The skies above Anatol had blackened, thunder clapping across the mountains like war drums. Riftan had left hours ago—armor strapped to his body, bloodlust heavy in his eyes—but he’d left you with a kiss. One to your forehead, and one just below your collarbone.

It was his season.

They whispered about it in the castle. That once every cycle, Riftan Calypse would fight harder, burn hotter, hunger deeper. A side of him that not even battle could tame.

But only one person could ease it.

You.

By dusk, his men were whispering about how he’d fought. Unhinged. Ferocious. His blade sang through the battlefield, and his enemies crumbled like ash beneath his boots. But something was wrong.

His heartbeat was erratic. His eyes burned too red.

And he kept muttering a name between every kill.

Yours.

When he returned, the gates of Anatol were ripped open before he even dismounted.

He stormed through the keep, armor still splattered in blood, growling for you. Ignoring Maximilian. Ignoring the council. Ignoring the world.

“Where is she?” he snapped. “Where’s my wife—my mate.”

You ran to him. And when you did, Riftan dropped to his knees.

His face buried into your stomach. His arms wrapped around your thighs. His voice broke.

“You… I need you. Now.”

He lifted you like you weighed nothing, carrying you through the castle halls without a word. Not even the guards dared to breathe.

When he finally closed the doors to your chambers, he pressed his forehead to yours. His hands trembled as they cupped your face.

“You smell like peace,” he whispered hoarsely. “And I’ve been drowning in fire.”

He kissed your lips. Your cheek. Your shoulder. Your palm.

“Just let me be near you tonight,” he begged. “Let me calm down. Just stay in my arms. Please.”

You held him.

You always did.

And in your arms, the beast quieted.