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Chapter 91 - Within the woods: Bonding in the meadows.

(Three Years Later)

It is a lovely day—the sun spilling gold across the rippling water, each wave catching a shimmer like stolen light, as the crystal-turquoise lake sways in a slow, musical hush.

A golden spring noon veils the earth—warm and weightless—the very air swaying the lush green grass, blooming wildflowers, and trees whose branches stretch like veins of living art, breathing life that makes the heart feel fiercely alive.

A timberline of lush green bushes stands nearby, colourful caterpillars inching along their leaves, the vines heavy with fruit.

Even the torn leaves, catching the sunlight, seem alive and gilded, while the shadowed branches reveal their darker truth.

Above the blossoming earth, golden bees hum, and kaleidoscopic butterflies flutter like the early leaves swaying on the wind, as they pause to drink from nectar-rich flowers.

Birdsong drifts through the air, dripping like ambrosia. Mated birds perch and chirp on the mature river birch looming nearby, its branches rustling with heavy green leaves—nearly toppling as they serenade the beauty of this inflorescent spring.

Beneath the open sky, a bed of sun-kissed shrubs and grass, yellow-green at the peaks and deepening at the roots, abounds with flickering blooms that glow like quiet flames.

But the shade beneath the looming river birch deepens, closing in—its generosity daring to offer an illusory sanctuary—and there, Neva hums a soft melody, her fingers threading through Ishmael's dark curls, stroking in rhythm with a symphony breathed in tune with the pulsing earth.

His lashes flutter as he opens his eyes to look up at her—his features serene, more tranquil than she's seen in a while, after a long, stressful week at work.

She smiles softly as their eyes meet, and a slow, dreamy—lover-boy grin curves his lips. Her fingers move rhythmically, tenderly, with practiced care, stroking his hair as his head rests in her lap.

His eyes are heavy with sleep as her breath, her touch, her very presence drifts him toward a dreamworld—but he resists. For this—her warmth, her nearness—is a reality no utopia in his wildest chimeras could ever rival.

A blanket lies spread beneath them.

A wicker picnic basket rests nearby, alongside two half-finished canvases—sunlit scenery rendered in sure, skillful strokes.

Paintbrushes lie scattered around a transparent cup inked with watery hues, tiny splatters marking the fabric like bursts of confetti.

"Love?" Ishmael murmurs, his breathing tranquil as he gently caresses her hand and places a soft, lingering kiss to it.

Neva looks down at him, the calm depth of her round, almond cocoa eyes a mysterious void. "Hmm?"

"I love you," he says, voice quiet, clear, and brimming with lucency—his breath catches at the sheer beauty of her.

Strands of her curls lift, weightless in the breeze, drifting across her face like a curtain as the wind swirls around them, rustling the river birch in a soft, leafy chorus.

His heart aches at how miraculous she appears—the most beautiful life to live, threading purpose into what was once a hollow existence. She is unchanged, untouched by time, eternally young, forever his. His—only his—precious woman.

"I love you too," Neva whispers, her voice a breath of spring.

His smile deepens, the corners of his eyes crinkling with pure bliss. Her gaze, mysterious and deep as a twilight stream, glows in the warmth of his. He shifts forward, closing the space between them.

His hand finds her jaw, fingers warm and sure, as his lips sink into hers—slow, ardent, smiling into the taste of her.

Her palms press to his chest, feeling the strong, rapid rhythm of his heart, each beat echoing in her own pulse.

His hand trails down the soft curve of her neck to cradle her nape, while her fingers tighten at his collar, drawing him closer.

With a gentle tilt of her head, he deepens the kiss—rich, lingering, and molten—pouring life into the roots of their love.

"Mumma!"

The joyful cry cleaves the air, and Neva's eyes fly wide. Her hands press hard against Ishmael's chest, shoving him away in an instinctive rush.

A boy with round, rosy cheeks and delicate milky skin stands beneath the river birch. His hair is ruffled, his smile wide—a heart-shaped joy etched on his cheeky little face.

Neva straightens, startled and flushed, her breath still uneven. Beside her, Ishmael sits in poised calm, yet his eyes betray the ache—unsatisfied, yearning for her all the more as he drinks in the sight of her.

"I made this for you!" the boy chirps, a little breathless, his almond-brown eyes gleaming with excitement.

Neva's gaze softens in awe. In his small, stubby fist rests a bouquet of wildflowers—messy, vibrant, and heartbreakingly sweet.

She reaches for him, cupping his face in her hands before pressing a gentle kiss to his soft, warm cheek. He giggles—sweet, unguarded joy bubbling out of him, giddy beneath her affection.

Her heart swells, glowing in the warmth of his happiness. "Thank you, baby," she murmurs, taking the gift—startled when he suddenly throws his little arms around her.

She smiles, drawing him close, her gentle fingers stroking his lush curls.

Her eyes lift to meet Ishmael's; he smiles back, his gaze burnished and glowing.

"You didn't bring me anything, Isaiah?" Ishmael teases, his palm brushing the small of his son's back.

Isaiah glances at him as he pulls away from his mother. "But boys don't like flowers, Papa."

"Who said boys don't like flowers?" Ishmael asks, one brow lifting.

"I've never seen you get any," Isaiah says, his expression puzzled.

"And you just assumed?" Ishmael presses, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Isaiah shrugs, lips curling into a faint pout. "You're the only boy I know."

With that, he clambers onto Neva's lap and settles there. She glances at Ishmael—where a faint, guilt-shadowed frown gathers between his brows.

She slips her hand over his, giving a gentle squeeze. His eyes lift to meet hers.

Neva tilts her head, offering a small, assuring blink. He has lived by one quiet proverb: protect them—even if it means keeping their circle small and their world shielded.

Ishmael's lips curve into a subdued smile.

Neva smiles at him before withdrawing her hand, letting it drift into Isaiah's lush curls.

She gently plucks sticky seeds and stray petals from his tousled hair.

"Where's your sister?" she asks, her fingers combing softly through the strands.

"Naya's very slow, Mumma. I left her behind," Isaiah says, eyes fixed on the toy plane in his hands. He swoops it through the air, lips buzzing with engine sounds.

Neva's brows knit.

"You can't leave her alone, Isaiah. What if she gets hurt?" she chides, a flicker of concern rising in her chest.

Isaiah freezes mid-flight, then looks up at her—lips trembling, big doe eyes glossing with tears. "I'm sorry," he mumbles, his voice small and fragile.

Her expression softens at once.

Her son is loved so deeply that even the slightest sharpness from her feels like a wound to his small heart.

"I'll go find her," Ishmael says, rising to his feet.

"Come back soon," Neva calls gently.

"I will," he replies with a smile.

She presses her lips into a thin line as he walks away, anxiety threading through her heart.

The guards linger in the shadows—always near, always unseen—so there is always a protection, yet never true solitude. She's grown used to it; it comforts and suffocates in equal measure.

"Mumma?" Isaiah cups her cheek with his small, warm hands, guilt still glimmering in his eyes.

She smiles, brushing the curls from his forehead.

"Don't do that again, okay? You're a good big brother, aren't you? You have to always look after your little sister."

He nods solemnly. "Okay."

"Okay," she echoes, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek.

He beams, syrupy joy spilling across his features as he leans in to kiss his mother's cheek, drawing a soft, involuntary laugh from her lips.

---

Ishmael moves through the woods, each step sinking into the hush of nature—deep, green, and ancient in its stillness.

He knows every twist of root and rise of earth; this land is his, mapped into his memory.

Hidden eyes watch from the trees—security cameras camouflaged in the bark, his men stationed and armed, their bodies swallowed by the foliage.

Like the shadowed figure behind a pine—clad head to toe in black, melting into the green wilderness.

He should feel reassured, this place is never left untouched—often visited by him and his family. Inaya must be close.

Yet the knot in his chest only tightens.

Not until he sees his little girl will the tension ease.

Even her favorite spot by the lake lies bare—only ripples move across the glassy surface, carrying the echo of her absence.

The lake glistens under a washed-blue sky, where clouds drift in slow procession. He stands at the open shore, the scent of damp earth and pine heavy in the air. The grove's shadow stretches long over the water, darkening with the sun's slow descent, as if the day itself were holding its breath.

A cold wind stirs the grasses, bending them in slow waves. White, purple, and pink blooms flare briefly beneath the gusts, their petals trembling before settling again.

He reaches for his phone, thumb brushing the screen—about to call the chief of security—

when a flicker of movement catches in the corner of his eye.

There—

a tiny figure in a peach-colored frock, half-swallowed by tall shrubs. Her curls spill over her shoulders in loose, sun-warmed cascades, shifting as the wind teases them.

"Naya," he calls, his voice low, carried away in threads by the restless air.

She turns at once, searching the grove for him.

When her bright, doe-like eyes land on him, a smile bursts across her face—radiant, outshining the wildflowers at her feet.

"Papa!" she squeals, her cheeks lit with rosy warmth.

She runs to him, tiny legs cutting through a drift of fluttering butterflies, the air alive with their wings.

He drops into a crouch with a relieved smile, arms wide, and she collides into his chest. He gathers her close, the familiar weight of her small frame pressing against his heart.

"What's my pearl doing here?" he murmurs, planting a kiss deep into her soft curls.

Inaya beams and raises her small hands to reveal her treasure—two delicate flower crowns, petals of white, purple, and pink carefully threaded together.

Ishmael's brows lift in delight. "Are these for Mumma?" he asks.

She nods eagerly. "One for Mumma. One for Papa."

He chuckles, lowering his forehead to hers and rubbing their noses together, her giggles spilling like a fountain in spring.

"Papa, put me down. I still have more to make!" she pleads with earnest urgency.

"Shall I help you then?" he asks, giving her soft cheek a playful pinch.

"Yes!" she beams, nodding fast, wriggling until he sets her down.

Together, they disappear deeper into the meadow, her tiny hands gathering wildflowers—gathering dreams.

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