since my mother died protecting our Rossewyn secrets decades ago. I’ve been the sacrifice—the asset, the tool, the thing to be broken for what I could provide.

“This thing between us…” I start, then falter. How to describe this pull, this impossible connection to him? “I’ve never felt anything like it.”

“Dragons call it the mate bond.” His thumb traces my palm, sending shivers up my spine. “It’s rare. Sacred.”

“I saw it through the Shard.” The memory of ancient visions rises from blood-deep. “Lyria and Kael. The first dragon-witch bonding.”

Surprise flickers across his face. “You saw them? In the Shard?”

“Blood memory.” I shift closer, drawn to his warmth like metal to a magnet. “Rossewyn witches carry the history of our line. The Shard just… amplifies it.”

“Then you know.” Something vulnerable crosses his expression. “What this is. What it means.”

“I know it terrifies me.” Honesty falls from my lips before I can stop it. “I had my will violated. This feels like… like stepping off a cliff.”

“I would never cage you.” The fierceness in his voice silences the screaming doubts in my head. “Whatever this is, wherever it leads, it’s up to you. Always.”

Something cracks open inside me—a brittle shell twenty years in the making. Within that breaking, freedom rises like dawn.

Mychoice.

I lean forward abruptly, closing the space between us. My lips brush his—questioning, uncertain. A gasp escapes him, surprise melting into hunger as he responds. The kiss deepens, tentative touches becoming exploration, discovery, claiming.

This isn’t like before… that desperate union in stolen moments before alarms and gunfire tore us apart. This is deliberate. Chosen. Mine.

My hands frame his face, feeling the heat of him, the life throbbing beneath his skin. His palms slide up my arms, leaving trails of fire in their wake. Everything narrows to this. To us, to touch, to the miracle of being able to choose connection after so much isolation.

“Careful,” I murmur against his mouth, remembering his injuries. “You’re still healing.”

He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest into mine. “I’m stronger than I look, witch.”

To prove his point, he moves, pulling me on top of him in one fluid motion. My knees settle on either side of his hips, the position placing me above him. In control. The meaning isn’t lost on me. Even now, he ensures my agency.

My hands explore the planes of his chest, tracing muscle and sinew, marveling at the resilience of him. Under my touch, golden scales shimmer beneath his skin, rippling like sunlight on water. Dragon rising to the surface.

“God, you’re beautiful,” I whisper, tracing the pattern with my fingertips.

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