“Because I wanted to.”
Simple. True. The first time I’ve ever done something purely because I wanted to, without calculation or purpose.
Her smile is the brightest thing I’ve seen since we fled the Sanctum.
“Get some rest.” Her hand lingers on my arm. “We have a clan to destroy.”
I nod. Turn. Head back toward the shadows where we first gave in to this thing between us.
Behind me, I hear Imara start giving orders—calm, competent, already planning the next move. Ahead of me, the ravine walls cast long shadows that feel more like shelter than threat.
Something has shifted. Something that can’t be undone.
I don’t know what it means. Don’t know where it leads.
But I want to find out.
TWENTY-SEVEN
IMARA
Iwake with Kharvek’s arm heavy across my waist and his breath warm against the back of my neck.
I don’t move. Just lie there in the gray pre-dawn light, feeling the solid wall of his chest against my spine, the slow rise and fall of his breathing, the way his hand has curled possessively over my hip in sleep. We found a sheltered corner of the ravine after Tomek’s signal, after the survivors were settled, and we slept tangled in each other like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Maybe it is. Maybe after what we did last night, this is just… how we are now.
His fingers twitch against my hip. A small movement, unconscious, but it sends heat spreading through my belly. My body remembers what those fingers did to me. Remembers and wants more.
Something is different this morning. Not just the pleasant ache between my thighs or the marks his mouth left on my throat. Something deeper. I can sense him in ways I couldn’t before—not just his presence, but his emotional state. The slow drift of his dreams. The moment when consciousness begins to surface.
That’s not how blood magic works.
I’ve been a harvester for ten years. I understand the mechanics of power flowing through scarified flesh, the limitations of what one mage can sense about another. Reading blood requires physical contact. Sensing another person’s emotional state requires deep ritual work, hours of preparation, specialized channels carved for exactly that purpose.
I have none of those things. All I did was redirect his power through damaged pathways. A healing working, nothing more.
So why do I know the exact moment he wakes? Why do I sense the shift from sleep to awareness, the spike of alertness followed by recognition—followed by something warmer when he realizes where he is and who he’s holding?
“Morning.” I turn in his arms, face him. His eyes are still heavy-lidded, his expression softer than I’ve ever seen it. Unguarded. “How do you feel?”
“Better.” His hand slides up my side, traces the curve of my waist, comes to rest just below my breast. Casual. Possessive. Like he has every right to touch me however he wants. “You?”
“Sore.” I smile at the way his expression shifts—concern chasing satisfaction. “Good sore. Very good sore.”
The satisfaction wins. He pulls me closer, slots our bodies together, and I feel him hardening against my thigh. Morning arousal, natural and unselfconscious. He doesn’t try to hide it.
“We should—” I start.
He kisses me. Slow, thorough, tasting of sleep and a deeper note that’s purely him. I melt into it, let my hands explore the broad planes of his back, the ridges of scarification I’ve memorized by touch now. When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing harder.
“We should what?” he asks against my lips.
I’ve completely forgotten.
We don’t havetime for what our bodies want.
The survivors need to be moved. Tomek’s diversion bought us hours, not days. And there’s still the matter of what happened during the healing—the strange awareness that hums between us, growing stronger by the minute.
