Page 55 of Hunted By the Wraiths
This kiss was different from all the others. Not the desperate clash in the tunnels when we were fighting my conditioning. Not the urgent heat at The Haven when we thought we had hours to live. This was slow, thorough, like we had all the time in the universe.
We did, I realized. For the first time, we had time.
Her hands went to my shirt, tugging it up. I helped, pulled it off, and her hands immediately went to my chest. Tracing scars, old and new. Her fingers found the pale patch where the plasma burn had been, the thin line from the vibro-blade.
“Battle damage,” she murmured.
“Distinguished characteristics.”
“Is that what we’re calling them?”
“Would you prefer ‘sexy scars’?”
She snorted. “Never say that again.”
I pulled her shirt off in return, taking my time. She had her own collection of scars now. The knife fight on her forearm. The plasma burn on her shoulder. A new one across her ribs from our escape. I traced each one, memorizing them.
“We match,” I said.
“Couple goals.” Her voice was dry, but her hands were gentle as they moved over me. Exploring without urgency. We’d had desperate. We’d had necessary. This was just... because we wanted to.
When she pushed me back on the bed, I went easily. When she straddled me, I let her set the pace. Slow. Patient. Like she was learning me all over again without pain or desperation clouding everything.
“I missed this,” she said, rolling her hips in a way that made thinking difficult. “Just... this. Without everything else.”
I knew what she meant. The simple pleasure of touch without consequence. The bond hummed between us, a feedback loop of sensation and emotion, but it was warm instead of agonizing. Enhancement instead of punishment.
When I flipped us over, she laughed. Actually laughed, not the dark humor we’d been trading but genuine amusement. I raised an eyebrow.
“You used to do that exact move,” she explained. “Before. When we were just mercenaries with a bed and no sense.”
“We still have no sense.”
“True. But now we have a better bed.”
I kissed her to stop the terrible joke I knew was coming. She responded immediately, wrapping her legs around me, pulling me closer. The kiss deepened, and the playfulness shifted to something hungrier.
Not desperate. Just... ready.
When I pushed inside her, we both stilled. Not from pain—there was no pain—but from the sheer rightness of it. The bond sang between us, complete and perfect and ours.
“No pain,” Maris breathed, wonder in her voice. “Thoryn, there’s no?—”
“I know.” I pressed my forehead to hers. “I know.”
We moved together, finding rhythm without the frantic edge of before. This wasn’t about proving something or fighting conditioning or stolen moments between disasters. This was just us. Finally. After everything.
The bond amplified every sensation, every emotion, until I couldn’t tell where I ended and she began. But it didn’t hurt. It just... was. Perfect synchronization, like we’d been meant for this all along.
When she came apart beneath me, it triggered my own release, and for a moment we were one being, one breath, one heartbeat.
After, we lay tangled together, neither willing to move. The room was quiet except for our breathing. Peaceful. Safe.
“We should probably go to the briefing,” Maris said eventually.
“Probably.”
Neither of us moved.
