I set down the leather packet in my hand and look at her fully.
Keandra notices at once. Her body has begun recognizing my moods too. The intent one. The watchful one. The one where something in me has already fixed on her before I have spoken.
She straightens slightly. “What?”
That word again. Always too small for what it does to me.
I say nothing at first. I cross the tent instead, slowly enough that she can watch every step and never mistake me for rushing her. By the time I reach the brazier, the fire has gone from warm to too warm, and I know it is not the brazier doing it. It is her. Her scent warmed by the hide walls, the low flame, and the evening air.
I crouch in front of her and take one of the folded cloths from her lap, only to set it aside. Her hands remain empty between us. That feels important.
“You smell like the fire,” I say.
A faint crease appears between her brows. “That’s because I was sitting next to it.”
“And herbs.”
“Oshara sent inventory work.”
I nod once. I already know. I notice the camp and the women and the movement around her more than she yet realizes. Which hands bring her a cloth. Which females linger. Which warriors look too long toward the Kai’s tent and then quickly away. I notice everything that touches what is mine.
Then I lift my hand and brush my thumb once along the inside of her wrist, where a faint green stain lingers from some crushed leaf she missed while washing.
Her breath changes immediately. I can scent that too.
Keandra looks down at my hand, then back at my face. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“Acting like you want to touch me everywhere and are forcing yourself not to.”
For one beat, I say nothing. Then, because lying to her has become harder than truth, I say, “Yes.”
Heat rises in her face. I keep my hand where it is, not moving higher, not taking more. Letting her decide what the contact becomes.
Keandra’s fingers curl lightly once around the edge of my hand before relaxing again. The small instinctive movement nearly undoes me.
My voice lowers. “You should not invite honesty if you do not want it.”
Her mouth softens at one corner. “That sounded like a warning.”
“It is.”
She should look away. She doesn’t.
The fire crackles softly behind us. Outside the tent, the rasha is settling into late evening. Lower voices. Slower movement. Cook fires burning down. Beast-chains quiet. The world is drawing inward. Inside, all of my attention has narrowed to the female in front of me and the dangerous warmth beginning to rise between us.
I shift closer. Enough that my scent surrounds her now. Smoke. Leather. Male heat. The dry wild smell of the Tigris wind still caught in my skin.
Keandra’s throat works once.
I let my hand slide from her wrist to her forearm, then higher, slow enough that she feels every inch of the movement. I watch her face the whole time. Not because I doubt what I want.Because I need to know what she feels before I take another breath in her direction.
When my hand reaches her upper arm, I say quietly, “Sha.”
She is already close. Still, she moves. Just a little. Just enough to close the space herself.
That small choice changes everything.
