I narrow my eyes at him. Focus. Plant my feet. Will the ground to stop spinning.
It doesn’t.
Three seconds later, the ground vanishes beneath me and I stumble forward.
Thane catches me without hesitation. One hand gripping my arm, the other bracing my waist. Steady. Solid. Warm.
Of course.
Shit.
I mutter something incoherent and shove at his chest. Half-hearted. Embarrassed. Drunk.
He doesn’t let go.
“See?” he murmurs. “Not safe.”
I roll my eyes. But I don’t fight him when he loops my arm around his shoulder and wraps his arm around my waist. His warmth sinks into me. And I hate how good it feels.
We walk in silence.
I let myself lean on him. Not because I want to. But because right now, walking is hard. And maybe . . . I do. A little.
I feel him breathe in against my hair. His muscles tense beneath my hands—just for a moment—then ease. And then, a soft press of lips to the top of my head.
I go still.
Thane’s voice is quiet when he finally speaks. “You don’t let yourself rest.”
I laugh dryly. “You sound like Lyra.”
“She’s not wrong.”
I sigh, tilting my head back to look at the stars.
“If I stop,” I whisper, “I think everything will catch up to me.”
His grip on me tightens slightly. “Maybe that’s not the worst thing.”
I let out a breath. “Maybe not. But it’s easier to keep moving.”
Thane doesn’t argue—just listens.
And gods, that is dangerous. Because I’ve had too much to drink and right now, I don’t have the armor. His presence makes me feel safe in a way I should not allow myself to feel. So I say things I probably shouldn’t.
“I’m tired, Thane.”
A muscle in his jaw pops.
“I know,” he says softly.
I shift against him. “I’m tired of being strong. Tired of being . . .her. Tired of being the version of me everyone else needs.”
A muscle in his throat moves as he swallows. “Amara—”
“I’m not saying I don’t care about any of it,” I cut in. “The fight, the mission, the damn prophecy.” I laugh bitterly. “Gods, Iwish I could care less. But I don’t. It’s just . . . ”
I trail off. Because the next part is too big. Too true.
