“Imara—”
“You don’t have to say it back.” She’s babbling now, nervous. “I needed you to know. Before we go back to the Sanctum. Before everything gets dangerous again. I needed you to?—”
I kiss her silent. Pour everything I’m feeling into it—the shock, the joy, the raw need to keep her safe forever.
When I pull back, she’s breathless. Waiting.
“I love you too.” The words feel strange in my mouth. New. Terrifying. True. “I didn’t know what it was. Didn’t have a word for it. But I’ve loved you since you looked at a monster and saw a man.”
Her smile is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
We stand there in the aftermath of battle, surrounded by bodies and blood, holding each other. The Matron waits in her Sanctum. The truth about my origins lurks somewhere in the Womb Chamber. Everything is dangerous and uncertain and probably doomed.
But Imara loves me. And I love her.
Everything else, we’ll figure out.
We returnto the farmstead to plan.
Imara tends to my wounds while I outline what I know about the Sanctum’s defenses. Her hands are gentle on my skin—cleaning the cut on my ribs, binding it with strips of cloth, pressing soft kisses to the bandages when she’s done.
“The drainage tunnels.” She settles into my lap when the first aid is finished, her back to my chest, my arms around her waist. “Tomek’s routes. If he’s still alive?—”
“If he’s not, you know the passages.”
She tilts her head back to my shoulder. “We go in quiet. Find the Womb Chamber. Face the Matron on our terms.”
“And learn the truth about where I came from.”
“If you still want to.”
I think about it. The curiosity is there—has been since I read the letter—but it’s muted now. Less urgent. Imara’s weight in my arms, her heartbeat against my chest, the soft warmth of herbody pressed to mine—these things matter more than any truth about my bloodline.
“I want to know,” I decide. “Not because it will change anything. Because I’m tired of her holding power over me. Tired of not knowing things about myself that she knows.”
“Then we find out.” She turns in my lap, straddles my thighs, wraps her arms around my neck. “And then we burn her Sanctum to the ground.”
“One day to rest,” I murmur. “Then we move.”
Her hips shift against mine—deliberate, teasing. “However will we fill the time?”
I growl. Flip us so she’s beneath me, her back against the floor, her legs wrapped around my waist.
“I have some ideas.”
Her laugh is the best sound I’ve ever heard.
Later—muchlater—we lie tangled in each other, catching our breath.
The afternoon light has shifted, painting the farmstead in shades of amber and gold. Imara’s head rests on my chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my stomach. I stroke her hair, watching dust motes drift through the sunbeams.
“We’re really doing this.” She keeps her voice low. “Going back. Facing her.”
“We are.”
“We might die.”
I press a kiss to the top of her head. “But we’ll do it on our terms. Our choice.”
