“We could stop. Rest before—”
“I’m fine.” The words come out sharply. I soften them: “Really. I’ve got this.”
He doesn’t argue, but I can practically feel his attention. Like he’s reading every hitch in my breathing.
Another ten minutes. My vision starts to blur at the edges. The trail tilts sideways, or maybe I do. My boot catches on a root I should’ve seen, and I stumble—
K’s hand catches my elbow, steadying me before I fall. His grip is gentle but absolutely secure, and the heat of his palm burns through my sleeve.
“Okay.” I lean against a boulder, chest heaving. “Maybe a short break.”
He studies my face with those unsettling gold eyes. “You have walked far enough.”
“I can keep—”
“You are shaking.”
I look down. He’s right. My hands tremble where they grip the stone.
“It’s just… I’m out of shape. Too much time sitting at a computer, not enough—”
“Mara.” His voice is gentle but firm. “You nearly died two days ago. Walking this far is remarkable. But we have much farther to go, and you cannot make the distance on foot. Not yet.”
Pride wars with exhaustion. Exhaustion wins.
“I hate this,” I mutter. “Being weak. Needing help.”
“Needing help is not weakness.” He crouches in front of me, eye level. “It is honesty.”
The simple statement undoes something in my chest. “Sure,” I husk out.
“I can carry you,” he says. Not asking. Stating.
I want to argue. To insist I can manage. To prove I’m not some damsel who needs rescuing.
But my legs are jelly, and my chest screams, and the thought of walking another mile makes me want to cry.
“Okay,” I murmur.
He stands in one smooth motion and reaches for me. “Put your arms around my neck.”
I do. He lifts me like I weigh nothing—one arm under my knees, one supporting my back—and settles me against his chest.
The world shifts, then steadies.
Heat hits me first. Not normal body warmth; K radiates heat like a furnace, soaking through my clothing and into my skin. It should be uncomfortable. Instead, my body melts into it, every aching muscle sighing in relief.
His heartbeat drums against my side. Slow. Too slow. I count without meaning to—maybe forty beats a minute. My brain flags it as wrong, impossible, but he’s carrying me uphill without strain, breathing steady and deep.
I press my cheek against his shoulder and catch his scent—warm skin and leather and something as wild as the mountains around us. Something that makes my pulse kick despite every logical reason it shouldn’t.
“Comfortable?” he asks.
The rumble of his voice vibrates through his chest into mine. I make a noncommittal sound becausecomfortabledoesn’t begin to cover what I’m feeling.
He starts walking again, his gait smooth and easy. No adjustment to compensate for the extra weight. Just steady forward motion like this is the most natural thing in the world.
His muscles shift beneath me with each step. I’m hyperaware of every point of contact: my hip against his hard stomach, my arm around his neck, his hand splayed across my thigh. The heat of his palm burns through fabric, and I wonder distantly if I’ll have a mark there. A brand.
