The cave swallows us in darkness, broken only by our campfire. Bryn stumbles on the uneven ground, throwing off her balance. My arm slides around her waist automatically.
"I swear to the gods," she hisses, but her hand grips my forearm instead of pushing me away. "If you say one word about my balance—"
"Wouldn't dare," I murmur, steadying her as we move deeper into the cave. Her pulse races under my fingers, matching my thundering rhythm. "Though your left side is still—"
She stomps on my foot. Hard. "Finish that sentence, and I'll show you exactly how good my form still is."
The threat might be more convincing if she wasn't still holding onto my arm, her body betraying her need for support even as her pride rebels against it. Behind us, Heimdall's power illuminates the cave entrance in brilliant gold as he holds the line.
As she presses back against me, the fierce warrior momentarily surrendering to my support, my body responds with a primal intensity that's impossible to hide. The evidence of my desire grows harder against the curve of her ass, and the slight hitch in her breathing tells me she feels every inch.
The mate-bond pulses with savage need, heightening every point of contact between us. Her body heat seeps through our armor.
The subtle shift of her hips—whether intentional or not—draws a low growl from my throat that has nothing to do with the battle we just escaped.
"We need to keep moving," I say, noting how she leans into me slightly with each step. "Unless you'd prefer to stay and discuss your footwork?"
Herelbow finds my ribs again, but this time, there's less force behind it. "Keep talking, and I'll give you a much closer look at my footwork. Specifically, my boot up your—"
A crash from the entrance cuts off her creative threat. Heimdall's voice booms through the cavern: "Move! I'll hold them!"
The sounds of battle echo behind us as we descend deeper into the cave system. Each step takes us further from the chaos, but Bryn's resistance to my support gradually weakens as fatigue sets in. Her pride wages war with necessity until she finally lets out a frustrated breath.
"This doesn't leave this cave," she mutters, allowing more of her weight to rest against me.
"What doesn't?" I keep my tone neutral. "I don't see anything worth mentioning."
My hearing picks up the skittering echoes off the cave walls—a rapid tap-tap-tap of too many legs on stone. My muscles tense before my mind fully registers the threat. I release Bryn just long enough to pivot, Grave Warden singing through the air in a deadly arc.
The blade connects with wet resistance. The creature—a grotesque fusion of arachnid and canine—splits like overripe fruit. Yellow-green intestines spill across the stone floor, steam rising from the viscera in the cool cave air. The stench hits next: rotting meat and something acidic that burns the back of my throat. Its eight eyes, glazed and bulbous, stare sightlessly as thick, black blood oozes between mandibles, still clicking in death.
Bryn sways without my support, and I pull her back against me before her knees can buckle. Her heart hammers against my chest, her breathing sharp and uneven. The monster's blood seeps toward our boots, thick as tar and just as dark, mixing with the ichor still leaking from its bisected thorax.
"Well," I mutter, watching one of its legs twitch in a final spasm, "that's new."
"Gross."
A thunderous boom echoes through the cavern, followed by light that momentarily turns the stone walls to liquid sunlight. Heimdall's voice rolls through the tunnel like thunder: "ALL IS CLEAR!"
"They're gone," Bryn says but doesn't immediately pull away from my support. Her wing twitches against my chest, a reminder of what she's lost—and what she's too stubborn to admit she's gained—a partner who understands the weight of pride and the cost of vulnerability.
"Shame," I murmur, not loosening my grip. "I was rather enjoying our dance."
When she elbows me this time, there's almost fondness in the gesture. Almost. "Keep dreaming, vampire."
I watch her storm away, that proud spine straight as steel despite her injuries, her remaining wing pulled tight against her back in defiance. Each step radiates indignation, from the set of her shoulders to the deliberate placement of her boots. She's beautiful in her fury—a warrior goddess who refuses to show weakness, even now.
And despite everything—the battle, the tension, the weight of what's passed between us—I find my lips curving into a genuine smile. It's been years since anyone has challenged me like this and matched my stubbornness with equal fire. She's unlike any woman I've encountered in my long existence, and that alone is worth the bruised ribs she's left me with.
She may be walking away, but something fundamental has shifted between us. Judging by the slight hesitation in her stride before she disappears around the corner, she knows it, too.
Danica
38
Vidar strikes with blinding speed. I lean back Matrix-style, watching the blade pass inches from my face in slow motion. Angel fire erupts from my palms as I flip backward, using the momentum to launch a counter-attack. The flames pass harmlessly through the champion's shadowy form.
"Too slow, Lightborn," he mocks, splitting into three identical forms.
