“Then let’s eat.” I nod toward the dried provisions he packed. “Unless you’re planning to starve me into compliance.”
“I would never—” He stops when he sees my expression. “You’re joking.”
“Starting to wonder if Deep Runners have a sense of humor, or if that got lost in the isolation.”
This time, I definitely see him fight back a smile. “We have humor. We just don’t usually share it with prisoners.”
“Then I’m honored to be the exception.”
Eatingwith bound hands is an exercise in humility. I try to manage on my own, but the dried fish keeps slipping through my fingers, and eventually Torin just sighs and moves closer.
“Let me.”
“I can?—”
“You’ve been struggling for five minutes. Just—” He breaks off a piece of fish and holds it out. “Open your mouth.”
I want to refuse. Want to insist I can handle it myself. But my stomach growls, and he’s looking at me with something that might be amusement or might be exasperation, and the bond is humming with contentment at his proximity.
I open my mouth.
His fingers brush my lips as he places the fish, and electricity sparks—literal electricity, crackling between us before I can stop it. He jerks back with a hiss.
“Sorry! I—I didn’t mean?—”
But he’s staring at his fingers. At the place where my lightning touched his scales. And instead of burns, there’s—iridescence. A faint golden shimmer where electricity met water, like I left a mark on him that isn’t quite a wound and isn’t quite a scar.
“It didn’t hurt,” he says slowly.
“What?”
“Your lightning. It should have hurt. Should have burned.” He looks up at me, and there’s wonder in his eyes. “But it didn’t. It felt like—” He trails off, searching for words.
“Like what?”
“Like warmth. Like—” He shakes his head. “The bond is changing us.”
The words hang between us. Changing us. Not just connecting us. Transforming what we are into something neither of us fully understands yet.
I should be afraid. Should be rejecting this, fighting it, maintaining my independence. But all I feel is curiosity. And something that might be hope.
“Try again,” I say.
He hesitates. Then reaches out with another piece of fish, and this time when his fingers touch my lips, I let the lightning come. Just a spark. Barely there. Enough to see if the first time was a fluke.
The spark dances across his scales, and he inhales sharply—but not from pain. His eyes darken, pupils dilating, and I feel what he feels through the bond. Not pain. Pleasure. Connection. Like my electricity is something his water has been waiting for.
We stare at each other.
“This isn’t normal,” he says, his voice rough.
“Nothing about this is normal.” I swallow the fish, my mouth suddenly dry. “But maybe that’s not a bad thing.”
He doesn’t respond. Just breaks off another piece of fish and holds it out, and this time neither of us pretends the spark that passes between us is accidental.
Something has shiftedbetween us by the time we finish eating. An unspoken understanding, maybe. Or just an acknowledgment that fighting the bond is exhausting and we’re both too tired to keep pretending.
“Tell me about your people,” I say as he packs away the remaining provisions.
