The world had shifted.
Not just around them—but within her.
Elysia lay on her back, half-curled against the quilt, her skin still tingling in the places Malvoria had kissed, touched, claimed.
Her body hummed with magic, but it wasn't hers—it was warm and dense, threaded through her veins like sunlight in deep water. It smelled faintly like fire and salt and wind.
Her fingers found a patch of grass near her hip and curled into it, grounding herself, even though she already knew she'd never forget the way Malvoria had said her name.
Whispered it. Growled it. Gasped it.
The air still felt saturated with something more than heat—thick with magic, reverent silence, and the remnants of shared breath. Her pulse, though slower now, still beat in rhythm with another's.
Malvoria's.
