“Then you’ll catch me,” I cut in. “Like you did back home.”
His jaw tightens. “Yes. If I am close enough. If I am not distracted by fighting or reinforcing wards or giving my blessings to the farmers we pass.”
He’s not wrong. Doesn’t mean I’m going to roll over and play helpless, though.
“Dagan,” I say, stepping over the faint shimmer that marks the boundary of some protective ward he carved into the soil.
My boot hits bare earth. It thrums under my foot.
“I am a licensed environmental geologist. I have worked active landslides. I’ve had clients threaten to sue me, swear they never saw any cracks while standing in front of a sinkhole. I know risk.”
He stares at the spot where my boot landed like it personally insulted him.
“You are also my viyella,” he says quietly. “The bond changes everything.”
Mate.
Viyella.
That word is new. The first time I heard it, it made my stomach knot.
It still does that. But it does something else.
Something hot and terrifying and wanting.
“Look, I get that you’re used to people doing what you say because you’re”—I gesture at all of him—“Lord of Earth, King of Rocks, Big Boss of the Dirt or whatever the title is?—”
He snorts. “Close enough.”
“—but I didn’t come here to sit in a tower and embroider dirt maps. I can help, Dagan. Or do you not want the woman who can literally feel your fault lines helping you map the problem?”
His eyes flash green-gold, like sunlight through deep forest.
The earth around us shivers.
Not a quake—just a reaction.
To him.
To me.
To the bond pulling taut between us as we square off.
“I want you,” he says, voice low. “That is the problem.”
Oh.
Okay, well.
That’s direct.
Heat rushes up my neck. I cross my arms so I don’t do something embarrassing like throw myself at him.
“Professionally,” I say, because apparently I enjoy suffering.
His gaze drops to my mouth for a second. “No.”
The ground chooses that exact moment to give a little lurch under my boots, like it’s laughing.
