I kiss him. Soft. Sweet. Full of promises I’m only beginning to understand.
He holds me tighter. We sit there in the warmth of the afternoon, wrapped around each other, the resonance humming between us.
THIRTY
KHARVEK
Iwake to the taste of Imara on my lips and her hand pressed flat against my chest.
We fell asleep tangled in each other again, her head tucked beneath my chin, her leg thrown over my hip. Sometime in the night, she shifted—turned to face me, palm finding my heart as if she needed to feel it beating. Even in sleep, she reaches for me.
I’ve never had anyone reach for me before.
Dawn light filters through the farmstead’s broken walls, painting her in shades of gold and rose. She looks younger when she sleeps. Softer. The sharp edges that keep her alive in waking hours smooth into something achingly vulnerable.
Mine. The word rises unbidden, dark and certain. This woman is mine.
I brush a strand of hair from her face. She stirs, makes a small sound, presses closer. Her lips find my collarbone—not quite a kiss. Contact. Comfort.
“Morning.” Her voice is rough with sleep.
I pull her tighter, press my lips to her forehead. “How do you feel?”
“Mmm.” She stretches, her body sliding against mine in ways that make my blood heat. “Safe.”
Safe. In my arms. The monster the clan created, and she feels safe with me.
Something in my chest cracks open a little wider.
“We should—” I start.
The blood-wards flare.
I’mon my feet before Imara finishes sitting up, power flooding my channels, every sense straining toward the threat. The wards pulse crimson in the distance—not a ranging signal this time. A full assault formation.
“They’re here.” Imara scrambles up beside me, reaching for her robes. “How many?”
I cross to the window. Peer through the gaps in the warped boards.
My stomach drops.
“More than last night.” A dozen shapes crest the eastern ridge, moving with military precision. “A full hunting party. And Imara?—”
At their head, a figure I recognize. Even at this distance, I know that silhouette. That gait. That particular way of holding a blade.
Grokh.
“Who is that?” Imara joins me at the window, her hand finding my arm. The contact steadies me more than it should.
“The captain of the Harvest Guard.” I watch him approach, memories flooding back. Adjacent pens. Shared training. The closest thing I have to a brother, if weapons are allowed such bonds. “They sent their best.”
“Can you take him?”
“I don’t know.” The honest answer. Grokh is faster than me. I’m more powerful than him. In a direct fight, it could go either way. “I’ve never had to try.”
Her hand slides down my arm, finds my fingers, squeezes. “You’re not fighting alone anymore.”
I turn from the window. Study her—really study her. She’s disheveled from sleep, her robes hastily tied, her hair wild around her face. She should appear vulnerable. Instead, she’s ready to burn the world down for the person she loves.
