Page 48 of Burned Alive to Be His
JUDITH
ONE YEAR LATER
The air in our cavern is warm and still, humming with a silent, ancient song. It is the song of our life, of the treasures Xvitar has collected, but my focus is on the one that sings the loudest. I kneel on the soft furs before the place of honor where he rests, my hand on the smooth, warm shell of my son’s egg.
Our son.
The thought still sends a jolt of pure, unadulterated wonder through me, even after all this time. The egg is a magnificent thing, a deep, vibrant crimson veined with threads of pure, shimmering gold. It pulses with a soft, steady light, a rhythm that has become as familiar to me as my own heartbeat. For nine long moons, I have come to this spot. Every single day, I have performed the ritual.
I take the small, obsidian blade from the leather pouch at my belt. It is the same blade Xvitar used to join our blood, a sacred tool now, kept only for this purpose. Without hesitation, I draw the sharp edge across the tip of my finger. A single, perfect drop of my own crimson blood wells up, a stark contrast to my pale skin.
I press my finger to the shell of the egg.
The moment my blood touches it, the golden veins flare with a brilliant, hungry light. The egg drinks it, absorbs it, the single drop of my life force a nourishment for the dragon sleeping within. The humming in the air intensifies for a moment, a low, contented thrum, and the light softens back to its steady, gentle glow.
The ritual is complete.
A small, fluttering kick from within my own belly reminds me that my work is not yet done. I smile, my free hand coming to land on the slight, firm swell of my stomach. My other son. Or perhaps, my daughter. A child of two worlds, a true fusion of human and dragon, growing in the safety of my womb.
A year ago, I was a slave, my only possession a stolen blade and a heart full of scars. Now, I am a queen, a mate, and a mother to two children, one cradled in the heart of a mountain, the other cradled in my own body. The sheer, impossible scope of it all still threatens to overwhelm me at times.
“He is restless today.”
Xvitar’s voice, a low, familiar rumble, comes from behind me. I look over my shoulder and see him standing near his hoard, a towering silhouette against the cavern’s magical light. He is no longer the wounded warrior I helped down from the summit. His arm has healed, the deep gashes on his side have faded to silvery scars that map his victory. He is whole. He is magnificent. And he is mine.
He walks toward me, his steps silent on the stone floor. He crouches behind me, his powerful body a warm, solid wall at my back. His arms come around me, his hands covering mine on my swollen belly. He rests his chin on my shoulder, his breath a warm caress against my cheek.
“He knows his brother is coming soon,” Xvitar murmurs, his gaze fixed on the crimson and gold egg. “He is eager to meet him.”
“Brother?” I ask, a teasing note in my voice. “You are so certain?”
“I am,” he says, his voice sounding confident. “He will have your fire, and my strength. He will be a warrior.”
“And what if she is a queen?” I counter softly.
He is silent for a moment, and I feel him press a soft, reverent kiss to my temple. “Then she will be a queen who will make the mountains tremble,” he says, his voice thick with a pride that makes my heart ache.
We stay like that for a long time, a silent, comfortable trinity. Me, my mate, and our children, one of stone and one of flesh. I never thought it was possible to love two beings so completely, so equally. The child in the egg, born of our mingled blood and a goddess’s magic, is as much a part of me as the child in my womb. He is the physical manifestation of our bond, of the fire we walked through together. He is our miracle.
“Do you ever miss it?” I ask, my voice a quiet whisper in the humming silence of the cavern.
“Miss what?” he asks, his thumb stroking the curve of my belly.
“The rage,” I say. “The fire. You are… calmer now.”
He is silent for so long I think he will not answer. Then, he sighs, a sound like the shifting of ancient stones. “The fire is not gone, Judith,” he says, his voice a low, rough rasp. “It is simply… banked. It has a new purpose now. It is not the fire of a warrior seeking a battle. It is the fire of a forge, meant to protect its heart. It is the fire of a hearth, meant to warm its home.” He turns his head, his lips brushing against my cheek. “You are my hearth. You are my heart.”
Tears well in my eyes, hot and sudden. Even after a year of his tenderness, of his fierce, unwavering devotion, his words still have the power to undo me.
“I will do my best, Judith,” he continues, his voice a raw, broken whisper. “To be a good father. To our sons. To our daughters. I will not be the monster I once was. I will teach them strength, yes. But I will also teach them the wisdom you have taught me. The wisdom of a survivor’s heart.”
“You are not a monster, Xvitar,” I say, my voice thick with tears. “You never were.”
He turns me in his arms, his violet eyes blazing with a love so fierce, so absolute, it takes my breath away. “I was,” he says. “Until you.”
He kisses me, a slow, deep, soul-searing kiss that is a testament to everything we have survived, everything we have become. It is a kiss of promises kept, of a future that is bright and beautiful and terrifying in its infinite possibility.
As our lips part, a new sound, sharp and distinct, cuts through the humming silence of the cavern.
