I grit my teeth so hard my jaw aches.
I tuck my face into her hair, inhaling that maddening, perfect scent, and force myself to simply… exist.
I am a warrior. I have hunted dust-stalkers. I have fought creatures with only sand and teeth.
Surely, I can survive one small human female sleeping on me without exploding.
(I am not sure I can survive it.)
We truly wakesome time later.
It feels as though we surface together, breaching the dark at almost the same moment.
Mih-kay-lah stirs first. A small sound escapes her as she shifts in my hold.
I loosen my arms at once, giving her room, though every instinct in me screams to pull her back.
She eases upright, blinking into the dim light. My muscles creak in protest, but I hardly feel the stone. All I feel is the sudden cold where her body used to be.
Her eyes flick toward me, then away again too fast.
“Morning,” she mumbles, rubbing at her face. “Or… whatever time it is in cave o’clock.”
“Mohr-neen,” I echo.
She stands, stretching carefully. The tunic rides higher on her thighs.
I tell myself not to look.
My eyes do not obey me.
The path ahead steps up sharply, a jagged shelf of rock that is waist-high to her.
She reaches for a handhold, lifting her leg high to find purchase on the stone. The movement drags her tunic up, exposing the smooth, dark curve of her thigh.
I should just watch.
I do not just watch.
“Up,” I rumble.
I reach out, planting my palm flat on her thigh to boost her. It is meant to be a practical move. A helpful shove to get her up the ledge.
It turns into a mistake the moment skin meets skin.
We both freeze.
Her flesh is warm under my hand, shockingly soft, and instead of pushing her up, my body locks. I stand there, paralyzed by the texture of her, my claws resting harmlessly against her muscle.
Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t pull her leg down. She stays there, one foot anchored on the high stone, balanced precariously on the support of my hand.
She looks back over her shoulder at me, eyes wide and so dark they look like deep water.
Permission?
I test it. I slide my palm up a fraction, abandoning the lift entirely to trace the muscle instead.
“Good?” I rasp.
