Absolutely not.
Not him. Not like this.
I shift my stance slightly, angling away, pretending I’m just adjusting my grip on the crowbar and not dealing with the very inconvenient fact that my body has decided now is a great time to betray me.
“Don’t,” I mutter under my breath.
Varek’s head tilts a fraction. Like he heard it. Worse—like he felt it.
It’s deeply unfair for a male who has caused me this much grief to look like that.
I finally turn because pretending not to look is pointless when my body is already fully aware of him—aware, too, of the contrast. Him, all hard lines and impossible angles. Me, broader, softer at the edges, built for endurance, not display.
I’m not exactly small myself. Thick through the shoulders, solid rather than carved, muscle built from years fixing machines that weigh more than a small house. My tattoo itches under my sleeve, and the old scar beside my eye pulls when I scowl—which, lately, is often—dragging the expression into something more severe than I probably intend.
He’s a few feet away, broad shoulders nearly blocking the narrow lane between the stacked crates and shelves like he personally owns the air in it. He’s tall enough to make the warehouse feel smaller than it is—which is impressive, considering this place used to store half a trading district’s worth of junk.
His dark hair is loose today, falling past his shoulders in thick waves that catches the pale light from the high windows. It should look messy. It doesn’t. It just makes him look even more unfairly put together.
The faint silver markings at his temples and throat stand out against deep purple skin that shifts in the light like oil over dark water. Not subtle either—proper alien. Nyxerian. No mistaking what he is.
Then there are the horns. Elegant curves sweeping back from his temples, sharp and clean, more like something sculpted than grown.
And his eyes, they’re bright silver.
Not human. Not even close.
They’re fixed on me with that steady, assessing look of his—the one that makes me feel like he’s weighing truths I haven’t even spoken yet.
It drives me absolutely bonkers.
There’s dried blood on the strap crossing his chest from earlier, when he helped haul in the carcass. Not his blood. He’s healed from the arrow wound now. Mostly. Better than he should have—at least by human standards.
Though maybe it’s slow for a Nyxerian.
I changed his bandages for three days straight before I realised what I was doing and got so angry about it, I nearly threw him out again.
His gaze flicks to the crowbar in my hand, then to the cracked lid of the crate. “You are favouring your shoulder.”
“I’musingmy shoulder.”
“You struck it against the crate.”
“Were you watching me fail for entertainment?”
His mouth does that tiny thing again, the almost-smile that never fully lands. “No.”
“Liar.”
“I was watching in case you injured yourself.”
I stare at him. “The crate.”
He inclines his head once, solemn as a judge.
Honestly, sometimes I don’t know whether to kiss him or stab him. That thought arrives so casually, I nearly trip over it.
I look away first. “You can stop looming.”
