His head turns at once, every line of him going rigid. His tail curls tight behind us, wings flaring just slightly wider to shield me. I press closer, my fingers curling in the blanket, pulse leaping.
The canyon below looks empty—ribs jutting pale through shadow, sand trailing in restless streams. Nothing moves. Nothing shows itself. But I swear I feel it. Waiting. Watching.
His black eyes flick toward me once. Not soft, not reassuring—just a silent warning. Stay still. Stay ready.
I nod, breath shallow.
Another shift echoes through the graveyard. This one heavier. More deliberate. A rib farther down the canyon tilts and falls, causing a puff that swirls upward like smoke.
The scrape of scale on bone answers the silence. Slow. Patient.
My stomach knots. The kiss we didn’t take burns on my lips, but there’s no space left for it now. Only the promise of what hunts us in the dark. I grip his arm without thinking. He doesn’t shake me off. His lochaber rises in his other hand, steady, waiting.
And then, through the haze, a shadow pulls free of the ribs—vast, coiled, deliberate—beginning to climb toward us.
24
KARA
Shadow moves again, scraping slow against bone, and the air thickens until it feels like I can’t pull it into my lungs. I keep my hand on his arm, fingers curled tight against the ridges of his scales. I mean to let go, to steady myself, but I can’t. Not when the thing below is climbing.
He lowers his head, just enough that his forehead brushes mine. His breath stirs the hair at my temple, cool and steady, as if the storm and the monster mean nothing. His eyes lock on mine—black, endless, unshakable.
“Fearless,” he whispers, the word rough as gravel. Not mocking. Not a command. An observation and a vow.
The tight burn in my chest loosens, only a fraction, but it’s enough. My grip steadies, my shaking slows. He gives me no softness, no promise of safety, only the certainty that he will not let me fall.
He straightens, tail lashing once, lochaber angling toward the dark. His gaze flicks up the canyon wall, looking above us.
“Climb.”
The single word is low, flat, unyielding. No debate. No question.
I follow his eyes. The stone rises, jagged and steep, narrow handholds glittering with grit. My stomach lurches at the thought of it—but the scrape comes again, louder. Climb or be dragged down or eaten here.
My throat tightens, but I nod. He shifts closer, one wing brushing my back as if to steady me, his hand ghosting near my waist without touching. I press my palms to the rock, grit biting into my skin, and climb.
The wind rattles against my back, shoving sand into my hair and stinging across bare skin. I grit my teeth, fingers digging into a crack, toes searching for purchase in the uneven stone. One breath. One pull. Then another.
Behind me, the scrape rises again, louder this time. Something vast shifting, deliberate, and patient. Whatever that shadow is, it’s climbing, and I don’t dare look down.
“Keep moving,” he growls, voice carrying even over the wind.
I do. My shoulders ache, my nails crack against the stone, but I haul myself upward, refusing to falter. Every muscle burns, yet I force myself higher, until the ledge below feels farther than the sky above.
A hand brushes my back—not pushing, not steadying, just near. His presence floods me as surely as heat from a fire, anchoring me where the gusting wind tries to rip me loose.
My foot slips.
The stone crumbles under my boot, grit spilling into the void. I cry out, scrambling, fingers clinging too hard to the crack above. My bandaged arm flares with pain, a hot white burn shooting upto my shoulder. My grip falters, but before I fall, his hand clamps around my waist.
He pushes me up, one-armed, muscles straining but unyielding. My body collides with his chest, scales hard and cool beneath my cheek, his heartbeat steady even in the chaos. For a breath, I can’t move, can’t breathe, pressed against him with nothing but air and death yawning below.
“You climb,” he rumbles, voice low against my ear. “I hold.”
I nod, throat too tight for words. His hand releases me slowly. Reluctantly? Or is that my imagination?
I force my legs to move. Every pull higher feels like muscle tearing from bone, but I climb, because I won’t make him carry me. I won’t.
