Everyone else fell asleep over the next hour—some on chairs, others on the floor.

But Damien stayed where he was, sitting against the headboard, Renee still straddling him, her cheek resting over his heart.

He pulled the blanket up gently, covering her back without pressure, wrapping her arms around his neck like she’d chosen the position.

She slept in his lap like a child returning to warmth after the war.

And he never let go.

Evening came slowly.

Renee woke to the sound of a heartbeat.

Her cheek rested against bare skin, her breath synced to his chest. She blinked—her eyes sticky with sleep—and shifted slightly. She was straddling Damien, arms around his neck, and her head tucked under his chin.

Warmth.

Not just heat—warmth.

A safe, anchoring, soul-deep calm.

Damien opened his eyes the moment she moved.

“Hey,” he whispered.

She looked up, then blinked slowly. “You... still here?”

He smiled. “Where else would I be?”

She looked down at their position, then at him, expression soft and raw. “I was burning.”

“I know.”

“I was screaming.”

“I heard.”

“You called me your love,” she said, barely above a breath.

Damien froze for a second—then nodded. “It slipped. But I meant it.”

Renee’s fingers threaded through his hair. “It didn’t hurt… when you said it. It helped.”

Damien’s voice cracked. “I would’ve taken all of it for you if I could.”

“I know,” she whispered, eyes wet now.

Then she blinked again.

“It’s today.”

He frowned. “What?”

“My birthday,” she said, a soft smile tugging at her lips. “I’m twenty-one.”

His eyes widened slightly. “Oh...”

Renee rested her forehead against his.

“The bond locked.”

He nodded.

“I felt it,” she whispered. “Clear as sunrise. You’re mine.”

He whispered, “I’ve always been.”

Her lips found him in the next breath.

It wasn’t urgent. It wasn’t delicate.

It was real.

When they parted, she stayed close, arms still looped around him.

“Happy birthday,” Damien murmured.

“You’re the gift,” she whispered, and this time, it was her turn to hold him.

And she kissed him again.

Their kiss deepened.

What started as warmth turned to gravity—pulling them inward, breath to breath, heartbeat to heartbeat. Renee didn’t pull away. She leaned in harder, her lips parting against his, her hands rising to frame his face.

Her body moved in his lap with purpose now—not accident, not hesitation.

Desire.

She shifted closer, straddling him fully, the hem of her oversized shirt falling around them like a curtain. Her hands slid over his bare shoulders, slow and firm, and her breath hitched when her hips pressed down and met the tension in his body.

Damien broke the kiss first, panting lightly. His voice was a low rasp.

“Renee…”

“You don’t have to ask,” she said, guiding his hands to her waist. “I know what I want.”

He looked up at her—into her. And what he saw undid him.

Not lust.

Trust. Need. Love.

Her hands slid down to the hem of the shirt. She tugged it over her head and dropped it to the floor, revealing herself without fear, without apology.

Damien’s breath caught, eyes sweeping across her—not with hunger, but with reverence.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered.

“I’m yours,” she corrected gently.

She rose slightly onto her knees and reached between them, steady, sure, and with a quiet inhale, guided him into her.

The moment they connected, they both froze.

Their eyes locked.

Their breath matched.

And then she slowly eased herself down, settling into him completely.

A long, quiet exhale left her lips. Damien’s head tilted back slightly, a groan catching in his throat.

Renee didn’t move at first.

She simply was—with him, around him, against him. Her hands braced on his shoulders. His hands gripped her hips, thumbs drawing slow, grounding circles.

She began to move—not fast, not wild, but with rhythm. Intention.

Her body rolled gently, her breath soft and deep. Damien's hands slid along her waist, guiding her, worshipping her with every quiet touch.

The room was filled with only the sounds of breath, skin meeting skin, and whispered names exchanged like vows.

He held her like she might disappear.

She rode him like she belonged nowhere else.

Their foreheads touched. Her fingers curled in his hair. His lips brushed her jaw, her collarbone, her temple.

And when they came apart—together—it was with a quiet, shuddering gasp. A release not just of pleasure but of every locked emotion between them. Everything unspoken until now.

Renee collapsed forward, burying her face in the crook of his neck, breath uneven.

Damien wrapped both arms around her and held her close, heart pounding under her ear.

“Are you okay?” he murmured, his voice hoarse with feeling.

She nodded against his skin, then whispered, “More than okay. I feel… full.”

He kissed her temple. “You are. You always were.”

The silence between them wasn’t awkward.

It was full.

Full of trust, of release, of something ancient and new.

Eventually, he kissed her shoulder and whispered, “Let’s get cleaned up.”

Renee nodded sleepily, still tangled in him. “Only if you carry me.”

He chuckled under his breath, low and warm. “You’re never walking again, are you?”

“Not voluntarily.”

With a soft smile, Damien slid out from under the sheets and gently lifted her into his arms—one hand under her thighs, the other at her back, careful never to touch where the sigils lay. She rested her head against his collarbone as he carried her into the bathroom.

The lights stayed dim, and the air was quiet. Steam began to rise as the water warmed, fogging the mirror and softening the world around them.

He stepped into the shower with her still in his arms.

Water ran over both of them, gentle and hot.

Renee leaned into him as he set her down carefully, bracing her against his chest as the spray soaked her hair and slid down her back. He adjusted the angle so it wouldn’t sting where the sigils still lived, healing.

Then, without a word, he picked up the soap.

His hands moved over her body like reverent prayers—slow, steady, focused. He washed every part of her with care, from her shoulders to her fingers to the curve of her hips, avoiding her back but never treating her like something broken.

He didn’t linger where he didn’t need to. But his touch said everything.

I know you. I see you. You’re mine.

When he finished, he kissed her forehead.

“My turn,” she whispered.

She took the soap from his hands and began to clean him with the same quiet care—fingers sliding across muscle and scar, over the curve of his shoulder, down his spine. She didn’t speak, but her touch was a language.

By the time she finished, he was standing motionless under the spray, eyes half-lidded, as if the weight of the last two days was finally falling away from him, too.

Renee turned off the water, steam still curling around them in thick waves. The silence was dense but not empty—it hummed between their bodies, soaked in shared heat and the weight of everything they’d just become.

She turned to Damien, her eyes locked on his.

And then she sank to her knees before him.

He froze, breath catching. “Renee…”

She looked up at him, water still dripping from her hair, her hands resting gently on his hips. There was no hesitation in her face—only intent. Devotion.

“I want to give you something,” she said quietly. “No reason. No repayment. Just because I want to.”

He swallowed hard. “You don’t have to—”

“I know.” She smiled softly. “That’s why it matters.”

She looked up at him, her hands finding his hips, her fingers gentle. “Let me,” she said.

There was no question in her voice. No attempt to entice. Only the offering of something intimate, something unspoken until now.

He nodded once, shaky, almost in disbelief.

She leaned in.

The first touch of her lips drew a shudder from his entire body. He instinctively braced a hand against the tile wall behind him and the other lightly into her wet hair—not to guide her, but to keep himself from collapsing.

Her mouth was warm, slick, welcoming. She took him slowly, savoring the act, not rushing, letting every second linger between them.

Damien exhaled—long and low—as she took more of him, deeper with each pass until her lips pressed to his base and her nose brushed his skin.

He groaned—quietly, reverently—his head falling back against the misted wall.

Renee began to move, her rhythm unhurried but purposeful, her breathing measured. The sound of her in the steam—the faint hum of her throat, the wet heat of her lips, the low moan she made as he pulsed in her mouth—was almost too much.

Every part of him was unraveling, but not from lust.

From worship.

She looked up at him once as she moved—eyes clear, full of possessiveness, affection, and pride—and that undone him more than anything else.

She quickened slightly when he gasped her name, half-pleading, drawing him to that edge and holding him there with unbearable patience.

And when he released—hard, full, uncontrollable—she didn’t flinch.

She took it.

All of it.

Her throat worked, lips sealing around him, and she swallowed him down with slow reverence, like taking in part of his soul.

Damien nearly collapsed.

He let out a rough, broken breath, his knees trembling. His hand dropped from the wall to cradle her cheek as she pulled back. Her lips flushed, and her breathing was slow.

“You—” he tried to speak but had to stop. His voice cracked. “You didn’t have to…”

“I wanted to,” she whispered. “Because you’re mine.”

Renee rose slowly, kissed his stomach, and then met his gaze with a look that was nothing short of victorious and warm.

“I love seeing you undone,” she whispered.

He reached out and pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly against his chest, still shaking.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he breathed.

“You showed up,” she said. “Over and over again.”

They toweled off in silence, the air between them charged but soft, filled with the weight of shared knowing.

Renee dressed in one of Damien’s shirts—her favorite now—while he pulled on clean clothes with hands that still trembled slightly.

When they walked downstairs—hand in hand—every step sounded different.

Like they belonged to each other.

The others were gathered around the kitchen and common space. Christofer was leaning against the counter, Sasha was sipping from a mug, and Eleonor was scrolling through something on her tablet.

They all looked up the moment Renee and Damien entered.

And paused.

No one needed to ask.

It was written all over them—in their joined hands, in the way Renee leaned into Damien’s side without hesitation, in the quiet, the almost possessive way his thumb rubbed the back of her palm.

No one said it out loud, but it was understood.

The bond wasn’t just sealed.

It had been claimed.