Chapter 51: You Claim It (His POV)
The velvet weight of Maximus's realm was gone. So was the heat of Vitaria's hands. In their place: cool twilight, flickering fireflies, and the quiet hum of my magic woven into Arbor's bones. Her hand was still in mine. Warm. Steady. But something in her posture had shifted, shoulders loose, gaze softer. Her steps slowed, not tired, just… settled. Like the curtain had closed on a play no one else realized had been for her. I didn't say a word. Just guided her through the familiar halls with reverent fingertips, my eyes flicking back to her every few steps like I had to confirm she was still there. Still glowing. Still mine.
Arbor listened. Adjusted. The bathroom was already warm when we reached it, golden candlelight spilling across tile, eucalyptus curling through the air, steam rising from the rainfall shower. She stood at the edge, still wrapped in the strip of black silk she'd claimed like a trophy. The rune glowing across her abdomen had dimmed, no longer fire but embers. Quiet, steady embers. I stepped up behind her, fingers brushing the knot of silk. I undid it slowly, carefully, like prayer. "You were beautiful," I murmured, voice low as the candlelight. "Terrifying. Glorious."
She turned. Smiled. Not a smirk. Not armor. A real smile. Small. Certain. That was all it took. I pulled my shirt over my head and let it fall, then stepped with her into the shower. The water hit her first. She tilted her head back, eyes closed, curls clinging wet to her face like spilled ink on marble. I dropped to my knees behind her, pressing my lips to the curve of her hip where Maximus's priests had carved their excess. Not biting, not taking. Just steady, lingering, whispering between every kiss: "Not theirs. Not theirs. Yours."
She trembled once, then stilled, her hand threading into my hair, and I knew she understood. I kissed lower, along the cruel lines etched into her, each one turned sacred by her survival. I worshipped the curve of her body like holy ground, not for what it gave, but for what it had endured. Then I moved higher. Her stomach. Her womb. Vitaria's mark. The place they had tried to turn into a vessel, a symbol, a claim. I pressed my lips softly there, breath breaking against her skin. "This was never theirs to touch," I whispered between kisses. "Not even mine. Only yours. Always yours."
She inhaled, sharp and shaking, but didn't pull away. My lips lingered, reverent. Worshipful. Not lust. Not hunger. Just love. Just defiance. Just remembrance.
"I need you to know," I said, my voice too thick, "I'm proud of you. Not because of what you did. But because of who you are."
Her eyes opened. She signed back, I'm okay. Really. I wanted it.
"I know," I whispered.
Her hand rose, thumb brushing beneath my eye. You're quiet.
A crooked smile tugged at me. "Just thinking."
About what?
I hesitated, then let it out: "How the gods keep touching you like they deserve you."
Her breath caught. I stepped closer, brushed my knuckles along her jaw. "But I'm the one who gets to stay."
Her eyes shifted, something breaking open, but not from pain. Understanding. I kissed her. Not like a god. Not like chaos. Like a man who had already chosen her, and would choose her again, endlessly. When we broke apart, she rested her forehead against my chest, arms wrapping around me with soft trust. I held her like she was an answer.
"I'll follow you anywhere," I whispered into the steam. "But if this ends… if it becomes something bigger than us, promise me you'll come back."
She didn't sign. Didn't speak. Just nodded once. It was enough.
Later, after the candles had burned down to puddles and the steam faded into memory, we crawled into bed without ceremony. No crowns. No illusions. Just limbs tangled under sheets. Her damp hair spilled across my chest, her leg thrown over my hip. My arm curled around her like I was holding gravity. She was half-asleep when I whispered, "I'm still mad about the dress…"
Her shoulders sagged in a silent sigh. I smiled into her hair. "You broke theology in that thing."
She mumbled something incoherent against my skin. I closed my eyes. We didn't talk about Maximus. Or Vitaria. Or power. Not tonight. Tonight she was just Annie. I was just hers. For one breath, one heartbeat, one night, It felt like the world might actually let us stay that way.
Sleep didn't feel like surrender. It felt like being ambushed. I hadn't chosen it. I never do. But after hours of lying there with Annie in my arms, her heartbeat pressed steady against mine, the silence of her body free from nightmares… I let my eyes close. Just for a moment.
And then—
The scream. It was soundless, but it ripped through Arbor like thunder, jolting me awake so hard my heart nearly cracked my ribs.
"Annie." Her name tore out of me as I grabbed for her wrists. She was thrashing, sobbing soundlessly, mouth open wide in a scream that refused to give her sound. Arms flailing. Fighting shadows only she could see.
"Annie, wake up! Wake up!" My voice broke against her silence.
She didn't. Not right away. Her eyes stayed shut tight, her breath hitching in sharp, panicked bursts, her body jerking against my hold. She tried to speak. I could see it, but no sound came. Just the ghost of words crushed into wheezing silence. "Annie, it's me," I whispered, desperate. "It's me, love. I've got you. I've got you."
All at once, she froze. Her inhale was violent, sharp, tearing into the room as her eyes flew open. Pupils blown wide. Skin cold and slick with sweat. She shook her head. Trembling hands. Haunted eyes. No words. Gods. No words. I could see the glow from all of her activated runes. I pulled her straight into my lap, wrapped myself around her like armor, rocking her while murmuring into her hair. "You're safe. You're safe, my Heart. You're here."
But her gaze wasn't here. It flickered somewhere far, far away. Somewhere Aerion-shaped. Somewhere priest-shaped. Somewhere I couldn't go. It gutted me. Because maybe this was what it looked like. Her strength finally catching up to her. All the hurt, all the horror, all the cost she'd carried without ever setting it down. I wanted to fight it. Wanted to rip it out of her head and burn it until nothing was left. But this wasn't a battle I could win.
So I kissed her temple. Whispered a new name against her skin. "My Strong Valkyrie."
Held her tighter, even while she stared through me at ghosts I couldn't see. I rose quietly, pulled on the nearest shirt, padded barefoot through Arbor's halls to the kitchen. She needed something strong. Sweet. Something that tasted like choosing life again. Two shots of espresso, cream, vanilla, caramel, and enough sugar to scandalize Ahyona herself. Poured it over ice. Stirred it. Watched condensation bead down the glass like proof it was alive.
When I returned, she was sitting up in bed, pale and tired, but no longer trembling. I handed her the drink. She took it, nodded once, sipped and immediately made a face like I'd poisoned her. I smirked. "Too sweet?"
She shook her head, arched a brow, and signed: I love you. Her fingers folded into a perfect little heart.
My smirk dissolved. Something softer, raw, took its place. I kissed her knuckles. "Even when you can't say it," I whispered, "I hear it."
We lay back down, quiet. The iced coffee balanced between us like a peace offering. No noise. Just her fingers brushing mine, her leg tangling with mine, the rhythm of us existing anyway. Eventually I propped my chin on her shoulder, announced with solemn gravitas, "I have decided we are going on a wine sampling tour."
She blinked. "In the mortal realm," I clarified. "Obviously. Because if I let you divine alcohol in your condition, you'd fall into a vat of ambrosia and I'd have to fish you out."
She snorted, silently, but gloriously. "With cheese platters," I added. "And crostinis. And those little olive imposters that taste like betrayal."
Before she could sign a protest, I snapped my fingers. There we were, clad in the most offensively mortal tourist outfits imaginable. She wore a massive floppy sun hat with a pink ribbon, sunglasses that could block out god light, a sundress patterned with grapes, and sandals jingling with wine charms. I, naturally, looked like a walking crime against fashion: a "Grape Expectations" shirt with a fake wine stain over the heart, tan cargo shorts, and socks-with-sandals so vile even chaos blushed.
She blinked at our reflection. Signed one word: Tragic.
I bowed. "Exactly the vibe I was going for."
A shimmer later, we stood on the cobbled path of a vineyard bathed in golden afternoon light. Rows of vines stretched out under a sun that made her hat flap like it was trying to take flight. I led her to the tasting room with all the poise of a man who absolutely did not belong there. "Ah yes," I said as the sommelier poured, swirling my glass with divine flair. "One can really taste the existential dread in this one. Mmm. Peach pits and poor decisions."
The sommelier blinked. "It's… citrus forward."
"Exactly what I said."
She was shaking with silent laughter now, her shoulders trembling under the brim of her ridiculous hat. Gods, that laugh. I'd burn kingdoms to hear it aloud again.
"You know," I said, swirling my glass as if it held divine prophecy, "this reminds me of the incident with Maximus."
Her brows lifted: What incident?
I exhaled like a man preparing to confess a crime. "Ah, the Gay Honeymoon Island."
She froze mid-sip. The what? she signed, skeptical and curious.
"Picture this, my love. Two gods, one bottle of ambrosia, and an entire week of decisions that should've been illegal across dimensions. Maximus and I woke up married. Married." I gestured dramatically. "Forty-eight hours of holy matrimony and unholy chaos."
Her signing faltered, laughter threatening to break through: You married Maximus?
"In my defense, he proposed first. There were fireworks, a choir, someone released swans. I think one of them exploded from sheer enthusiasm. We were declared 'eternal partners in pleasure and prosperity' by a priest who was definitely not sober." I placed a hand over my heart, pretending to swoon. "The vows were beautiful. He promised me feasts. I promised him eternal compliments. We sealed it with wine and questionable dancing."
Her hands trembled as she tried to sign through her laughter: You're lying.
"Would I ever lie about love, darling?" I leaned closer, lowering my voice. "We built an island overnight. Literally. The ocean rose to applaud us. By morning, there were temples, champagne fountains, and a crowd chanting our names."
She signed, tears in her eyes from laughter: You made a gay honeymoon island?
"We inspired it. The mortals did the rest. They worshiped us as the gods of love, indulgence, and very bad decisions. For two days, paradise bloomed. Then Vitaria arrived."
Her head tilted: Oh no.
"Oh yes. She appeared in a blaze of golden fury, demanded we annul the marriage, and made us both swear never to speak of it again. Apparently, 'accidentally creating a cult of eternal honeymooners' qualifies as a diplomatic incident." I took another slow sip of wine. "Naturally, I broke that vow."
Naturally, she signed, still laughing so hard her hat slipped sideways.
"The island still exists," I said proudly. "It moves with the tides. Some mortals claim if you're truly in love, it appears at sunset. There's a couples' spa, a gift shop, and a banner that reads, 'Blessed by the Gods of Excess and Chaos.' Five-star seafood. Decent cocktails."
She covered her mouth, laughing silently, her eyes shining brighter than any sun above us.
"So yes, for forty-eight hours, I was Mr. Maximus of Excess. Legally it the marriage wouldn't have held up. Do you know what he said when Vitaria caught us?" She shook her head. "He said, 'At least we made history.' Then passed out in a fondue fountain."
She laughed so hard she had to lean against me for balance. Her fingers brushed mine, trembling, still unable to sign a word.
"There it is," I whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple. "My favorite sound, even when it's silent."
We made our way from table to table, her arm hooked through mine, sampling whites, rosés, reds, while I provided increasingly dramatic commentary.
"This one tastes like betrayal in a velvet glove."
"That's a wine that pays taxes."
"This one? Grapes and lies. No, No, the Grapes of Wrath."
Annie never spoke. She didn't need to. Her laughter shook her shoulders, silent but radiant, her eyes crinkled above her sunglasses. Every so often she leaned her head on my shoulder, her hand warm in mine. Every time, I stole a kiss from beneath the brim of her absurd hat. Whispering into her skin things only she would ever hear.
By the fourth vineyard, I'd abandoned any hope of pretending I belonged among mortals swirling glasses like liquid fortune-tellers. We were on a shaded patio now, lavender brushing the edges, our plates full of cheeses and fruits I couldn't pronounce without turning it into innuendo. Annie looked far too serene beside me, which clearly meant I was doing something wrong. An older couple shuffled over. Grapevine suspenders. Wrinkled smiles. A lifetime of comfort between them. "Excuse me," the woman said, glowing like the ghost of domesticity past. "We've been watching you two for a while. You're so sweet together. Are you on your honeymoon?"
I blinked. Annie nearly inhaled her wine the wrong way. "Oh, uh, no," I started, then paused, glanced at her. Her face was unreadable behind those oversized sunglasses, but her hand squeezed mine. "…Not yet," I heard myself say.
The woman giggled like she'd been waiting for that answer all her life. Her husband already had his phone out like a mortal magician producing doves. Annie sighed, signed Fine.
So we posed. Her against me, me with my arm slung over her shoulder. At the last second I kissed her temple. Arbor, my meddling little house, caught it with a shimmer of magic. Turned it into more than a photo. A memory. A stolen pocket of peace. Dinner later: the edge of the world. Decking over the sea, string lights above, lemon and butter in the air. Annie was tipsy, the good kind. Silent giggles, flushed cheeks, her ridiculous sunhat finally collapsed in her lap.
I, naturally, was in peak form.
"I ordered the calamari because it squid pro quo," I announced, proud of myself. She covered her mouth, giggling soundlessly. "Don't clam up now," I pressed. She mouthed Stop, which only encouraged me. "I'm kraken myself up." She buried her face in the menu, shaking with laughter. "One more," I promised. "I asked the lobster if it believed in love at first sight. You know what it said? Shell yeah."
She nearly knocked over her wine, laughing so hard her shoulders shook. Gods, it was perfect. The warmth, the ease, the way the night smelled like normal.
Then, a voice. Smooth. Measured. Arrogant. "I'll have the oysters. And tell the chef I don't want that white wine reduction again, too acidic." Annie went still. Completely still.
"Annie?" My smile slipped. She didn't answer. Didn't blink. Just stared ahead, her breath stuttering. I followed her gaze, saw him. Some boring mortal in a gray suit with perfect teeth and a handshake polished to death. He looked like a politician. I didn't know him. I didn't need to. Because I knew that look on her face. The dilation of her pupils. The trembling glass in her hand. My fingers twitched. Smoke curled in my chest, the sharp need to unmake every molecule he was made of.
"Annie," I said again, softer. Her chest rose too fast. Her shoulders locked. The air caught in her throat like she was choking on nothing. I was out of my chair before I knew it, crouching in front of her, blocking her view. "Hey. Hey, sweetheart. Look at me."
Her eyes snapped to mine, glassy, frantic. On the verge of a total breakdown. I could hear her heartbeat. Fast and irregular. "It's okay," I whispered. "He doesn't see you. He won't see you. I've got you."
One tear slid down her cheek. Just one. Enough to break me. I wrapped her hand in both of mine. "Come on, Star Shine. Let's go home."
She nodded, barely. I snapped my fingers. The sea. The wine. The laughter, all gone. Left behind on that pier. Back in Arbor, the quiet was heavy. Too heavy. I undressed her slowly, eased her into one of my oversized shirts, sleeves drowning her hands. Kissed her forehead. Tucked her in like a vow. She said nothing. Couldn't. The haunted look clung to her anyway. I lay beside her, one hand on her hip, the other tracing her back. For a while she breathed slow and steady. I laid there praying for her to sleep.
It started with, a twitch of fingers. A crease between her brows. A whimper, small and broken. I didn't sleep anymore. Not really. Her body jerked, recoiled like she was bracing for blows. "Annie," I whispered, cupping her cheek. "Wake up, my love. You're safe."
But she didn't hear me. She writhed, lips parted in a breathless cry, arms curling around herself like she could hold the pain in. No. Not again. Please Gods. No. I pulled her into my chest, cradled her against me, whispering every useless word I had. "It's not real."
"They can't touch you here."
"I've got you. You're not alone." Over and over. The same heartbeat, steady, for her to hold on to. But the truth was, this terror had never left her. She'd survived by never stopping. By moving from one altar to the next. By never letting herself break. Here she was, in my arms, shaking like the breaking had finally caught up. I closed my eyes, pressed my forehead to hers. The burn of helplessness clawed my throat.
"Please," I whispered into the dark. "Please, just give her one night. One good night."
No one answered. So I held her tighter. Loved her harder. Stayed awake, watching her breathe, whispering promises into the dark that I would fight every nightmare myself if that's what it took. When, hours later, her body finally went limp in real sleep, I kissed her temple and swore it into her skin:
"I don't care if I never sleep again. Just let her rest."