She’s sprawled against me, her head on my scarred shoulder, her breath warm against my skin. I’ve got one arm wrapped around her, holding her close, and my other hand is tracing absent patterns on her hip. The hollow has grown quiet around us—just the distant creak of roots above, the soft drip of moisture somewhere in the dark.
“That was...” She trails off. Laughs softly. “I don’t have words for what that was.”
“Intense.” Her voice has that soft edge again, the one that surfaces when her guard is down. She lifts her head, and hereyes are softer than I’ve seen them. The steel is still there, but vulnerability has surfaced—real and dangerously beautiful. “Do you make a habit of being this quiet after kissing someone?”
“I haven’t kissed anyone in a long time. I may be out of practice with the expected responses.”
“Try ‘that was amazing’ and ‘when can we do it again.’”
“That was amazing.” I allow myself a small smile. “When can we do it again?”
“Better.” She settles back against me, and the intimacy of it—her body relaxed against mine, trusting me completely—does strange things to my breathing. “Though I’d settle for ‘after we deal with the ancient horror trying to kill us’ as a timeline.”
“Practical.”
“Someone has to be.” Her fingers slide through mine, intertwining. “You said we have hours before the King can try again. What do we do with them?”
“Rest. Heal. Plan.” I should be focusing on strategy, on defenses, on all the ways the Consortium might attack when they inevitably return. Instead, I’m focused on the warmth of her palm against mine. The rhythm of her breathing. The scent of her hair beneath the blood and smoke.
“That sounds very responsible.”
“One of us should be.”
She snorts. “Too late for responsibility. That ship sailed when I let you kiss me in a bone pit.”
“You kissed me first.”
“Are you sure about that?”
I think back. Can’t remember who moved first. Just the rush of contact, the desperate hunger, the feeling of finding what I didn’t know I was looking for.
“No,” I admit. “I’m not.”
“Then let’s call it mutual.” She yawns, and the sound is so ordinary, so human, that my gut clenches. When’s the last timeI heard someone yawn? When’s the last time I was close enough to another person to notice such a small thing?
“Sleep.” I tighten my arm around her. “I’ll keep watch.”
“You need rest too.”
“I can sleep when you wake. The hollow is safe enough for turns.”
She wants to argue—I can feel it in the tension of her shoulders—but exhaustion wins. Her eyes flutter closed, her breathing deepens, and within minutes she’s asleep against me. Trusting me to guard her. Trusting me with her vulnerability in a way that should terrify me.
It does terrify me.
But it also feels like what I’ve been missing for years. What I didn’t know I needed until I found it.
I don’t knowhow long I sit there, watching her sleep, before the forest speaks.
It’s not the King—the King’s voice is a pressure, a hunger, a constant assault against the walls of my mind. This is different. Quieter. The whisper of roots shifting, of bark creaking, of movement through the undergrowth far above us.
I go still. Focus my awareness outward, toward the edges of Briargrave where the boundary meets the world.
Movement. Lots of it. More than the scattered survivors should account for.
The Consortium is returning.
I knew they would. They’ve invested too much in this operation to retreat now—the hunters lost, the Binding Breaker destroyed, the power they came to harvest still locked inside theforest’s heart. They’ll regroup, resupply, try again. That’s what the Consortium does. They don’t accept failure.
