“Then everyone else was blind.” I move closer, drawn by gravity I can’t resist.
“You’re not a monster.”
“Neither are you.”
We’re inches apart now. I can feel his breath on my lips, see the individual scars that map his weathered face. The Heartgrove is silent around us, the King’s presence dimmed to a distant pressure. For this moment, at least, we’re alone.
“This is a terrible idea.” His voice is rough.
“The worst.”
“The King will use it against us.”
“Probably.”
“We could both die because of it.”
“We could die anyway.” I bridge the remaining distance, press my forehead against his. “At least this way, we’ll have a reason worth dying for.”
His hand slides from my cheek to the back of my neck. His fingers tangle in my hair, grip tightening with a desperation that makes my pulse race. We stay like that for a long moment—breath mingling, bodies close, balanced on an edge neither of us can name.
Then he pulls back.
“Not here.” His voice is strained. “Not like this. When we—” He stops. Starts again. “If we do this, I want it to be real. Not a reaction to near-death. Not desperation or adrenaline or the relief of survival.”
“You’re saying you want to wait.”
“I’m saying I want to do this right.” His thumb traces my lower lip, a gesture that makes me shiver. “I’ve had one night with someone I cared about, once. Before the binding. And I’ve spent years regretting that I didn’t take more time. Didn’t make it matter.”
“Seren.” The name I remember from our conversation earlier.
“Yes.” Pain flickers across his face. “I won’t make that mistake again. When I touch you—” His voice drops. “When I take you, I want it to be a choice. Not a reaction.”
The words send heat flooding through me. Not just arousal—though there’s plenty of that—but a deeper warmth. Recognition. Respect. He’s treating this like it matters. Like I matter.
“Okay.” I pull back slightly, give us both room to breathe. “When we do this right. In the meantime?—”
“In the meantime, we survive.” He pushes himself into a sitting position, wincing as the movement pulls at wounds that haven’t fully healed. “The King is recovering. The Consortiummight be regrouping. And we’re sitting in the heart of a forest that wants us both dead.”
“Business as usual, then.”
“More or less.” He reaches out, takes my hand. The grip is gentle this time, tender in a way that makes my throat tighten. “Thank you. For not giving up. For believing I could break free when I wasn’t sure myself.”
“I told you. You’re worth it.”
“Keep telling me.” His eyes meet mine, and there’s raw vulnerability in his expression. An openness I’ve never seen before. “When the King whispers that I’m nothing but a monster—when the binding makes me forget why I’m fighting—remind me what I’m fighting for.”
“You’re fighting for Briargrave. For everyone who lives within reach of this forest.”
“Not just that.” His grip tightens. “Not anymore.”
The words settle into me like warmth into frozen ground. I don’t know what we’re building here. Don’t know if it can survive the King’s hunger, the Consortium’s assault, the hundred things that could destroy us both. But I know it’s real. I know it matters.
And right now, that’s enough.
“Rest.” I squeeze his hand once, then release it. “The King said hours before it can try again. Use them. I’ll keep watch.”
“You’re injured too.”
