“Do you?”
“God, no. That would be exhausting.” She grins. “I just have eyes. You’re tense, but you’re managing. Anyone would be tense, going back to—“ She stops. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to?—“
“It’s fine.” The words come out steadier than I expect. “You’re right. I am tense. But it helps, having—“ I gesture vaguely at the camp, at her, at the guards moving purposefully around us. “This. People who understand. A small army at our backs.”
Her face softens. “Yeah. It does.”
Rurik returns with an armload of wood, dumping it near the ring of stones Drayke has arranged. He crosses to where I’m kneeling by the supplies before the branches stop rolling.
“Need help?”
“I’m organizing rations. It’s not exactly surgery.” But I’m smiling as I say it—genuinely smiling, the way I’ve been doing more often lately.
“I could hold things. Pass you things.” He crouches beside me, restless energy radiating off him in waves. “Provide moral support for the ration situation.”
“The ration situation is tragically under control.” I hold up a strip of jerky. “Though this one does look suspicious. Might need supervision.”
His face lights up at my teasing. “See? I knew it. Very suspicious jerky. Could be dangerous.”
“Extremely dangerous.” I toss it at his chest. “You should probably eat the evidence.”
He catches it, grinning, and I realize I’m humming under my breath—a habit I’d lost years ago that’s somehow come back since arriving at the fortress.
I look at him. Really look at the worry he’s trying to mask with jokes, at the way he can’t keep still, at the coiled readiness in every line of his body. The humor fades from my face.
“I’m okay,” I say, reaching over to squeeze his arm. “Really.”
“I know.” But some of the tension bleeds from his frame. “Just checking.”
“You’ve checked fourteen times today.” I bump my shoulder against his. “I’ve been counting.”
“Fifteen. You missed one while you were doing hand signals with Selene.” His mouth curves. “What was that about, anyway?”
“Trade secrets.” I lean into him, letting my head rest briefly against his shoulder. “Very classified Fire-Bringer business.”
“Fire-Bringer trade secrets?”
“Absolutely. You wouldn’t understand. Too much dragon brain.” I tap his temple. “Not enough appreciation for the finer points of mocking overprotective males.”
He laughs—really laughs—and the sound loosens something in my chest. I’ve gotten good at making him do that.
I finish organizing and stand, brushing dirt from my knees. “Are you going to hover all night, or can I trust you to find something productive to do?”
“Define productive.”
“Anything that doesn’t involve asking if I’m okay every thirty seconds.”
He clutches his chest. “You wound me.”
“You’ll recover.” I’m smiling as I say it, and when he catches my hand to pull himself up, I don’t let go right away.
Neither does he.
Dinner is driedmeat and travel bread, eaten around a fire that pops and crackles in the gathering dark. The guards have split into two groups—those eating now, those on perimeter watch. They rotate with wordless efficiency, a choreography born of long practice.
Drayke and Selene sit on the far side of the flames, her head resting against his shoulder, their murmured conversation lost beneath the sound of wind through pines.
Rurik is beside me—close enough that our thighs press together, close enough that I’ve stolen half his blanket without asking. He didn’t complain. Just shifted to give me better access and pretended not to notice when I burrowed into his side.
