“Does that hurt?” I pull back, suddenly uncertain.
“No.” His voice is thick. “It feels... I don’t know how to describe it. The scars don’t have normal sensation. They’re connected to the forest instead of to me. When you touch them—” He breaks off, jaw tightening.
“What?”
“It’s like you’re touching the heart of Briargrave. Like you’re reaching through me to stroke roots that have been growing for centuries.” His hand finds mine, presses it flat against the largest scar on his chest. “The forest feels you. Knows you. And it doesn’t hate you.”
“High praise from a murder forest.”
“You have no idea.”
I lean down, replace my palm with my mouth. Press my lips to the rough bark-like skin, feel him shudder beneath me. His hands grip my hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.
“Xela—”
I drag my tongue along the edge of the scar, tasting sap and salt and something that might be earth. He makes a sound—not quite a groan, not quite a growl—that vibrates through his entire body.
“We don’t have time for this.” His voice is strained. “The Consortium?—”
“I know.” I kiss another scar, then another. “But I wanted to do this at least once. Before everything falls apart.”
“Who says it’s going to fall apart?”
I lift my head, meet his eyes.
“Of the seventy that entered Briargrave, maybe forty remain—but the Consortium has reserves waiting at the boundary. Aweapon that rattles the roots of your forest.” I trail my fingers down the center of his chest, feel his muscles contract. “The odds aren’t exactly in our favor.”
“They never have been.” His hand catches mine, stops its descent. “And yet we’re both still here.”
“For now.”
“For now is enough.” He sits up, bringing me with him, settling me across his lap. Our faces are level now, our breath mingling. “Every moment I’ve had with you has been borrowed time. I stopped expecting a future years ago. All I have is this. Right now. With you.”
“That’s the most depressing thing anyone’s ever said to me after a kiss.”
“I’m not good at pillow talk.”
“Clearly.”
His hands are on my waist, his thumbs tracing circles against my ribs. The touch is almost idle, but it sends heat pooling low in my belly. I want more. Want to finish what we started, to burn away the fear of what’s coming in the fire of what we’ve found.
But he’s right. We don’t have time.
THIRTY-TWO
XELA
The forest’s fear is a physical presence now, pressing against the roots that shelter us. I can feel it even without sharing his bond with the land—a tension in the air, a wrongness that sets my teeth on edge. Whatever the Consortium has brought, it’s close.
“We should move.” I say it even though every part of me is screaming to stay. “See what we’re facing.”
“Agreed.” But he doesn’t let go. Keeps me on his lap, keeps his hands on my waist, keeps looking at me with those eyes that see too much. “Xela.”
“What?”
“Whatever happens today—whatever we face—I need you to know this.” He leans forward, rests his forehead against mine. “You’ve given me more in a few days than I’ve had in decades. More hope. More warmth. More reason to keep fighting.” His voice drops. “If this is the end, I want to face it knowing I told you the truth.”
The words hit me harder than any blow. I blink, eyes suddenly stinging, and curse myself for the weakness. Bounty hunters don’t cry. Survivors don’t let themselves feel this much.
