He exhales. A deep, ragged pull of air. “Allies.”
Suddenly, lights flicker in the cabin. Low, pulsing. The spear on his lap buzzes violently—enough to make me jump. The blueprints rustle. The air smells like ozone and fear.
He grips the spear. Face set. His voice low: “The spear’s pain—its echo—Calvin is pulling part of its essence. We must move soon.”
My blood runs cold in a way I cannot shake.
He leans toward me. “Olivia of House Wilkins,” he murmurs, using his ritual name for me, “whatever we lose, we gain this moment. I fight because I must. But I fight also because you are here.”
I nod, tears not coming, throat caught. I reach for his hand. He presses my wrist to his lips softly, reverently—just existence in that touch.
The wood walls around us seem to dim. Outside, night beyond the windows is still. But we both know danger circles.
We pour coffee, double dark. The taste is bitter and precious. The fire in the hearth flickers—our small fortress of warmth and urgency.
Tonight, we do not sleep.
Because the spear pulses with a diminishing light, Calvin’s reactors draw nearer, and we know the Vorfaluka’s root spreads like rot.
And with that knowledge, with blueprints, with truth in hand, we are no longer merely running.
We are hunting.
The wind howls outside like it’s alive. Like it’s warning us.
Inside, the fire snaps in its stone cradle, warm and alive in the hearth. Kursk stands at the map-covered table, shirtless and towering, tracing his thick fingers over the lines that could spell the end of his world… and mine.
His hair’s down, loose and dark and wild. He looks tired. Not in the way a man looks after work—but the way a soul looks when it’s carried too many burdens too far.
I set the blueprints aside, my fingers brushing his.
“You’re shaking,” I whisper.
“I am not,” he growls softly, but there’s no bite in it. Only weariness. Maybe something else. Something that tastes like doubt.
I step closer. The cabin is so small, and this moment is so big. Every inch of space between us feels like something we could lose if we wait too long.
I press my palm to his chest. “Then maybe it’s me.”
His heart thunders under my hand like war drums. He doesn't move away.
“You don’t have to be alone tonight,” I say, softer than I meant to. “Not with the world burning.”
Kursk looks down at me like he’s never seen me before—like I’m new and old, flame and stone. “Olivia…”
I nod once. “I’m sure.”
His eyes burn gold. And then, finally, he bends to me. Not like a warrior. Like a man who’s been holding his breath for too long.
When his lips meet mine, it’s heat and hunger, all fire and ash and something sacred under the skin. His hand cradles the back of my head, not rough, not gentle—just right. My body presses into his, instinct chasing instinct, my fingers sliding over the ridges of his scarred back.
I taste his breath. Feel the hum of his blood beneath his skin. He lifts me like I weigh nothing, his strength terrifying and beautiful all at once. We stumble to the worn couch, knocking over a mug of cold coffee in our wake, neither of us noticing.
He kisses me like he’s memorizing a language he may never get to speak again. I kiss him like I’m afraid this is the last night before the world ends.
His voice is rough in my ear. “You are… thunder beneath snow. Fire in the dark.”
“And you’re impossible,” I whisper, threading my fingers into his hair. “And I want you.”
