He wakeswith a start maybe two hours later, water already gathering at his fingertips before his eyes fully open. Combat reflexes. I recognize them—I have my own, lightning crackling before I’m fully conscious when danger threatens.
“It’s just me,” I say quietly. “No danger. You were dreaming.”
The water dissipates. He blinks at me, disoriented for a moment, then seems to remember where we are. What we’re doing. The careful distance he’s been trying to maintain.
“You should have woken me sooner.”
“You needed the rest.” I stretch carefully, testing my shoulder. Still hurts, but manageable. “And I kept my promise. No one came.”
He looks at me like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why keep your promise? Why not try to escape while I slept?”
I could lie. Should lie, probably. Maintain the diplomatic pretense that I’m just being strategic, waiting for a better opportunity. But I’m tired of lying. Tired of being careful. And the bond won’t let me hide from him anyway.
“Because you’re taking me to someone who can judge my case fairly,” I say. “Because you saved my life when you could have let me drown.” I pause. “And because running away won’t solve anything. If I want the Deep Runners to trust the Alliance, I have to start by trusting you.”
The last part is truer than I want it to be. Trust isn’t supposed to work like this—fast and unearned and based on nothing but instinct and an impossible bond. But here we are.
Something shifts in his expression. The wariness softens just slightly. “You’re either very wise or very foolish.”
“I’ve been called both.” I manage a smile. “Usually in the same conversation.”
He almost smiles back. Almost. The corner of his mouth twitches, and I catch a glimpse of what he might look like if grief and duty weren’t weighing him down. What he might have been before his sister died. Before Caspian’s radicalism forced him to choose between loyalty and conscience.
I want to see that smile again. The thought surprises me with its intensity.
“I should check your shoulder,” he says, all business again. “Make sure the splint hasn’t shifted.”
“All right.”
He moves closer, and the bond sings. Not violently this time. Just—present. Aware. Content with his proximity. His fingers are gentle as they check the bindings, cool against my skin. When they brush the edge of my partially-shifted feathers, I have to bite back a gasp.
Wing-feathers are sensitive. More than sensitive—they’re intimate. Having them touched is?—
His hands still. “Did I hurt you?”
“No.” My voice comes out rougher than I intend. “No, you didn’t hurt me.”
He meets my eyes, and I see understanding dawn. He knows what he just touched. What it means among aerial shifters. Heat creeps up my neck.
“I’m sorry. I should have?—”
“It’s fine.” I force myself to hold his gaze. “You were checking the injury. That’s all.”
But we both know it wasn’t just that. The bond made it something more. Made his touch feel like—like belonging. Like homecoming. Like every nerve ending in my body was paying attention.
He pulls back quickly, putting distance between us. “The splint is holding. You’re healing well.”
“Thank you.”
Awkward silence settles over us. The bond pulses between us, unsatisfied with the distance, wanting connection we’re both trying not to acknowledge.
Finally, I break it. “Are you hungry?”
He blinks, clearly not expecting the question. “I—yes. Actually.”
