“Longer,” he says, his voice a deep rumble.
He doesn’t say more, but his glance lingers—dark and sharp—as if he’s measuring not the meat we’ve carved, but the strength I’ve shown. My chest flutters with the memory of his growl last night—beautiful, mine.
I duck my head before he can see too much, before he can read the heat stirring in me.
We pile the cuts onto a stretch of hide he’s stripped from the beast’s leg. When it’s enough to drag, he ties the makeshift bundle with strips of sinew, his hands deft even in this grisly work.
The rising suns catch on his scars, lighting him in sharp ridges of red and silver. My chest aches at the sight—warrior, survivor, and something more.
Mine.
When he straightens, he hooks the bundle over his shoulder as though it weighs nothing. Then he turns to me.
“We go.”
A command—but also a promise.
I wipe blood from my hands and nod, forcing my legs steady. The canyon looms behind us, shadows deep and dangerous, but ahead stretches desert and the thin glint of hope we saw on the horizon.
We’ll carry this back to the others. Together.
31
KARA
The weight of the bundle rides heavy on his shoulder—a dark mass of meat and hide bound with sinew, nearly as large as me. He carries it easily, as if it weighs nothing. His stride is steady, each step sure, clawed feet sinking into sand that shifts treacherously beneath us.
I follow, staying in his shadow. The desert stretches ahead, endless folds of dune upon dune, the horizon our only anchor. Every muscle in my body protests the movement. My calves burn, my wounded arm throbs, and grit rasps in my throat with every breath. Still, I keep pace. I won’t fall behind—not when he walks as though the fight never happened. As though dawn and blood and everything we’ve endured are nothing more than another step in an unending march.
The meat smells copper-sharp; the scent of butchering clings to us, rising in waves. My stomach knots, not entirely from disgust. It growls loud enough that I flush, hoping he didn’t hear—but I know he must have. He hears everything.
He doesn’t comment. The only sounds he makes are the faint rasp of claws on stone when we cross a patch of broken rock andthe low scrape of his tail sweeping the sand. His silence doesn’t press the way it used to. It holds me together when my body wants to fold.
The suns rise higher. Heat slides across the dunes, already cruel, already heavy. Sweat trickles down my spine, soaking into my clothes. Each step feels slower than the last, but his pace never changes—relentless, somehow pulling me forward with him.
I catch myself staring at him: the play of light along the ridges of his scars, the swell of his shoulders beneath the straps holding the bundle, the easy power in his stride. He doesn’t falter, doesn’t bend—not even under this burden.
A pang twists inside me, sharp and unexpected. What are we now? Not just survivors, not just strangers tied together by hunger and fear. Last night—what we shared, what he said—changed everything. Confirmed feelings I’ve been too afraid to name. My skin hums with it, my chest aches with the memory. I don’t know if he feels the same fire burning, or if it was nothing more than instinct and survival to him.
The dunes rise ahead, endless and merciless. My legs tremble, but I grit my teeth and keep moving. If he can carry the weight of that beast alone, then I can carry myself.
For him. For us. For whatever we are becoming. I take a deep breath and push on.
The desert opens wider the farther we leave the canyon behind. All that’s left is sand and sky—no shelter, no shade, just the weight of heat bearing down. I keep my eyes on the horizon and the mountain rising against it. They look no closer than they did an hour ago, but it’s something to chase—something to keep my legs moving when they want to fold. My breath rasps dryand hot. My lips crack when I lick them. The ache in my belly sharpens to a constant gnaw.
He doesn’t slow. I’m jealous that he doesn’t sweat—cold-blooded, steady, relentless, built for this hellscape of a planet. Each step of his claws presses deep into the dune and rises sure. The bundle of meat rides on his shoulder, swinging slightly with his stride. I want to hate how effortless he makes it look, but instead I feel… steadied. If he doesn’t falter, then I don’t have permission to either.
A gust rakes across the dunes, sharp with sandy grit. I choke, coughing, sand searing down my throat. My vision blurs. I stumble, dropping to one knee. My hand sinks into the burning sand, scorching my skin.
Before I can push myself up, his shadow falls over me. The heat cuts, replaced by the cool shade of his wing. I look up, blinking grit from my eyes. He hasn’t dropped the bundle or spoken, but his wing arcs above me, shielding me as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.
My chest tightens—not from thirst or exhaustion, but from the weight of that small, wordless act.
“I’m fine,” I rasp, though my voice is barely more than a scrape.
He tilts his head, horns catching the sun, eyes black and fathomless. The narrowing of his gaze tells me he doesn’t believe me. His tail lashes once against the sand, but he doesn’t argue. He just waits.
The silence pulls something from me. I push to my feet, swaying, every muscle trembling. His hand hovers near my waist—not touching, not quite—but there if I falter again. The nearness of itmakes my pulse hammer, not from weakness this time but from a fierce, stubborn desire to stand taller.
