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I stepped up to Zaridan. I placed a palm on her snout, briefly glancing at her missing scale, the flesh exposed. Her sacrifice for this ceremony and for her rider’s bond. It would grow back, though slowly, and it would never be as strong as the scale that now lay in the bottom of Lishara’s pool. Over time, the heartstone magic would slowly dissolve it, and Zaridan would forever be part of this place. But she would also be forever vulnerable.
Behind me, Feranos asked, in Karag, “Is everything all right?”
“Yes,” I replied, tone clipped, making it clear I wasn’t in the mood for further questions. Feranos went silent, and I turned from Zaridan to peer over at Klara.
She was uncertainly hovering by Zaridan’s wing. The straps of her dress were ripped—my doing—and she was holding it up so the bodice wouldn’t slip. She looked like she’d just been…well, fucked. Well and truly fucked. Her hair was wild, the ends dripping. Her cheeks were flushed. I saw the dark marks on her neck where I’d nipped and bitten and sucked. When she walked closer to Zaridan, she limped.
And self-loathing tore through me all over again, knowing that I’d only added more pain to her body. Klara didn’t meet Feranos’s eyes, and it was then I realized I wasn’t making this better. I was making this worse for her.
Get her back home, back to comfort, I told myself. Then you can figure out how to fix this.
Because whether I liked it or not, she was my wife now. My responsibility. We were bonded until death, tied now with the blood of my Elthika and with Lishara’s blessing.
And as her husband, it was now my duty to protect her. To make her feel safe, even if she didn’t feel safe with me.
“Let’s return,” I said, going to Klara. I scooped her up into my arms, watching her blink in surprise, and she met my eyes. Some of the buzzing under my skin calmed when she looked at me, when I felt her comforting weight in my arms and scented myself on her skin.
Ascending Zaridan’s outstretched wing, I prepared to bring my wife home.