She didn’t turn, but she smiled. “Hey.”
Her feelings for Cirrus were a jumbled mess—a knot she had neither the strength nor the clarity to untangle. Years ago, she’d loved him fiercely, wholly, foolishly. If fate had been kinder, perhaps they’d still be together. Perhaps she wouldn’t have had to be the voice of reason, the one who shattered them before the world could.
But now—after all of this—what did it mean? She inhaled deeply, the scent of rain and stone and him filling her lungs.
“Cirrus…” she hesitated, forcing herself to be vulnerable in a way she never allowed. “Will you hold me?”
She heard, rather than saw, his slow exhale. Then, warmth.
Cirrus curled around her, one arm slipping beneath her head, the other wrapping around her waist. He pulled her against him, their bodies fitting together in a way that felt achingly familiar.
She inhaled the scent of leather and spice and home. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, she felt safe.
Cirrus pressed a whisper-soft kiss to the crown of her head, his lips barely ghosting against her damp hair.
"Always," he murmured.
And for just this moment, she let herself believe it.
41
The cold grip of urgency yanked Vivienne from sleep as Lewis shook her shoulder, his voice sharp with alarm.
“Viv. Viv, wake up. I think something’s wrong with the commander.”
Her eyes snapped open. The heaviness of exhaustion vanished, replaced by the jolt of dread clamoring through her veins. She was on her feet before her mind caught up with her body, stumbling toward where Owen lay nearest to the cave entrance.
His face was ashen, his skin slick with cold sweat despite the oppressive warmth of the cave. His breaths were uneven—rasping, struggling—as though each inhale fought against an unseen force pressing down on him.
“Owen?” Vivienne’s voice was soft, urgent.
No response.
She swallowed, reaching for his shoulder. “Owen.” Louder this time. Desperate.
A low, pained moan escaped him, barely more than a breath.
She knelt beside him, her hands shaking as her eyes adjusted to the dim glow of the cavern. That was when she saw it—the thick, blackened veins snaking up his arm, pulsing like living shadows beneath his fevered skin.
Her stomach plummeted. “Gods…”
Cirrus, who had stirred at the commotion, was suddenly at her side. His ice-blue gaze locked onto Owen’s arm, his expression darkening with the weight of realization.
“Shit,” Cirrus whispered, his voice tight. He gently rolled Owen’s arm, revealing deep puncture marks—marks that sent a cold wave of recognition through them all.
“The Zhalak,” Vivienne breathed.
Owen had been bitten. Poisoned.
Her hands clenched into fists. “Why didn’t you say anything?” she demanded, voice ripe with disbelief.
Owen stirred at the sound of her voice, his brows pinching in pain. His unfocused gaze fluttered open, barely able to hold her stare. “Didn’t… think it was that bad,” he muttered, his voice weak, slurred.
“How stupidly stoic of you,” Vivienne chided.
Lewis, who had been pacing near the cave’s mouth, ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “It’s got to be venom of some kind. And probably a vicious infection to go with it. The Apocrita stings were nothing compared to this.”
He was right. The bruised darkness creeping up Owen’s veins wasn’t just infection—it was something else, something alive, something invasive.
