She steps closer, close enough that her breath touches my shoulder as she peers past me. The contact should be purely tactical—instead, heat cascades down my spine.
"Let them think they control the field." I check my sword’s edge, steel humming eagerly in response. "We needed to reach his power chamber anyway."
Her hand settles on my shoulder, ostensibly for balance as she examines the passages ahead. The contact lingers longer than necessary, her thumb tracing muscle beneath torn fabric. The gesture sends awareness racing along my nerves despite our precarious circumstances.
"The deeper we go, the stronger his influence becomes." She doesn’t pull her hand away. "Are you prepared for what that might mean?"
I turn to face her in the narrow space, bringing us chest-to-chest. Her eyes are bright with more than magical energy—there’s heat there that has nothing to do with tactical planning.
"I’m prepared for anything as long as you’re beside me."
Color rises in her cheeks, but she doesn’t step back. "Even if I become a liability? If the magical strain proves too much?"
"You won’t." I lift my hand to frame her face, thumb brushing soft skin. "We’re stronger together than either of us could be alone. The Marshal learned that when we retuned his bell."
Confidence flows between us, carried by whatever force has been building since that first desperate kiss. When she leans into my touch, I’m struck again by how perfectly she fits—as if we were crafted to complement each other.
But duty intrudes as bone scratches stone from multiple directions. The Marshal’s scouts have found us.
"Move." I breathe the word against her ear, carrying more heat than simple tactics require.
The scouts are just advance units. Heavy footsteps echo from deeper passages, accompanied by grinding sounds of massive constructs hauling themselves through corridors designed for human movement.
"The main force," I realize, pulling Rhea closer as we press against an alcove barely large enough for one person. "Hundreds of them, moving in formation."
The confined space forces us together in ways that make breathing quietly a challenge. Every breath presses her soft curves against my chest. Her pulse hammers against my throat where she’s tucked under my chin. The scent of her hair mingles with chalk dust and spent magic.
"Military tactics." Her observation is astute despite our compromised position. "He’s not just throwing undead at us—he’s conducting a proper campaign."
The words vibrate against my skin, sending heat racing down my spine. I can feel her pulse fluttering rapid as a bird’s wing where her throat rests against my collarbone. The proximity should be purely tactical—instead, it’s taking every ounce of self-control not to tilt her chin up and claim her mouth.
"How many?" she asks, apparently unaware of what her movement does to my concentration when she shifts to peer around the alcove’s edge.
I force myself to extend my senses beyond the intoxicating warmth of her body. "Two hundred bone warriors minimum. Plus constructs and support elements." I pause, processing implications. "They’re not trying to kill us."
"What do you mean?"
"The formation. Advancing slowly, cutting off retreat routes but not rushing to engage. Classic herding maneuver."
Her eyes find mine in the dim light, and I see my own determination reflected there. But there’s something else too—heat that has nothing to do with combat readiness and everything to do with how we’re pressed together.
"Hit and run?" she asks, though her voice carries a breathless quality that suggests her thoughts have drifted from pure tactics.
"Hit and run," I confirm, though I make no immediate move to leave our shelter.
"I couldn’t separate from you even if I wanted to." Her hands slide up to rest against my shoulders. "The magical tether won’t allow that much distance anymore."
The reminder should feel restrictive. Instead, satisfaction courses through me—purely possessive. She belongs at my side. Not because magic demands it, but because I need her there.
The moment stretches between us, charged with possibility. Her lips are close enough that I could claim them with the slightest movement. I see the exact moment she realizes the same thing, the way her breathing changes as awareness sparks in her green eyes.
But thunder of approaching feet reminds us we’re still hunted. Reluctantly, I pull back just far enough to break the spell.
"Ready?" I ask, though the question encompasses more than our escape plan.
"With you? I’m ready for anything."
We burst from the alcove as the first rank of bone warriors rounds the corner. Instead of standing to fight, we run—using speed and coordination to stay ahead of organized pursuit. Behind us, sergeants bark orders in the Marshal’s ancient tongue, directing the hunt with military precision.
