The forest blurs. Trees become streaks and I'm holding on with everything—fingers cramping, thighs burning—
Paste ratio. Pink chicken. Angry goat.
His stride rolls through me. Every step. Through my thighs, my hips, my core. Relentless. And my body is moving with it whether I want it to or not.
Kestria getting stabbed. The rotten deer.
He leaps over a fallen log and I gasp, grabbing harder, my hips pressing flush against his spine.
Trees. Think about trees. That one's probably an oak—does it matter? It does not matter.
Wind. Cold wind on my face. That's a good thing to notice. Wind and the blur of forest and the smell of pine and earth and—cedar, which is him, which is what I smelled with my face pressed against his throat while he—
Gradually, my body stops fighting.
I don't decide to relax. My muscles just give up theargument. My thighs stop clenching and move with him, my hips rolling with his stride. My grip loosens. And that's worse, not better, because without the effort there's nothing between me and the sensation. His muscles shifting under my thighs. My body rocking against his spine. The warmth spreading through me, steady.
I press my forehead against the back of his neck. His fur is softer here, warm against my skin, and I can feel his pulse through it. My eyes close and I just—let it happen. The movement and the trust of it, sitting on something that could kill me, wrapped around something that chose to carry me instead.
He stops at the edge of a clearing and the stillness hits harder than the movement.
Everything is buzzing. My skin, my thighs, the places where we're touching—which is everywhere.
I slide off his back.
My legs buckle. I catch myself, press my hands against my thighs, stand there shaking. Muscles I don't normally use. Very normal.
The field spreads ahead, moonbright carpeting the ground, blue-white flowers so thick they glow. Ridge to ridge, more than I've ever seen in one place.
Bones cracking behind me.
I stare at the flowers. Deep color, purple-tinged edges, those are the potent ones. I should start picking. Right now. While behind me, the sound of his body reshaping—
I turn.
Right there. Naked. And my hands don't even flinch. No shock, no scramble. Just—oh. You again.
Alrighty then.
"I have your clothes." Already digging through the basket. The bundle comes out warm—they were pressed against the moonbright crate, against the side of my body the whole way here. "I grabbed them. Before. When you—" I push them at his chest without looking up. "Habit. Reflex. I wasn't thinking.They were on the ground, I picked them up, that's just—a thing I did. With my hands. Apparently."
Silence.
I look up.
He's staring at me. Clothes still in his hands, not putting them on. Just… looking at me.
"You can—" I gesture vaguely at his entire situation. "Get dressed. Or not. I'm picking flowers."
I turn around fast. Pull on my gloves. Toss the spare pair at his feet without looking up. "Wear them. I'm not patching your hands again." I dig through the basket for my knife.
"You can turn around."
"I'm picking."
"Melori."
I turn around.
