His nostrils flare. His claws flex against the sand. His wings shift, half-opening before settling again. The smallest signs, but they tell me enough. My voice saying his name does something to him too.
The silence between us hums, thick and charged. I should look away, should let the fire lull me to sleep—but I can’t. My chest aches with the weight of what isn’t spoken.
For the first time in my life, I don’t feel small. I don’t feel pushed aside or forgotten. His name has tethered us together, and I don’t know if I’ll ever let it go.
The fire burns low until little is left but embers smoldering red against the dark. The desert night presses close—cool and vast—and for once, the silence isn’t full of menace. It’s full of him.
I curl onto my side, tugging the blanket high. The sandy stone beneath me is hard and unyielding. My body aches from the climb, from the fight, from every desperate hour we’ve survived. But it isn’t exhaustion that keeps me awake—it’s the steady weight of his gaze.
I feel him move before I see it—a shift in the sand, the faint rustle of wings settling. Then his presence floods closer until thecoolness of him slides under my blanket and brushes against my back. My breath catches, sharp and trembling.
He doesn’t ask. He never asks. He justis.His arm slides over me, scaled and scarred, heavy across my waist—claiming, protecting. I stiffen for only a moment, then melt under the weight of it.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but I can’t stop a shiver from running through me. Not from fear—from something hotter, sharper, aching. His chest settles against my spine, solid and cool, the rhythm of his breath syncing with mine.
And beneath that—his hearts.
Two of them, beating steady, one faster, one slower, together a rhythm that drowns out the night. I press my lips tight to stifle the sound that wants to escape. The steady thrum fills me, reverberating through my bones, until my pulse falls into step with his.
His horns graze the top of my head as he lowers his face toward the crook of my neck. Not close enough to touch, not close enough to kiss, but close enough that every breath stirs my hair. His smallest movement makes my skin burn at every point of contact.
The arm around me tightens, claws curving against my hip—not cutting, not careless. Careful. A warrior who could crush me in a blink holds me instead with terrifying gentleness.
I bite down on a whimper. My body aches for more, but this—this is enough. More than enough. His protection isn’t a shield thrown over me; it’s a vow written in touch and silence.
I close my hand over his forearm. The scales are smooth and cool, ridged with scars that catch against my fingertips. My chestswells with something I can’t name—too sharp to be safety, too deep to be lust alone.
Love.
The word stirs—fragile and dangerous. I shove it down, but it lingers anyway, stubborn as the man holding me.
The night stretches long, but I don’t drift. Not fully. I stay awake, listening to him breathe, feeling the press of him, memorizing the rhythm of his hearts.
For the first time, the desert doesn’t feel endless. For the first time, I’m not alone.
33
KARA
The suns haven’t crested yet when I wake. A soft gray light spills across the sand. Almost kind—as if, for this brief moment, the desert has no teeth.
Warmth anchors me: his arm is draped across my waist, his body curved close against mine, the slow rhythm of his hearts beating against my back. I lie still, savoring this rare calm. His breath fans over the nape of my neck, deep and even, and every rise of his chest stirs the fine hairs along my skin.
I should shift away, slip free before he realizes I’m awake. But I don’t. I curl back into him. This is where I belong.
His arm tightens, almost imperceptibly, pulling me closer. My breath catches, a little sound escaping. I feel the rumble low in his chest in answer—not a word, not even a growl, just awareness—him.
The temptation to close my eyes and let myself stay here forever is intense. The memory of last night—our fight, our survival, the heat between us—burns through my chest. This morning feels different. Quieter, and somehow more real.
When I finally roll over to face him, it’s careful, slow. He stirs but doesn’t move away. His black eyes catch the dim light as they open, sharp even from sleep. His gaze sweeps over me, unreadable but unwavering, before it lingers—long enough that my skin heats under the weight of it.
“Morning,” I whisper, voice rough.
His hand lifts, brushing a strand of grit-clumped hair from my cheek.
“Kara,” he rumbles; the way he says my name is a vow and a claim.
I don’t need more. The moment stretches until my belly betrays me with a loud, hollow growl.
