“We were always going to die doing this.” I reach up. Touch his blood-splattered face. Feel the furnace warmth of him beneath my palm, the power still thrumming just beneath his skin. “The only question was whether we’d die for what mattered.”
He goes completely still beneath my touch. The particular stillness of a predator that has chosen not to move—not surrender, not distance. A decision made in the space between one breath and the next.
“She matters.” He’s not asking.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I think about the question. Really think about it.
“Because if I can save her—if I can give her the chance I never had—then maybe all of this matters.”
His jaw works. An expression moves across his scarred face that I don’t have a name for.
“You’re not what I expected.” The words come out rough. Reluctant.
“Neither are you.”
We stand there in the dead valley, the Matron’s words still echoing in my skull, the child I’ve saved sleeping at our feet. His blood on my skin. My hand on his face. The wreckage of everything we planned scattered behind us.
I should be calculating next steps, contingency plans, ways to salvage what’s left of our rebellion.
Instead, I’m thinking about his mouth. The way it felt against mine in the bone garden. How much I want to feel that again, despite the chaos, despite the danger, despite everything.
His nostrils flare. Scenting the air. Scenting me.
He knows. Can probably smell the desire on my skin, read it in my quickened breath.
Neither of us moves.
“The Matron.” He lowers his voice. “What she said?—”
“I know.”
“She wants?—”
“I know.” I pull my hand back. Force myself to step away. “We need to move. Find shelter. Figure out what comes next.”
He lets me go. That intent gaze following my retreat.
“This isn’t over.” Not a threat—a promise. Something heavy and hungry beneath the words.
“No.” I turn to check on Dena. “It’s not.”
SIXTEEN
IMARA
We find shelter as the sun climbs higher—a cave mouth hidden behind a fall of dead vines, deep enough to hide our presence from casual search. I settle Dena on a pile of my outer robes, checking her for injuries while Kharvek stands guard at the entrance.
The child is exhausted but unharmed. Terrified but alive. When she finally sleeps, it’s the deep unconsciousness of someone who’s escaped the unthinkable.
I know that sleep. Remember it from my own childhood, after the rituals that left me too drained to dream.
“She’ll need food.” Kharvek’s voice from the entrance. “Water. Rest.”
“I know.” I join him at the cave mouth, keeping my voice low. “The Matron will send hunters.”
