His grip on her waist steadied her. Held her. Did not let go.
She looked up. He looked down. His pupils had gone narrow and the dark brown of his irises was rimmed with a thin band of amber that hadn't been there a second ago. His breathingchanged — deeper, slower, as if he was pulling each breath through a filter, controlling the rate with deliberate effort.
She did not step back.
One second. Two. The market moved around them — vendors calling prices, children laughing, the heavy footfall of a loaded cart — and none of it penetrated the space between his chest and her palms. His thumb shifted against her waist. A small movement. Involuntary, maybe. His jaw tightened, and the faint shadow of scales ghosted along the hinge of it before receding.
She stepped back.
The air rushed into the gap between them, cool by comparison. Her hands tingled where his chest had been. Her own breathing, she discovered, had dropped into the same deep rhythm as his, as if her body had synchronized with his without consulting her.
She turned toward Kethos and did not look at him.
The ride home was quiet.
Rhaezon's arm wrapped around her waist as Kethos settled into his rolling stride, and this time November did not catalog it as safety. This time she let herself rest her hand on top of his, lightly, her fingers curving over the back of his hand where it pressed against her stomach.
His arm tightened. A fraction. Barely perceptible.
But she perceived it.
Beneath her palm, his skin shifted. Not dramatically — a subtle texture change, the fine edges of scales rising along the back of his forearm where her skin touched his. They surfaced in a line from his wrist toward his elbow, dark against his golden-brown skin, catching the twin-star light with a faint iridescence that turned them beautiful. They were warm. Warmer than thesurrounding skin, which was already warmer than any human she'd touched.
Her stomach tightened. A low pull, deep behind her navel, the kind that had nothing to do with the kethral's gait and everything to do with the fact that she could feel each individual scale pressing against the inside of her forearm, and they were responding toher. She knew enough now, two weeks of living in his household, of reading the codex entries in the library, of watching him across rooms and meals and stable yards. Scales surfaced under stress, under strong emotion, under proximity to someone significant.
She kept her hand where it was. The scales stayed.
Her pulse kicked upward, thudding in her throat, in her wrists, in the place where his arm pressed against her body. She stared at the road ahead and told herself the truth she had been constructing for two weeks:He's holding me because the kethral's gait requires it. He's being careful because I'm his responsibility. He doesn't feel anything. He's disciplined and controlled and doing exactly what a lord would do for someone under his protection. None of this means anything.
And then the quieter truth, the one under it:I'm leaving in four weeks. There is nothing here for me to feel. Whatever this is — the warmth, the scales, the way his arm tightens when I rest my hand over his — it doesn't matter. It can't matter. I don't feel anything either.
The kethral crested the ridge. Below, the estate spread across the plateau, dark stone catching the late afternoon light. Shade would be waiting for her at the fence. In the kitchen, Mathen would be starting supper. Vasek would greet them at the door. This place that was not hers, that she would leave, that she had no claim to.
Rhaezon's thumb moved against her stomach. One small stroke. She was not sure he knew he was doing it.
November closed her eyes.
She was lying. She was lying to herself with the same discipline she used to calm panicked animals — steady voice, even pressure, no sudden movements — and it was not working any better on herself than it would have worked on a creature who could smell the fear underneath the performance.
She was falling. She had been falling. The cobblestones under her boots had nothing to do with it.
THIRTEEN
Three days after their journey to the market, Rhaezon sat at the kitchen table, his plate half-eaten, and his fork moving food from one side to the other in a pattern that served no nutritional purpose. Davn sat across from him, reading something on his data tablet with unhurried focus.
Rhaezon glanced down the corridor. Empty.
He looked back at his plate. Pushed a piece of roasted grain bread to the left. Moved it back. Picked up his fork and set it down again.
"What's taking her so long?" The words came out before he could catch them, low and rough, directed at the bread.
Davn's eyes lifted from his tablet. One pale brow rose a fraction. The black stripes along his jaw shifted as something that might have been amusement crossed his face, though with Davn it was always difficult to confirm.
"You're extra grumpy this morning."
"I'm not grumpy." Rhaezon stabbed a piece of cured meat. It skidded across the plate. He stabbed it again. "I have things to discuss. Plans. There are plans that need discussing and I'm —"
"Grumpy," Davn repeated, and returned to his tablet.
