But her hands are steady. Her voice is calm. And despite the agony, despite the terror of being so completely known, I find myself trusting her.
I’ve never trusted anyone.
The realization hits harder than the pain.
“Almost done.”Her voice cuts through the haze. “One more redirect. This one will?—”
She doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t need to.
The final working tears through me, and I hear myself scream. The sound rips from my throat without permission—raw, animal, the cry of something being broken and remade simultaneously. My vision whites out. My body convulses against the stone.
Then it’s over.
I slump against the ravine wall, breathing hard, every nerve ending raw and oversensitized. Imara’s hands withdraw from my arm, and the loss of her presence is almost as painful as the working itself.
“It’s done.” Her voice is rough. Exhausted. “The channels are stable. You should be able to fight without?—”
I grab her.
My hands close around her arms, drag her toward me, and before either of us can think, my mouth finds hers. The kiss is brutal—all teeth and desperation, fury and need. She gasps against my lips, and I swallow the sound, devour it, take everything she’ll give me.
“Kharvek—”
“Shut up.” I flip our positions, press her against the ravine wall. My body pins hers, every inch of us touching, and I feel her heart racing against my chest. “You were inside me. You saw everything.”
“I had to?—”
“I know.” I kiss her again. Harder. “I know why. That’s not—” I break off. Can’t find words for what I’m feeling. “You should hate me. After what you saw.”
“What I saw?”
“The killing. The blood. Every person I’ve drained, every life I’ve ended—it’s all there, in the channels. You felt it.”
She’s quiet. Her hands come up, rest against my chest. Not pushing away. Just… resting.
“I felt power.” Her voice is steady. “Pain. Survival. I felt you fighting to become something other than what they made you.” Her fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt. “There was nothing to hate.”
The words crack something open. Something I’ve been keeping locked down since long before the pit, since long before I started carving unauthorized modifications into my own flesh.
“Imara.”
“I’m here.”
“I need—” The admission sticks in my throat. Asking is harder than taking. Always has been. “I need you.”
Her eyes meet mine. Dark. Wanting. Understanding exactly what I’m asking for.
“Then take me.”
TWENTY-FIVE
KHARVEK
Idon’t take. Not yet.
For the first time in my life, I want to give something first.
I lower my mouth to hers again, but slower this time. Tasting instead of devouring. Her lips part beneath mine, and I trace the seam with my tongue, learning the shape of her, the texture, the small sounds she makes when I find a spot she likes.
