“Is this what you came here looking for? Are you planning to leave now?” Slate asks, andthatdoes catch my attention.
I turn toward him. “Absolutely not. Gem Ridge is my home.”
“Hm. Sincerity.” He crosses his arms. “Very well. I’ll believe you. But someday when you’ve come to trust me more, I will want to have a long talk about how you knew exactly how to take down a queen slime with such immaculate ease.”
“Excuse you.Ease?My arm hurts so bad.”
“Yes, because you approached aqueen slimewith naught but a training sword. That thing is made of wood and only blessed because Lia was practicing her abilities around the same age Pyro was learning combat.” Slate cups his hand to his mouth, notably pensive. “The tactic you employed in taking down the most dangerous slime variant thus far discovered is going into a research paper that I am sending to Amecrest’s Adventurer Guild. The result of dissolving the queen slime into her sevencomponents with an explosive creates a painless battle that could save countless lives.”
My brows rise, and…he…is very right. I guess it’s still a little hard for me to think about how this place is connected to an entire world that I’ve never even seen pixelated. The knowledge I have could save people, because while the queen slime is a unique boss inVale of Gems, it is not unique in this entire world. “Will they distribute the information to other guilds?”
Slate settles a hand at his chin. “You’re right.” He sighs. “The adventure guilds are notorious for malicious practices. There’s more money if fewer hands make it back to the noble’s pockets. I’ll send this discovery to other scientists, to papers. Making it common knowledge is safer than trusting a guild head.” He beams at me. “Brilliant mind. We should conduct experiments together.”
“Um…” I don’t know why, but I think that experiments with Slate pose more potential danger than diving headfirst into the Sky Dungeon. “We’ll see about that.”
When we crest the final mound separating Slate’s house from view, my vision hyperfocuses on a hulking silhouette sitting on the front step, head in his hands.
My heart launches and falls in a single instant.
As though he felt the disturbance, Samson startles, jerking, and he’s on his feet before I can get a breath.
“Citrus.” Pounding strides carry him across the mud-strewn grass to me. He just barely has the sense to shove the hand holding my new sword away before his arms close around me, crush, lift me an inch—or a mile—off the ground. Shaking, he swears into my hair as his fingers dig into my back. “Neveragain,” he whispers, tone black. “Don’t youeverdo something like this again.”
My thoughts stumble, and I stammer, “I…I told you it would be fine.”
His embrace presses the air from my lungs before releasing abruptly, sending me plummeting the million miles back down to the ground.
Fixing my body securely behind him, Samson stalks into Slate’s space, jabs him in the chest with a finger, and spits, “What the—” He swears. “—were you thinking?Do youeveruse any of the common sense in that brain of yours?”
Unbothered, Slate flashes a smile as he tosses his hands in the air. “As I’ve said before, Citrus isveryconvincing.”
Samson grips Slate’s collar, lifting him to his toes with impressive ease that makes my heart skip.
Slate’s electric green eyes flash as he murmurs, “Interesting choice, given one of us has a flamethrower.” Angling his head forward, Slate drawls, “Correct me if I’m wrong: Citrus is a grown woman capable of making her own decisions, independent of your mother henning.”
Samson’s knuckles pop as his grip twists.
My stomach curdles, and I reach for his tattooed arm. “S-Samson…come on…it’s not Slate’s fault. Please. I knew I could do it, so I did. I’m sorry I worried you.” When I swallow, it tastes like acid in my throat. “B-but I’m not helpless. Really. I’m not.”
“Really,” Slate echoes, unhelpfully smug, “she isn’t.”
Samson, without pulling his attention off Slate, growls, “I know that, Citrus.” His muscles flex beneath my grip as he unceremoniously drops Slate, abouts-face, andsweeps down to throw me over his shoulder as though I am not holding a sword.
I, obviously, squeak.
Slate whistles.
Some foreign, beastly sound rumbles from Samson’s chest, then he’s plodding away from the lab, toward home.
My head is still spinning by the time he dumps me on the couch in the living room and slams his palm against the back cushions, caging me there.
Naturally, a reasonable amount of attraction goes jetting through my veins, turning my body a modest seven thousand degrees.
His chest rises and falls with his deep breaths as his attention cuts from my face to the sword I’m still holding. It is a miracle I lost neither it nor my glasses on the march here. Tense moments suffocate me while I wrestle with finding something to say. By the time I think I have a proper apology rallied, he drops his forehead against mine.
Damp air coasts across my lips when he exhales.
My interior temperature rises to nine thousand.
