“So Ceeka said. It’s one of my favorites. It tastes like something we have back home called a sweet potato.” I ducked under a low-hanging branch, my fingers trailing along the smooth bark of a tree whose trunk was easily ten times my arm span.
“It is one of my favorites too,” he replied, his azure eyes scanning the foliage. “We have a similar vegetable on Zarpazia.”
I was so focused on his words, on the way his voice seemed to wrap around me like warm honey, that I didn’t notice the root snaking across the path until my foot caught it. I stumbled forward with a startled gasp, my arms windmilling as I fought to regain my balance.
Diarvet’s hand shot out instantly, his strong fingers wrapping around my wrist, steadying me before I could fall. The contact sent a jolt of electricity up my arm, and when I looked up to thank him, I found myself caught in the warmth of his gaze.
Instead of letting go, I found myself threading my fingers through his, our palms pressing together in a way that felt as natural as breathing. His hand was warm and slightly rough, but it fit against mine perfectly, like two puzzle pieces finally finding their match. The rightness of it settled into my bones, chasing away the last of my nervousness and replacing it with something deeper, something that felt like coming home.
As we walked deeper into the jungle, Diarvet’s expression grew more serious. He glanced at me, then cleared his throat in a way that suggested what came next was important.
“There is something I must tell you,” he began, his deep voice carrying a note of excitement. “The Peecha have a comm unit—part of the trade relationship with Zarpazia after our former king was exiled here. Tark was able to get a message through to Vraxxan about the Wojonik attack.”
My heart skipped a beat at the mention of communication with the outside world—not exactly excitement, more a pang of regret that our time on Eden might be ending soon.
“Vraxxan had even better news to share,” Diarvet continued. His scales began to shimmer, shifting from their usual blue-gold to something brighter, more luminous. “He spoke with the Alliance Prime. She has agreed to intervene on your behalf. Both you and Lilibet have been officially declared free of Qurbaga’s claim of ownership.”
“We’re free? We’re safe?” I asked, unsure if my giddiness was due to the news or the way his thumb gently ran over the back of my hand.
“Not quite,” Diarvet said, his eyes growing dark. “Qurbaga is an entitled bastard. He will not accept the Prime’s directive without a fight. We still need to get you somewhere safe where Qurbaga has no access.”
“Where?” I sighed, wondering if there was such a place in the entire universe. The slimy frog was royalty after all.
Diarvet stopped, turning to face me. His free hand came up to cup my chin, raising my gaze to his. “Qurbaga will never touch you again, Lilibet, either,” he vowed, his voice a little more than a growl. “Vraxxan is sending a Zarpazian warship. It should be here in a few days. We can travel to Zarpazia. You and Lilibet will be safe there.”
“Really?” I asked, hope blooming in my chest.
A smile broke across his face that would melt titanium, his scales rippling with emotion. “Really,” he said softly.
The joy that flooded through me was overwhelming. Before I could stop myself, I launched forward, wrapping my arms around his waist and burying my face against his chest.
Diarvet went completely still, his breath hitching audibly. I felt his hands hover uncertainly over my back for a moment before settling there with deliberate gentleness, one palm spanning the space between my shoulder blades, the other resting at the curve of my spine.
The embrace should have been innocent—gratitude, relief, nothing more. But pressed against him, I became hyperaware of everything. The solid warmth of his body, the way his chest rose and fell beneath my cheek, the subtle shift of his scales under my palms. When I tilted my head back to thank him, I found his eyes dark and intense, fixed on my face with an expression that made my pulse stutter.
We were close. Far too close. I could feel the heat radiating from his skin and see the way his pupils had dilated, as well as the slight parting of his lips. His hand at my back pressed just a fraction firmer, and I felt myself leaning into him without conscious thought. I wanted to kiss him so badly I could literally taste it, like sugar and spice on my tongue.
The moment stretched taut between us, charged with possibility, before the screech of a nearby bird brought reality crashing back. I jerked away so quickly I nearly stumbled, my face burning with mortification.
Diarvet was not immune to the awkwardness that settled between us. Something akin to disappointment flickered across his handsome features, but he recovered quickly, smoothing his expression into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “The waterfall is just ahead.”
We walked the rest of the way in near silence, save for errant comments about the landscape or the occasional bird call echoing through the trees. I teased him about the blossoms Lilibet had woven into his braid, expecting embarrassment, but instead he seemed wildly proud, his chest puffing slightly as his fingers unconsciously touched the flowers.
Seriously, my ovaries felt near bursting.
The path curved sharply to the left, and suddenly we emerged from the canopy into a sun-drenched clearing. Water cascaded down a sheer rock face at least thirty feet high, catching the afternoon light and throwing it back in a thousand tiny rainbows. The pool at the base was crystal clear, so transparent that I could see smooth stones scattered across the bottom like scattered coins. Mist rose from where the water struck, creating a cool, sweet-scented veil that kissed my skin.
“Oh,” I breathed, enamored by the sight. “It’s beautiful.”
Diarvet moved to stand beside me, close enough that I caught his scent—something like cedar, spice, and clean mountain air.
“Yes,” he breathed. There was something in his voice that made me glance at him only to find his eyes on me and not on the water. My skin heated, despite the cooling mist.
Near the shoreline, tall reeds swayed, slender emerald stalks bending and dancing with the breeze. The fuzzy, cattail-like tips that crowned each reed in a vibrant chartreuse unmistakably identified the kompur plant.
I pulled the knife Diarvet had given me from its leather sheath at my belt, the familiar weight of it reassuring in my palm as I knelt in amidst the plants. The earth here was rich and dark, softened by the constant moisture, and I began the careful work of digging around the base of the reeds. Diarvet settled beside me, his larger hands making quick work of coaxing the stubborn, gnarled roots from their earthen home.
The rhythmic work was oddly soothing. The soft scrape of metal against soil, the gentle splash of water as we rinsed the dirt from our harvest, the comfortable silence that stretched between us. It took me a while to work up my courage to break that peace, so long in fact that we’d accumulated enough twisted, purple roots to keep the tribe fed for days.
