I blink. “Thanks.”
A pause.
Then he reaches out, takes my hand, and gently lifts it to his lips.
He kisses my wrist—just there, where the pulse beats fast and foolish.
Not a spell. Not necessity.
Something else.
My breath hitches. My heart does that stupid flutter thing again.
I say nothing.
Because there’s too much to say, and none of it safe.
CHAPTER 10
KURSK
Restless doesn’t begin to cover it. I lie awake in the dim glow of Olivia’s cabin, staring at the ceiling boards that creak and sigh like old warhorses. The spear rests across my chest; the Spiritslayer’s blade still pulses, faintly, as if it senses the enemy’s power swelling in the distance. My muscles ache, memory of old battles and my brother’s gone eyes haunting every breath. I shift; a heartbeat later I shift again. The world beyond the Veil tugs. My home grows distant. My vows feel stretched.
Olivia sleeps nearby—soft rhythm of her breathing, the quiet tug of her hair against skin. Her scent drifts: wet linen, lavender, woodsmoke, something like hope. And something else—danger. The danger of letting someone form cracks in your heart. I’ve seen loss. I know what happens when you allow hope.
Morning comes hot and sweet, like a promise. I try to steady myself as sunlight filters through linen curtains. Then she enters the room, dripping from her shower. The shirt she wears is mine—or once was mine—soaked at the shoulders, clinging to her in a way that makes the air catch. I try to look away, but I don’t.
“Will you…?” she asks softly, turning so I can see the zipper at her back. Her hands reach, trembling just slightly.
I stand, but the air shifts. My muscles coil. I cross the space. One hand reaches and grips the zipper tab; it’s cold. I pull it down. Her skin is smooth, damp, shining faintly with water droplets that catch the light. I should ask if she wants me to stop. But her eyes hold something—no panic. Consent. Trust. She wants help.
My fingers brush hers. My heart stutters. I feel heat there, a wild heat—it’s not just her skin. It’s everything between us, unspoken. When the fabric slides down, the dampness of her skin echoes with rain, with longing. I close my eyes and inhale—salt, cedar, shampoo. All of it mixing into a weight in my chest.
We stand too close. Her back to me. I can feel her breath at my wrist, the soft curve of her spine under my hand. I want to look—but I fear what I’ll see: vulnerability, need, something that means I’m no longer alone.
Then she turns, toward me. Her towel pressed tight. Our faces are inches apart. Eyes searching. Lips parted. The tension thrums like a string pulled too far.
I kiss her. Not like the spell, but with everything I’ve held back. My mouth on hers, hungry and cautious all at once. Her lips warm, trembling. The dampness of her skin mingles with sweat at my brow. She tastes of hope and fear.
She presses against me. I lift her chin with two fingers, the blade of the spear still tucked at my side.
“Olivia,” I whisper.
She parts my lips with hers, soft. I don’t want to stop. But I also know the line. Respect. Fear. Everything on edge.
Her hands find my arms—they don’t push. They don’t pull. They just hold.
But now— I let myself look.
I drink her in.
Olivia. Five foot four of pure flame and earth, red hair curling damply at her collarbone, green eyes burning with somethingwild and scared and unrelenting. Her body is soft in a way that calls to my blood. Her hips curve like poetry, her breasts pressed under the wet cotton of the shirt that still clings. I can see the dark outlines of her nipples beneath it, peaked from chill or want, I cannot tell.
I want to taste her.
“Tell me to stop,” I whisper, mouth brushing her temple.
She doesn’t.
