After the fourth failed attempt, my shoulders hunch, and I scan the surrounding debris for a rock large enough to use as a stepping stone.
“Here,” a masculine voice says from behind.
With a yelp, I clasp my glowing fingers behind my back and spin to find a broad-shouldered man cradling a small boulder in oneexcessively toned arm. He’s notably shirtless, and I’m taken aback by the vibrancy of his deep olive skin—how it lacks the usual ashen undertone found on those of us who reside in the safe darkness. But unlike mine, his veins show no sign of the sun’s corrupting light.
“What are— Where did you— Who?” I stop and start, not knowing which question to lead with. As he nears, I settle on a warning. “Look out for the sunlight!”
Without a glance in my direction, the stranger kneels beside me, his dark curls inches from brushing against my exposed calves. Raised scars stretch across his muscled back as he shoves the boulder against the wall of the trench.
I should put some distance between myself and this bare-chested man who came out of nowhere and potentially saw the damning evidence of my compromised hand.
Unwilling to heed logic, my legs stay firmly planted while I breathe in the stranger’s distinct scent that reminds me of smoky bergamot. A nightstone pendant thumps against his chest as he rises. Eyes like molten gold flick down to mine, gleaming with predatory intent.
I finally step back.
Those narrow golden irises leer at me through dark lashes. As ifI’mthe one who snuck up on him. As ifIforced him to fetch the boulder for me.
And, shadows help me, I glower back. “Who are you?”
There’s a reckless bite in my tone—one I should temper if I want to avoid this man dragging me to the guards, though I’m banking on the fact that he, too, is out past curfew.
Between his loose linen pants and the absence of armor, he’s obviously not a guard himself. Or perhaps if he is, he’s off duty. He does have the build of one. I suspect there are more muscles in his back than there are in my entire body. Yet there’s something untamedabout his overgrown black curls and incandescent irises that makes me doubt this man would ever agree to the subservient life of a guardsman.
So, what exactly is he doing here in the transport tunnels in the middle of daylight hours, if he isn’t one of the chancellor’s men? What’s he trying to hide?
Our gazes lock in a silent battle of will. I raise a single brow. Both of his lift, like my reaction doesn’t align with his hastily constructed impression of a damsel in distress. He doesn’t strike me as a man who’s accustomed to his expectations being subverted or proven wrong.
I’d like to do it again.
The impulsive thought is enough to make me fold. I lower my head, breaking our prolonged eye contact.
“That should be enough.” The man clears his throat and nods to the boulder before turning on his heel, leaving my questions unanswered.
I stare at his retreating form for several seconds, then return my focus to the more important matter: Gem.
The boulder is just over knee-height—tall enough for me to climb atop and hoist myself over the ledge. My ass cheek stings in protest as I do so.I stand, then twist to survey the cut. Sure enough, there’s a blot of crimson leaking through the thin chambray material of my shift. I tug the black wool shawl from where I draped it on my satchel, ready to tie it around my waist, but pause as the dense fabric extinguishes my glowing fingers. I glance over my shoulder to verify that the stranger is truly gone and wrap the shawl around my hand. Although the resulting makeshift cast is bulky, it’s less conspicuous than waving around my sunlit veins like a beacon of my transgression.
With the wrap in place, I rush over to where Gem last stood and clamber up the pile of rubble. Several rocks dislodge and tumble during my ascent, but I scale the stockpile without further injury.
I spot Gem’s prone form instantly, sprawled out on the packedclay path, a scarlet puddle encircling her head.
“Gem!”
Falling to my knees, I lower my ear to her chest. Fresh tears rush down my cheeks as her steady pulse beats against the side of my face.
Alive. She’s alive, thank the shadows.
“Gem, can you hear me?” I intertwine my left hand with hers. A new wave of panic chases away the brief relief when she remains unresponsive, and my grip tightens.
“Gem, I need you to squeeze my hand if you can hear me.”
Nothing.
We can’t stay here. She needs help, and I can’t carry her, nor do I think the guards will be particularly inclined to do so when they realize we’re deserters—or would-be deserters, if it weren’t for the earth itself halting our path to freedom.
I curse, then release Gem’s fingers. “Be right back.”
Once I’m on the other side of the rubble, I jog along the path, following the same direction as the gruff stranger. Flashing orbs dance along my vision as it readjusts to the shadows, and I call out, “Sir? If you can hear me, I really need your help.”
