The amber liquid in the bottle of Wild Turkey caught the light of the neon sign in the window, glowing with a deceptive warmth. Marcus stared at it for a long second before pouring a second shot, watching the fluid splash into the heavy glass tumbler. He didn't drink it immediately. Instead, he rested his forearms on the cool laminate of the counter, leaning his weight forward, and let the sounds of the diner wash over him.
The humming of the refrigerator compressor. The distant, rhythmic ticking of the wall clock. The ragged, shallow breathing of the blonde woman standing ten feet away from him.
Marcus rubbed a hand over his face, feeling the rough grit of a day's worth of stubble. He needed a moment to re-calibrate. He needed to find his center of gravity because the world had tilted on its axis somewhere between the cheeseburgers and the tribal fertility demands.
He was not a complicated man. At least, he tried very hard not to be.
If you looked at his personnel file, redacted as heavily as it was, you would see words like Force Recon, Specialist, and Lethal. You would see a man trained to disassemble a weapon in the dark, to track a target through a monsoon, and to end a threat with zero hesitation and zero remorse. He was a soldier. He was a stone-cold killer when the situation demanded it. Violence was a language he spoke fluently, even if he didn't like the accent.
And then there was the cooking. That was simple too. Heat plus time plus ingredients equals sustenance. He wasn't a chef. He didn't have a degree from the Culinary Institute. He just knew that if you seared a steak in cast iron with enough butter and rosemary, it tasted like forgiveness. He cooked because it was the opposite of killing. It was nurturing. It was building something up instead of tearing it down.
But this?
He looked over his shoulder at the group assembled in the middle of his dining room.
This was a three-ring circus of biological imperatives and interdimensional cultural baggage. He had never held himself out to be a ladies' man. He wasn't a Casanova. He didn't know how to woo women with poetry or flowers. He was the guy you called when you needed a door kicked down or a perimeter secured.
Yet here he was, the object of a terrifyingly intense tug-of-war.
He shifted his gaze to Liri.
Usually, the younger sister was the picture of demure grace. She was sweet. She was professional. She called him "Uncle" in that affectionate, respectful way they used in the High Vale, a term that meant Protector or Elder, not a blood relative. She was the one who remembered to water the plants in the window boxes. She was the one who hummed while she chopped vegetables.
But the woman standing near the pie case now was not that person.
Liri was vibrating. It wasn't a figure of speech. She was physically trembling, a low-frequency shudder that seemed to originate from her bones. Her skin was flushed a deep, alarming crimson, and sweat had plastered her blonde bangs to her forehead. Her eyes were blown wide, the pupils dilated so fully that the blue irises were just thin rings of color around black voids of instinct.
She looked like an animal caught in a trap. She looked like she was burning alive from the inside out.
Marcus watched her hands. They were clenching and unclenching at her sides, her fingernails digging into her palms. Every few seconds, she would let out a small, high-pitched whimper, a sound of pure distress that cut straight through Marcus's frustration and hit the protective center of his brain.
This wasn't a game. This wasn't her trying to be "spicy" or seductive.
She was in pain.
Marcus took a slow breath, letting the information settle. He analyzed the situation the way he would analyze a battlefield. The enemy wasn't a gunman or an IED. The enemy was biology. It was a physiological event that he didn't understand but could clearly see the effects of. If this "Fever" or "Ripening" or whatever Eira called it wasn't addressed, Liri wasn't just going to break a toaster. She was going to break herself. Her mind was fracturing under the pressure of a drive that had evolved over thousands of years in a dimension far more primal than this one.
He looked past Liri to Raina.
The engineer was standing by the booth, her arms crossed, her expression a mix of fascination and deep, logical concern. Raina was smart. She was a spy. She had survived the cartels. She knew when things didn't add up. She knew that "tribal custom" was a thin veil for something much stranger.
If Marcus went through with this... if he took Liri into the back room to perform this "ritual"... Raina was going to have questions. And if she was going to be part of this team, if she was going to help them stabilize the tunnels before something truly nightmare-inducing crawled out of the sphere, she needed to be read in. Not fully. Not about the portals or the monsters. But she needed to understand the chain of command and the necessity of the action.
Marcus downed the shot. The whiskey burned a clean, sharp path down his throat, grounding him.
He set the glass down with a heavy clack.
"Raina," Marcus said. His voice was low, authoritative. It wasn't the diner owner speaking anymore. It was the Sergeant.
Raina looked up, snapping her attention away from the spectacle of the overheating elf. She walked over to the counter, her boots silent on the floor. She leaned in, keeping her voice low.
"Status, Marcus," she said, falling back into their old shorthand. "Because from where I am standing, your waitress looks like she is having a grand mal seizure combined with a heat stroke."
"It's not a seizure," Marcus said quietly, keeping his eyes on Liri. "It's a biological failsafe. Think of it like a pressure valve that got stuck. If we don't vent the pressure, the boiler blows."
Raina glanced at Liri, analyzing the tremors, the sweat, the dilated eyes. She nodded slowly. "She's running a fever of at least a hundred and three, just looking at her. Is this... contagious?"
"No," Marcus said. "It's genetic. Specific to her... tribe."
"And the cure?" Raina asked, arching an eyebrow. "Is really what the scary sister says it is? The... therapeutic alignment?"
Marcus grimaced. "Apparently. In their culture, the bond isn't just romantic. It's energetic. Grounding. She needs an anchor, Raina. She's floating away, and if someone doesn't grab her, she's going to burn out."
Raina studied him. She looked at the conflict in his eyes, the reluctance warring with the duty. She saw the man who had pulled her out of a burning compound, the man who put the safety of his team above his own comfort every single time.
"Then do your job, Sergeant," Raina said softly. "It's medical triage. Don't overthink the morality of it. She's suffering. You can stop it. That is the only equation that matters."
Marcus let out a breath, nodding. That was what he needed to hear. He needed the logic to override the absurdity.
"Copy that," Marcus murmured.
He turned away from the counter. He walked into the center of the room. The air around Liri was physically hotter, a radiant wave of heat that smelled of ozone and crushed peaches.
Eira was standing guard, the cleaver still in her hand, watching him with the eyes of a hawk. Nix was leaning against a support column, watching with the eyes of a predator amused by the show. Pearl was pouting, but she had backed off, sensing the shift in Marcus's energy.
Marcus stopped three feet from Liri.
"Liri," he said. His voice was calm, deep, and steady.
Liri's head snapped up. She looked at him, and a fresh wave of tears spilled over her lashes. She looked terrified—not of him, but of herself. She was losing control, and for a creature who prided herself on precision, that was the ultimate horror.
"Marcus," she gasped. "Help. Please. It hurts."
"I know," Marcus said. "I've got you."
He looked at Eira. "I am doing this. But I am doing it my way. No audience. No witnesses in the room. You stand guard outside the door. If the building starts to shake, you can knock. Otherwise, this is private."
Eira opened her mouth to argue, citing tradition, but Marcus cut her off with a look that could have frozen lava.
"That wasn't a negotiation," Marcus stated. "That was an order. You want her stabilized? Then you let me work. I don't need a cheerleader, and I don't need a referee."
Eira closed her mouth. She looked at the steel in his spine, the set of his jaw. She nodded once, a sharp, respectful dip of her chin.
"Acceptable," Eira said. "But be warned, Sky-Bond. She is strong. Do not let her break you."
Marcus almost laughed. He had wrestled insurgents in the mud. He had held up collapsing beams. He had carried rucksacks that weighed more than she did for twenty miles.
"I don't break," Marcus said simply.
He stepped into Liri's space. The heat was intense, like opening an oven door. She flinched, her body coiling as if to run or attack.
Marcus didn't hesitate. He reached out and grabbed her upper arms. His hands were large, heavy, and rough. He didn't handle her delicately. He didn't treat her like glass. He gripped her with the firm, unyielding solidity of a mountain.
"Look at me," he commanded.
Liri's eyes locked onto his. She was trembling so hard her teeth chattered.
"I am here," Marcus said, grounding her with his voice. "I am not going anywhere. You aren't going to explode. You aren't going to hurt anyone. You are going to focus on me."
Liri let out a sob, her hands flying up to clutch at his shirt. She dug her fingers into the fabric, pulling him closer, desperate for the contact.
"Heavy," she whimpered. "Need... heavy."
"I know," Marcus murmured.
He shifted his grip, sliding one arm around her waist and the other under her knees. He lifted her effortlessly. She weighed nothing to him, a feather caught in a storm. But as soon as her body pressed against his chest, he felt the power in her. Her muscles were coiled tight as steel cables. She was vibrating with enough energy to power the entire town.
Liri buried her face in his neck, inhaling sharply. She bit down on the skin above his collarbone, not enough to draw blood, but enough to mark him. Enough to claim him.
"Mine," she hissed, the sound savage and low.
Marcus didn't flinch. He carried her toward the back hallway, toward the small office that had a cot for late nights.
He passed Raina, who gave him a solemn nod of support. He passed Eira, who stood at attention like a sentry.
"Clear the room," Marcus said over his shoulder to the group. "Nobody comes down that hallway unless the diner is on fire. And even then, put it out yourselves."
He kicked the office door open and carried the burning, trembling elf inside.
The room was dark, smelling of old paper and sanitizer. He kicked the door shut behind him, the latch clicking with a finality that echoed in the small space.
He lowered Liri onto the cot. She didn't let go. She pulled him down with her, her legs wrapping around his waist instantly, locking him in place with a strength that was shocking. She wasn't demure anymore. She was a force of nature, and she was starving.
Marcus braced himself on his forearms, looking down at her. In the shadows, her eyes seemed to glow.
"Okay," Marcus whispered, brushing a damp strand of hair from her forehead. "Let's get the fever out."
This wasn't romance. This wasn't a date. This was a rescue mission. And Marcus never left a man—or an elf—behind.
The cot groaned under their combined weight, a shrill protest of metal springs that sounded entirely too loud in the small, dark office. The room smelled of old invoices, lemon floor cleaner, and now, overwhelmingly, the scent of Liri.
It was a thick, intoxicating aroma. It wasn't just sweat. It was something older, something primal that hit the back of Marcus's throat like the air before a lightning strike. It smelled of crushed spices, ozone, and a heavy, musky sweetness that triggered a biological alarm in the lizard brain of any male within a five-mile radius.
Liri was vibrating against him. Her body was a furnace, radiating a heat that soaked through his shirt instantly. Her legs were already wrapped around his waist, locking him in with a strength that belied her slender frame. She was clawing at his back, her fingernails digging into the fabric of his shirt, dragging him down, trying to pull him into the marrow of her bones.
She was desperate. She was starving.
Marcus braced himself on his forearms, hovering over her in the gloom. His first instinct, the one driven by the testosterone spiking in his blood and the sheer, overwhelming proximity of her heat, was to give her exactly what she was begging for. He wanted to slam her down against the thin mattress. He wanted to tear her clothes off and take her with the same intensity she was projecting. He wanted to hump her like an animal until the fever broke or the cot collapsed.
But he stopped himself.
He looked down at her face in the shadows. Her eyes were blown wide, black pools of panic and need. Her mouth was open, panting, a string of saliva connecting her lips. She looked like a creature in agony. She looked like she was drowning.
Stabilize the target, Marcus thought, his military training overriding his libido. Assess. Control. Execute.
He wasn't an animal. And despite the "wildness" of her current state, neither was she. She was Liri. She was the woman who watered the plants in the window boxes and hummed while she chopped carrots. She was the gentle soul who called him Uncle.
She was suffering, and if he treated this purely as a biological evacuation, a mechanical act to clear a blockage, he would be failing her. He didn't understand the tribal genealogy involved. He didn't understand the High Vale genetics or the "Fever." But he understood pain, and he understood fear.
He needed to ground her. He needed to make this human.
"Easy," Marcus murmured, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. "Easy, Liri. I've got you."
Liri whimpered, arching her back, trying to grind her pelvis against the hardness of his belt buckle. "Now," she gasped, her voice sounding like tearing paper. "Please. Marcus. Heavy. Need heavy."
"You'll get heavy," Marcus promised, shifting his weight so that he was pressing her down firmly, using his chest to pin her to the mattress without crushing her. "But first, you breathe."
He didn't reach for his zipper. Instead, he reached for her shoulders.
His hands were large, calloused, and rough from years of handling rifles, crates, and hot pans. He gripped her delicate shoulders, his thumbs digging into the tight cords of muscle at the base of her neck. She was knotted tight as a bowstring.
He began to knead the flesh. He moved with slow, deliberate pressure, forcing the muscles to yield. He treated her not like a conquest, but like a wife. Like a lover of ten years. He treated her with the reverence he would show a woman he loved, because in that moment, he realized he did love her, in a way. Not romantically, perhaps, but protectively. She was his people.
"Breathe," Marcus commanded softly. "In. Out. Match me."
He took a slow, deep breath, expanding his chest against hers.
Liri struggled against him for a moment, her hips bucking, her hands fumbling for his belt. "No," she sobbed. "Too hot. Burning."
"I know," Marcus said, moving one hand to the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her damp, blonde hair. He massaged the base of her skull, hitting a pressure point he knew would trigger a parasympathetic response. "Let it out, Liri. I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here. I'm the anchor."
He kept working on her shoulders, moving down her arms, squeezing and releasing, forcing the blood to flow, forcing the tension to bleed out. He watched her eyes. The frantic, darting panic began to slow. Her breathing, which had been shallow hyperventilation, hitched and then deepened, syncing with his.
It was working. The frantic vibration in her bones was settling into a heavy, rhythmic thrum. She was still hot, still desperate, but she was coming back into her body. She was starting to see him, Marcus, rather than just a biological solution.
He moved his hands down her back, feeling the curve of her spine through her thin shirt. He massaged the muscles along her vertebrae, working his way down to the small of her back.
Liri let out a long, shuddering sigh. Her hands stopped clawing at his shirt and moved to his chest, her palms flattening against his pectorals. She looked up at him, her eyes wet and luminous in the dark.
"Marcus," she whispered. "It... the fire. It is deep."
"We'll put it out," Marcus said.
He moved his hands lower, over the curve of her hips, kneading the large muscles of her thighs. He wanted to lower her heart rate. He wanted to drop her blood pressure before he spiked it again.
Liri couldn't take it anymore. The gentleness was agonizing in the best possible way. It was a torture of delay.
She reached down, her hands trembling, and fumbled with his belt. The metal buckle clinked loudly. She popped the button of his jeans, the sound like a gunshot in the small room.
"Please," she begged, her voice thick. "Open. Release."
Marcus caught her wrists gently. He held them for a second, looking deep into her eyes. He wanted her to know that this wasn't just happening to her. It was happening with her.
"Okay," Marcus said. "Okay."
He let go of her wrists.
Liri didn't hesitate. She shoved his jeans down, her hands eager and clumsy. She freed him.
Marcus was hard. There was no hiding that. Despite his clinical approach, despite his tactical mindset, he was a man holding a beautiful, desperate woman who smelled like pure sex. His erection sprang free, heavy and demanding, throbbing with his own pulse.
Liri stared at it for a second, her eyes widening. She reached out and touched him, wrapping her small, cool fingers around the shaft.
The sensation nearly broke Marcus's composure. Her touch was reverent, hungry.
Then, she moved.
She sat up, pulling her T-shirt over her head in one fluid motion.
Marcus's breath caught in his throat.
He had seen naked women before. He had seen beautiful women. But he had never seen anything like this.
Liri's body was a masterpiece of genetic engineering. Her skin was flawless, glowing with a faint, pearl-golden sheen in the shadows. Her breasts were perfect—full, high, and tipped with nipples that were a deep, flushed rose color, hardened into tight peaks. Her ribcage was slender, tapering into a waist that flared out into hips that seemed designed by a mathematician obsessed with the golden ratio.
It was the High Vale perfection. It was the same unnatural beauty that her sister Eira possessed, that the Glimmucks possessed. It was terrifyingly beautiful.
And she smelled... wild.
Now that her shirt was gone, the scent hit him full force. It was a musk, yes, but it wasn't dirty. It smelled like a forest after a rainstorm, mixed with the copper tang of arousal. It was the smell of a creature that lived closer to the earth than any human ever could.
"Marcus," Liri chanted, her voice taking on a melodic, rhythmic quality. "Fill. Fix. Ground."
She lay back down, spreading her legs wide. She had already lost her panties somewhere in the frantic entry, or perhaps she hadn't been wearing any. Marcus didn't know. All he saw was the pale curve of her thighs and the wet, inviting heat between them.
She grabbed his hips. Her grip was strong—shockingly strong. She pulled him forward.
"Now!" she cried out.
Marcus didn't hold back this time. He moved between her legs. He could feel the heat radiating off her, a physical wave.
He guided himself to her entrance. She was incredibly wet, slick with a fluid that seemed slicker, hotter than anything human.
He pushed forward.
Liri gasped, her back arching off the cot as he entered her. It was a tight, gloving fit. She stretched around him, her body accommodating his size with a wet, suctioning slide that made Marcus groan aloud.
He sank into her, inch by inch, until his hips met hers with a solid slap of flesh.
"Oh, gods," Liri howled. It wasn't a scream of pain. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated relief. "Yes. Yes. The weight. The weight!"
Outside, in the hallway, Eira stood with her back against the doorframe, her arms crossed over her chest. Her head was tilted slightly to the side, her ear cocked toward the wood.
She nodded slowly, a clinical expression on her face.
"Acceptable engagement," Eira murmured to herself. "Insertion velocity is adequate. Vocalization indicates pressure release."
Raina walked around the corner, holding a fresh cup of coffee. She stopped when she saw Eira pressing her ear to the door like a nosy neighbor in a sitcom.
"Seriously?" Raina asked, looking at the tall blonde elf. "Give it a break for crying out loud. That is a private medical procedure. Or whatever you people call it."
Eira looked at Raina with a cool, disdainful sniff. "It is a Witnessing, Engineer. Though technically, my line of sight is obstructed. I am merely monitoring the audio telemetry to ensure my sister does not accidentally snap his spine."
From inside the room, a low, guttural groan from Marcus was followed by a high, keening wail from Liri that sounded like a violin string being pulled to its breaking point. Then came the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of the cot hitting the wall.
Raina winced, taking a sip of her coffee. " sounds like he's holding his own. Go guard the pie case, Eira. Let them be."
Eira hesitated, then gave a sharp nod. She pushed off the wall and walked back toward the dining room, leaving Marcus and Liri to their primal therapy.
In the corner booth, Pearl sat with her chin in her hands, glaring at a salt shaker. She kicked the table leg. "It should have been me," she muttered. "I have a fever too. I feel very warm. Nobody cares about my temperature."
Back in the office, the world had narrowed down to the point of friction.
Marcus had abandoned the massage. The time for gentle coaxing was over. Liri needed something else now. She needed force. She needed to feel the physical reality of him to keep her from floating away into the ether of her fever.
He had wrapped his arms around her, pinning her to the mattress. He was heavy on top of her, just as she had asked. He let his full weight rest on her, crushing the air from her lungs in a way that made her gasp with delight.
He began to move.
It was a slow, punishing rhythm. He withdrew almost completely, then drove back in with a long, steady stroke that seemed to touch her soul.
Liri was losing her mind.
The sensation was overwhelming. Every time he filled her, the burning itch deep inside her belly flared and then cooled, flared and then cooled. It was like he was a piston driving the madness out of her body.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, her ankles locking together. She clawed at his shoulders, her head thrashing from side to side on the pillow.
"Harder!" she howled. "Anchor me! Break it! Break the fever!"
Marcus gritted his teeth, sweat dripping from his forehead onto her chest. He picked up the pace. The wet, slapping sound of their bodies filled the room. The scent of musk and sex was so thick he could taste it.
It was primal. It was raw. It was the most erotic thing he had ever experienced.
There was no artifice here. No playing hard to get. No performance. It was pure biological need meeting pure masculine capacity. Liri was tight, hot, and incredibly responsive. Every twitch of her internal muscles milked him, pulling him deeper.
He grabbed her hips, his fingers digging into her soft flesh, leaving marks that would bruise. He lifted her slightly, changing the angle, driving deeper.
Liri's chanting became a continuous, breathless moan. Her eyes rolled back in her head. Her body bowed upward, meeting his thrusts with a frantic energy.
"Marcus... Marcus... Uncle... Sky-Bond..." she babbled, the titles mixing together in her delirium.
Marcus felt the tension building in her. He could feel her internal muscles clamping down on him, fluttering like the wings of a trapped bird.
"Let go," Marcus growled in her ear. "Let it go, Liri."
He drove into her, hard and fast, abandoning all restraint. He pounded into her, the cot slamming against the wall in time with his thrusts.
The release, when it came, was cataclysmic.
Liri stiffened. Her entire body went rigid as a board. Her mouth opened in a silent scream, and then she convulsed.
It wasn't a normal orgasm. It was an event.
Marcus felt her inner walls clamp down on him with crushing force. She shuddered violently, wave after wave of pleasure ripping through her. She howled, a long, wavering note that sounded like a wolf calling to the moon.
"YES!" she screamed. "YES! GONE! IT IS GONE!"
The intensity of her release triggered his own. Marcus couldn't hold back any longer. He buried his face in the crook of her neck and let go, pouring himself into her, spending every ounce of his energy to fill the void she had opened.
They collapsed together, a tangle of sweaty limbs and heavy breathing.
Liri lay beneath him, her chest heaving. The crimson flush on her skin was already fading, retreating back to a healthy pink. Her eyes fluttered open. The black voids were gone, replaced by her normal, soft blue irises. They were clear. The panic was gone.
"Marcus," she whispered, her voice hoarse. She reached up and stroked his cheek, her touch gentle again. "You... you fixed it."
Marcus kissed her forehead. He was exhausted. His heart was hammering against his ribs like a jackhammer.
"Good," he rasped. "We're good."
But as he tried to pull away, Liri's legs tightened around his waist.
She smiled. It wasn't the terrified smile of the fever. It was a slow, sleepy, but incredibly mischievous smile.
"The fever is broken," Liri murmured, shifting her hips so that he hardened inside her again instantly. "But the Doctor says I must finish the full course of medication. To be sure."
Marcus blinked, looking down at her. "Liri... I think we.. "
"Shhh," she whispered, grabbing his shoulders and rolling them over so that she was straddling him. She sat up, her perfect breasts bouncing slightly, her hair a wild golden halo around her face.
She looked down at him, her eyes sparkling. She looked cured. She looked relaxed. But she also looked incredibly hungry in a way that had nothing to do with fever and everything to do with the fact that she had just discovered something wonderful.
"Round two," Liri announced, placing her hands on his chest. "For... stability. And because you have a very perfect ass, Marcus. Eira did not mention that part."
Marcus groaned, letting his head fall back against the pillow. He was a soldier. He had his orders. And looking up at the magnificent, glowing woman riding him, he decided that this was one mission he didn't mind extending.
"Roger that," Marcus muttered, reaching up to cup her breasts. "Proceed with the mission."
And the cot began to squeak again.
The silence in the small office did not last long.
The air was heavy, thick with the scent of their coupling. It was a dense, humid atmosphere that smelled of musk, ozone, and the distinct, copper tang of the High Vale fever breaking. But while the frantic, panicked energy of the emergency had dissipated, something else had risen to take its place.
Curiosity. And a voracious, newfound hunger.
Marcus lay on his back, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. He assumed they were done. He assumed the "medical procedure" was complete. But then he felt Liri shift on top of him.
She didn't roll off. She didn't collapse. Instead, she pushed herself up, straddling his hips with a renewed, vibrant energy. Her blonde hair fell around her face in a wild, golden curtain, sticking to the sheen of sweat on her skin. Her eyes, no longer black pits of void-like panic, were clear, bright blue, and locked onto his with an intensity that pinned him to the mattress far more effectively than her hands ever could.
"Round two," she had whispered, and she wasn't asking.
She sank down onto him.
It wasn't the desperate, frantic impalement of the first time. This was deliberate. She took him inside her slowly, inch by excruciating inch, her eyes never leaving his. She was savoring the stretch, the fullness, the sheer biological reality of him filling the space that had been aching for a century.
"Oh," Liri breathed, her head falling back as she settled fully against his pelvis. "The connection. It is... distinct."
She began to move.
The rhythm was different now. It was fluid. It was a rolling, grinding motion that utilized the perfect geometry of her hips. She leaned forward, placing her hands on his chest, her palms flat against his pectorals. She could feel his heart hammering beneath her fingers, a strong, steady drumbeat that synced with her own.
Marcus reached up. He couldn't help himself. The sight of her above him, glowing in the semi-darkness like a pagan idol, broke through his exhaustion. He cupped her breasts, his rough, calloused thumbs tracing the aureoles. Her nipples were hard peaks, sensitive and swollen. As he squeezed them, massaging the soft weight of her flesh, Liri let out a low, purring moan that vibrated through her chest and into his hands.
It was a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure.
"You feel... incredible," Marcus rasped, his voice wrecked.
He found a new level of male satisfaction in that moment. It wasn't just friction. It was the realization of her absolute womanliness. She was soft where she needed to be soft and strong where she needed to be strong. She was reacting to him not just as a cure, but as a partner. Her inner muscles fluttered and clenched around him, milking him with a rhythmic precision that made his vision blur.
Liri leaned down, her hair brushing against his face. She kissed him, her mouth open and wet, tasting the salt on his skin. She broke the kiss and looked at him, her pupils blown wide.
"I need to taste you," she announced.
She didn't wait for permission. She lifted her hips, sliding off him with a wet, popping sound that echoed in the quiet room. She shuffled backward on the cot, moving down his body.
She grabbed his thighs, pushing them apart with a strength that was surprising for her size. She positioned herself between his legs, lowering her head.
For Liri, this was an exploration of a new world. She had lived a long time in the High Vale, but her life had been one of duty, of service to the House, of waiting. She had never been allowed to indulge in this. The Sky-Bond was a myth, a story told to young girls.
But the reality was right here.
She took him into her mouth.
Marcus groaned, his hips bucking involuntarily off the mattress. The sensation was electric. Her tongue was hot, skilled not by experience but by instinct. She swirled and licked, exploring the texture and shape of him with a reverence that bordered on worship.
She hummed against him, the vibration traveling straight down his spine. She used her hands to caress him, stroking his thighs, cuping him, learning the topography of his desire.
She pulled back for a second, looking up at him from between his legs. Her lips were wet, her face flushed with triumph.
"This is all new to me," Liri confessed, her voice thick with wonder. "I have never tasted the life-force like this. It is... incredibly wonderful. It tastes like iron and stars."
She went back to work.
She took him deeper, experimenting with suction, with pressure. She was a quick study. She learned exactly where to touch, exactly how to move to make his breath hitch and his hands clench in the sheets. She was relentless. She was driven by a need to know every part of him, to own every reaction he had.
Marcus was lost. He reached down, tangling his fingers in her hair, not to push her away, but to hold on. The pleasure was building too fast, a tidal wave that he couldn't hold back.
"Liri," he warned, his voice straining. "Liri, I'm close."
She didn't stop. She hummed louder, increasing the pace, drawing him out until he had no choice.
He erupted.
It was his third climax in the span of an hour, but it felt just as powerful as the first. Liri didn't pull away. She stayed with him, swallowing him down, tasting everything she could. She drank him in like he was nectar, like he was the only sustenance that could keep the fever at bay.
When he finally subsided, twitching and spent, she slowly released him. She licked her lips, her expression dazed and happy.
"Wonderful," she whispered.
But she wasn't done. The fever was broken, but the fire still simmered in the coals. She needed to be completely extinguished.
She crawled up his body, moving like a cat. She grabbed his head gently, her fingers soothing his temples, and guided him downward.
"Reciprocity," Liri murmured, pushing his face toward her own center. "Take me, Marcus. Balance the equation."
Marcus didn't argue. He was a soldier who understood the concept of leave no man behind, and he certainly wasn't going to leave her unsatisfied.
He moved between her legs again. The scent of her was overwhelming, stronger now that she was fully aroused. He buried his face in her, inhaling the wild, forest-floor musk of her. He tasted her. She was sweet and salty and complex, a flavor that no human woman possessed.
Liri cried out the moment his tongue touched her. She arched her back, her fingers digging into his scalp.
"Yes!" she hissed. "There! Right there!"
He proceeded in kind. He used his tongue to mimic the rhythm she had used on him. He found the small, hidden diamond of her desire and focused on it with single-minded determination. He listened to her breathing, to the way her breath hitched and caught, and he adjusted his speed to match her need.
This was the third round. It was slower, deeper, more intimate. It wasn't about the fever anymore. It was about pleasure. It was about two lonely creatures finding solace in the dark.
Liri's climax, when it came, was a long, shuddering release that left her limp and boneless on the mattress.
She lay there for a long time, staring up at the ceiling, her chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm. Marcus moved up beside her, wrapping his arm around her waist.
She turned onto her side, facing away from him. She grabbed his arm and pulled it tighter around her, backing her hips into his groin.
"Stay," she whispered. "Do not leave the vessel empty."
She lifted her leg, opening herself to him from behind.
It was an invitation for comfort as much as for sex. Marcus slid into her one last time. He was semi-soft, exhausted, but her body welcomed him, holding him snugly. He entered her gently, filling the space, creating a physical lock that connected them.
He didn't thrust. He just held her. He pressed his chest against her back, his chin resting on her shoulder. He wrapped his legs around hers, tangling their limbs together until it was impossible to tell where the soldier ended and the elf began.
"Safe," Liri murmured, her eyes fluttering closed. "Anchor."
"I've got you," Marcus mumbled into her hair.
The exhaustion hit them both simultaneously. It was a physical blow, a hammer dropping on their consciousness. The adrenaline crash, combined with the immense energy expenditure of the ritual, pulled them down into a deep, comatose sleep.
Liri fell asleep first, a soft snore escaping her lips. Marcus followed seconds later, his breathing deepening into the slow, steady rhythm of deep REM sleep. He stayed inside her, connected, protecting her even in his dreams.
Outside the door, the hallway was quiet.
Eira stood with her arms crossed, tapping her foot against the linoleum. She checked her watch. It had been forty-five minutes since the last vocalization.
"Silence," Eira noted, frowning. "Silence is... ambiguous."
She leaned her ear against the door. Nothing. Not a creak of the springs. Not a moan. Not a whimper.
Panic flared in her chest.
What if the fever had consumed her? What if the biological strain had been too much for her heart? What if Marcus, in his human ignorance, had failed to complete the grounding circuit and she had burned out?
Eira knocked sharply on the wood.
"Sister?" she called out. "Report."
No answer.
"Sky-Bond?" Eira tried, her voice sharper. "Status update."
Silence.
"Unacceptable," Eira hissed.
She reached into her hair, pulling out a long, silver pin that held her intricate bun in place. She crouched down by the doorknob. It was a simple privacy lock, a trivial obstacle for a woman who had spent decades navigating the political intrigues and locked chambers of the High Vale courts.
She inserted the pin. A quick twist, a subtle jiggle, and the lock clicked open.
Eira stood up, took a deep breath, and pushed the door open.
She was prepared for carnage. She was prepared for scorch marks on the walls, for broken furniture, for a medical emergency that would require immediate extraction.
She was not prepared for the domestic tranquility that greeted her.
The room was dark, but enough light spilled in from the hallway to illuminate the cot.
They were asleep.
Eira stepped into the room, her boots silent. She walked to the side of the bed, her eyes narrowing as she assessed the situation.
They were tangled together in a knot of limbs. Liri was curled on her side, her face pressed into the pillow, her expression one of utter, blissful peace. Marcus was spooned behind her, his large arm draped protectively over her waist, his face buried in her hair. The sheet was kicked down to their ankles, revealing the intimacy of their position.
Eira's gaze traveled down. She saw the way their bodies were pressed together. She saw that they were still connected, Marcus still inside her sister, acting as a living plug to keep the energy grounded.
At first, a flash of irritation spiked in Eira's chest. Enough was enough. The ritual was concluded. He should have withdrawn. He should have debriefed. This... this cuddling was outside the parameters of the contract.
She reached out, intending to shake Marcus by the shoulder and order him to detach.
But her hand stopped in mid-air.
She looked at Liri's face.
For the first time in three days, the tension was gone. The lines of pain around her eyes had vanished. Her skin was cool and pale, the angry flush completely gone.
Eira leaned closer, peering at Liri's eyelids. They were relaxed, not twitching with the rapid-eye movement of a fever dream. She watched the pulse in Liri's neck. It was slow. Steady. Strong.
"Normal," Eira whispered, the word barely audible.
She looked at the rise and fall of Liri's chest. Her breathing was deep and even. Her grip on Marcus's arm was loose, relaxed.
Eira straightened up, pulling her hand back. She looked at Marcus. The human was sound asleep, dead to the world. He looked exhausted, drained, but there was a softness to his features that she hadn't seen before. He wasn't the wary soldier or the harried cook. He was... a mate.
It was almost too much for Eira to process.
She felt a wave of tremendous gratitude wash over her. He had done it. He had saved her sister. He had taken the fire into himself and grounded it, just as the prophecy—or at least the manual—said a Sky-Bond should.
But beneath the gratitude, a darker, sharper emotion coiled in her gut.
She looked at the way Marcus held Liri. She looked at the connection between them.
She wanted that.
The desire hit her with the force of a physical blow. She wanted to be the one held. She wanted to be the one filled and anchored and protected from the crushing weight of the world. She wanted his heaviness on her.
She swallowed hard, pushing the feeling down. She was the Matriarch. She was the responsible one. She did not get to be spooned. She had to guard the door.
"Rest, sister," Eira whispered, her voice tight. "You are safe."
She stepped back, moving silently toward the door. She would not wake them. Let them sleep. Let the bond settle.
She stepped out into the hallway and pulled the door shut, locking it again from the outside.
She leaned her back against the door, closing her eyes for a moment to compose herself.
The air in the diner had changed.
Even with the door closed, the scent had escaped. The pheromones generated by the ritual were potent. They drifted through the cracks, riding the air currents of the air conditioning.
At the corner booth, Pearl sat slumped against the vinyl. Her nose twitched. She inhaled sharply, her eyes dilating.
She could smell it. The musk. The sweat. The distinct, salty tang of satisfied desire.
"It isn't fair," Pearl whined to the empty napkin holder. She kicked her legs under the table. "I can smell the heavy. Why don't I get the heavy?"
She slumped forward, resting her chin on the table, glaring at the hallway with a look of pure, unadulterated envy.
Across the room, Raina was packing up her blueprints. She paused, sniffing the air.
She was human. She didn't have the enhanced senses of a Glimmuck or a High Vale elf. But she was a woman, and a complete one at that. The scent hitting her was primal. It triggered a biological response deep in her own brain, a sudden flush of heat that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.
It was the smell of a strong male claiming a mate. It was undeniably arousing.
Raina paused, her hand hovering over her laptop. She bit her lip, glancing toward the hallway. She couldn't help but wonder what exactly had happened in that room, and why her body was suddenly reacting as if she were the one who had been in there.
A shadow fell over her.
Nix was there.
He moved silently, appearing at her elbow like a phantom. He wasn't looking at the hallway. He was looking at her. His nostrils flared slightly, tasting the air, tasting her reaction to the air.
His blue-gold eyes were dark, swirling with a possessive intelligence. He knew exactly what she was smelling. He knew exactly what she was feeling.
"The air is... thick," Nix murmured, his voice low and dangerous.
He reached out, his perfect, cool hand encompassing hers. He didn't ask. He simply took her hand, his grip firm and claiming.
"Come," Nix said. "The atmosphere here is contaminated with another's bond. We require fresh air."
Raina looked up at him, startled. She looked at his hand on hers, then at his face. He looked breathtakingly beautiful in the dim light, and entirely too focused on her.
"Fresh air," Raina repeated, her voice breathless. "Right. Good idea."
Nix pulled her gently but firmly toward the exit, leading her away from the scent of Marcus and Liri, and into the cool, waiting night.