But untangling from Kharvek takes effort. He doesn’t want to let go, and I don’t want him to. We compromise by staying close as we rise and dress—his hand on my lower back while I tie my robes, my fingers brushing his arm as I check his bandages. Small touches. Constant contact. Like neither of us can bear to be apart for more than a few seconds.
“The survivors,” I finally manage, forcing my mind back to practical matters. “We need to get them to the secondary contact point before midday.”
“I know.” His thumb traces circles on my hip through my robe. Distracting. Deliberate. “After.”
“After what?”
“After I do this.”
He cups my face in both hands and kisses me again. Deeper this time. His tongue sweeps against mine, and I grip his shoulders to keep from swaying. When he pulls back, his eyes are dark with want.
“Now we can go.”
I shake my head, but I’m smiling. “You’re impossible.”
“You like it.”
I do. Gods help me, I do.
We returnto the farmstead after the survivors leave.
The goodbye with Dena was harder than I expected. She clung to me, small fingers digging into my robes, and I had to promise three times that I’d come find her when this was over. Kharvek stood behind me the whole time—not hovering, just present. His hand found the small of my back when I straightened, steadying me without words.
The farmstead feels different now. Still abandoned, still dusty, still haunted by whoever lived here before the clan’s influence drove them away. But it’s also the place where we first kissed without desperation. Where we planned in the bone garden’s absence. Where we’re building something that might survive the Matron’s destruction.
Kharvek settles against the wall while I search for the books I found yesterday. Old texts, hidden behind a collapsed shelf. Ritual theory that might explain what’s happening between us.
“You’re worried.” His voice comes from across the room.
I look up. He’s watching me with that intent focus I’ve grown used to—but there’s something different in it now. Softer. More intimate. Like he’s not just observing me but experiencing me.
He rises, crosses to where I’m crouched by the shelf. Lowers himself beside me, close enough that our shoulders touch. “I knew you were awake before you moved. Knew you were confused, then aroused—” A hint of a smile. “—then confused again.”
Heat floods my face. He felt that. Felt me wanting him, felt my body responding to his proximity.
“This shouldn’t be possible.” I pull out one of the texts, flip it open. “Blood magic doesn’t work this way. You can’t createpermanent awareness without extensive ritual preparation, without both parties consenting to the working. I just redirected your power. That’s all.”
“Obviously that’s not all.” He takes my hand. Threads his fingers through mine. The contact sends a jolt through my scars—pleasure and awareness and something deeper, something that feels like his presence settling into my bones. “What do the books say?”
I don’t pull away. Can’t. Don’t want to.
“I’m trying to find out.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
IMARA
We read in comfortable silence.
Or rather, I read. Kharvek sits beside me, one hand maintaining constant contact—sometimes on my thigh, sometimes on my lower back, sometimes just our shoulders pressed together. He’s not a scholar; the theoretical texts bore him. But he stays close anyway, watching me work, occasionally pressing his lips to my temple or the curve of my shoulder.
Each touch sends ripples through my awareness. Pleasure. Warmth. Want. The arousal from this morning hasn’t faded—if anything, it’s building, fed by every casual caress, every brush of skin on skin.
“You’re making it hard to concentrate,” I murmur, not looking up from the book.
“Good.”
“Kharvek.”
