I open for him, and his tongue sweeps in, claiming, possessing. The taste of him floods my senses: salt and smoke and a hint of dragonfire. My fingers dig into his shoulders, into the stolen fabric, anchoring myself to this moment. To the impossible reality that he’s here. He’s alive. He’s kissing me like the world might end again any second.
The scrape of his stubble burns my chin, my cheek. I feel it everywhere our skin touches, and it grounds me. Makes this real. Makeshimreal.
My back hits the truck’s metal wall, and I gasp. He follows, pressing against me, one hand still buried in my hair while the other slides to my waist. His fingers find bare skin where my shirt’s torn, and the contact sends electricity racing up my spine.
I kiss him harder. Pour everything into it: the hours thinking he was dead, the fear, the guilt, the rage at almost losing him. His grip tightens in response, like he can feel it all, like he’s trying to absorb every ounce of pain and replace it with this.
Withus.
The cold metal at my back. The heat of his body against mine. The desperate rhythm of our breathing… uneven, synchronized,alive.
His teeth catch my bottom lip, and I make a sound I’ve never made before. Something between a gasp and a moan that comes from somewhere deep and unguarded.
He groans in response—low, rough—and the sound reverberates through my chest.
Time stops. Or maybe it speeds up. I can’t tell anymore. Can only feel the slide of his mouth against mine, the way his fingerspress into my flesh like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. The way every nerve in my body fires up at his touch.
When he finally pulls back, we’re both gasping. His forehead rests against mine. His eyes—those chocolate eyes I thought I’d never see again—are nearly black with want.
“That’s not fair,” he says gruffly.
“What isn’t?” I can barely get the words out.
“You. Kissing me like that when we have two minutes before this place is swarming with teams.” But his hand is still in my hair, fingers twisted in the strands. His other arm is locked around my waist, holding me against him like he might never let go.
“Then we move fast.” I don’t release my grip on his vest. Can’t. My hands shake where they’re fisted in the fabric.
Something crosses his face: want and frustration and something deeper that makes my chest ache. Then his expression shutters. He’s back to being the closed book I’ve come to recognize. But it doesn’t bother me anymore. Because now I know what lies beneath the surface. And it’s pure fire.
“They’ll realize what happened soon. Roadblocks. Pursuit teams. I rerouted us twenty minutes back, so they’ll be looking in the wrong direction. It’ll give us a few hours. A day, max. Still, we need distance.”
“Can’t we take the truck?” I glance around us.
He shakes his head. “Too easy to find.”
He helps me out of the transport. Steadies me when my legs wobble.
He gestures toward the treeline. Dense pine rising dark against the early morning sky.
“Hunting lodge. Two miles northeast. Off-grid. Defensible.”
“How did you—?” I start. “They said you were—”
“Later.” He cuts me off, but his hand finds mine. Squeezes once. “Right now, we run.”
Chapter 19
Ember
The forest closes around us as we move. Luke stays ahead, sure-footed despite the pack on his shoulders, despite the blood still seeping through his uniform. I stumble over exposed roots, catch myself on low branches, force my exhausted body to keep pace.
Two miles. He said two miles.
Every step takes us farther from the transport. From the bodies Luke left behind. From whatever teams are mobilizing right now to hunt us down.
I’m fighting exhaustion that feels bone deep after days on the run. But Luke’s alive, and that fact alone keeps me moving.
The lodge appears through the pines like something from a forgotten era. Weathered wood structure, small and isolated, chimney cold against the early morning sky. No smoke. No lights. No sign anyone’s been here in months.
