Especially not when Iseehim.
I’m on my way to the storage lockers, carrying a bag of mop heads, when I hear it—the faint, measured clank of armored boots. My breath catches. I turn my head.
There he is.
Vokar.
Standing at the far end of the corridor, arms crossed, body like a living weapon cloaked in menace. His red eyes catch mine andstay.
My knees nearly buckle.
For a second—just one stupid heartbeat—everything inside me screams to go to him. My skin remembers how he touched me. My bones remember how he held me. And worse—my heart remembers how helookedat me. Like I was a secret treasure only he was meant to find.
Then I remember my pride.
I force my gaze forward and walk past him like he’s nothing but a wall. A very large, very magnetic, verynakedwall in my head—but still. A wall.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
But Ifeelhim. Watching me.
Wanting.
Naturally, it’s impossible to avoid him, despite my best efforts. It’s almost inevitable that we’ll run into each other again. A couple days later, it happens.
The mess hall’s supposed to be closed. That’s what I tell myself as I step inside, the lights low and flickering in energy-saving mode, shadows pooled in the corners. I should turnback. It’s late. I’ve scrubbed everything twice already. But my stomach’s twisting too tight to sleep, and my thoughts are full of heat and teeth and red eyes.
The moment I cross the threshold, I feel it.
The weight. The gravity.
I stop dead.
He’s there. Vokar.
Sitting alone in the back corner, like he owns the damn silence. Massive, unmoving, a beast in partial shadow. He’s not armored tonight—bare from the waist up, and gods, he’scutlike stone shaped by war. His skin gleams in the dim lighting, every muscle coiled with tension. His eyes open, slow and deliberate, and find me.
I start to backpedal.
“Stay,” he says, voice like a slow avalanche. “Or run. Your choice. But do it honestly.”
My hand hovers near the keypad. I don’t press it.
Instead, I shuffle inside, careful not to make a sound. My heart drums like war in my ears. I move to the nearest bench, far away but not far enough. I sit. I fold my hands in my lap and pretend I’m not shaking.
“You’re hiding from me.”
The accusation is soft. Almost curious.
“I’m not.”
“Don’t lie to your warlord.”
I swallow hard. “You’re not my?—”
“No?” His voice rumbles low, like thunder in the bones. “Then why do you wake up smelling like me?”
I can’t breathe.
