My throat tightens. I hate the thought of it—of needing to be saved. Of having been one heartbeat too slow. Feet crunch against grit. I look up.
The scarred Zmaj crouches in front of me, blade cleaned and set aside. His presence fills the space, heavy as the earth itself. He doesn’t ask permission. Doesn’t say anything. His large hand closes gently around my wrist, turning my arm to study the wound. His touch is rough, calloused, but careful.
I bite down on a gasp as fire shoots through my veins.
His black eyes flick up to mine. They hold, steady and unreadable, but there’s no dismissal and no contempt. Only sharp focus—and something heavier under it, something that makes my pulse trip.
He traces the burn with one claw, not touching raw skin, just hovering close as if gauging how deep the venom sank. Then he releases me and pulls a cloth from his belt pouch, ripping it into a strip with his teeth. The motion is primal, efficient.
When he binds my arm, the pressure sends fresh lances of pain through me. I choke back a sob, clenching my jaw. He tilts his head, watching, but he says nothing. The silence between us isn’t empty. It thrums, taut as a bowstring.
The weight of his presence seeps into me. The way his scars catch the light refuses to let me look away. My chest tightens, my skin prickles, and something inside me shifts. An attraction I don’t want to name, but it’s there.
I swallow hard, dragging my gaze away, forcing air into my lungs. My pride snarls against the truth. I had it. I almost had it, but my body knows the truth my mouth refuses to speak; I’d be dead without him. I know it, and he knows it, too.
Yet he doesn’t gloat. Doesn’t scold. He ties the cloth tight, checks it once with a firm squeeze, then lets my arm go. The absence of his touch somehow burns hotter than the venom.
I flex my fingers, the ache radiating up my arm, and finally meet his eyes again. For a heartbeat, I swear the air between us hums—alive, electric, undeniable.
Then he rises, retrieving his lochaber in one smooth motion. Without a word, he turns back toward the canyon’s edge, as if nothing has changed at all. But something has. I feel it thrumming through me with every pulse of my blood.
5
KARA
Now that the danger is over, the others come closer.
The predator’s body lies stretched across the stone, its bronze plates dulling as time passes. Venom is still dripping from its jaws, sizzling where it pools, with smoke curling up in bitter wisps. The stench is thick and acrid, clinging to the back of my throat until I want to gag. One of the men does gag, bending double and retching.
“Gods, it reeks. And this is what’s out here? How are we supposed to survive with that hunting us?” the other one exclaims, one hand over his mouth and nose.
He kicks the corpse. My stomach growls hard enough to twist me in half, but at the same time, the thought of food makes bile rise. I fought the thing, felt its blood spatter my skin, watched venom eat through fabric and stone. The idea of putting its flesh in my mouth—no. My gut rebels, and I have to swallow hard to keep from losing it, too.
“What if this is all there is? We can’t go another day without eating,” the gagging human says, wiping his mouth with the backof his hand, shaking his head. He looks at the corpse longingly. “You think we could eat it?”
His companion gestures at the blackened rock where the venom is hissing.
“What? You’d choke it down? Meat that melts stone will melt us too,” the other male says.
The younger Zmaj circles the carcass in slow, prowling steps. His wings twitch restlessly, half-spread as though he expects the beast to rise again. His nostrils flare, catching the reek. Unease flickers across his face, quickly smoothed into bravado.
“It was strong,” he says at last, his voice low. “Not easy prey.” His eyes cut to me, sharp and searching. “But she stood. She fought.”
Heat rushes to my face, hotter than the venom burn beneath the fresh bandage. My arm throbs, but the words strike deeper. He saw. They all saw. The snarky human barks out a laugh, high and bitter.
“Fought? You mean flailed until he—” he jerks his chin at the scarred Zmaj, “—sliced it in two. She’d be nothing but bones if not for him.”
My pride stings sharper than the burn on my arm. A retort catches in my throat, useless and raw. The younger Zmaj’s head snaps toward the man, wings flaring wide in sudden fury.
“She struck it first,” he growls, voice vibrating with restrained violence. “She cut it before any of us moved. Drew blood. You cowered. She didn’t.”
The man flinches, taking a step back, muttering something too low to catch. He stares at the ground and doesn’t press the point.
My throat tightens. I grip the hilt of my knife until my knuckles ache. Pain radiates from my arm, but pride swells in my chest. Under it all, something steadier pulses. I hadn’t folded. They saw it. Even if my strike wasn’t the killing blow, the first blow was mine.
The scarred warrior looms over the carcass, lochaber in hand. He doesn’t acknowledge their words or mine. His silence is heavier than the humans’ fear, heavier than the younger Zmaj’s defense. He simply stands, black eyes fixed on the husk of the beast, then looks around as if already weighing the next danger in the shadows.
And though he says nothing, I still feel it—that thrumming awareness between us, alive and undeniable.
