"It's..." He shook his head slightly. "I've seen you frightened. Exhausted. Tearful. Hungry.Wanting." The last word came out rougher than he'd intended. "But this is the first time I've seen you simply... happy."
She considered that. "I think I might be," she said slowly. "Happy, I mean. Or at least closer to it than I've been before."
The admission settled in his chest, heavy and dangerous. She might be happy. With him. In a cave on the edge of orc territory, wearing his clothes, eating rabbit cooked over a campfire. Happy.
He didn't know what to do with that. Didn't know how to hold something so fragile without crushing it. Six years ago, he'd stopped believing in good things. Good things ended in ambush. In blood. In names carved into stone.
But she was smiling at him like he'd done something right.
And gods help him, he wanted to keep earning that smile. Wanted to see it every morning. Wanted to make sure nothing ever took it from her again.
He crossed to her and handed her the larger portion of meat. When she tried to protest, he silenced her with a look.
"You need your strength. Eat."
She ate, making no effort to hide the sounds of appreciation.
When they'd finished, he crouched before her and carefully took her ankle. The swelling had indeed reduced. The bruising was yellowing at the edges, healing faster than he'd expected.
"Better," he confirmed. "But still not walking weight. One more day, maybe two."
"I can try—"
"No." Firm but gentle. "I will carry you to Northwatch. It's less than an hour from here."
"An hour?"
"We covered a lot of ground yesterday. I wanted us close enough to reach safety at first light."
She didn't argue. Didn't complain about being carried again, about the indignity or the inconvenience. She simply nodded and began pulling herself together, gathering the tunic around her, reaching for her dress.
He loved her for that. For the quiet resilience that refused to break no matter how hard the world pressed.
Loved.
The word caught him off guard. He turned away, busying himself with scattering the fire's remains, giving her privacy to dress and himself time to examine the feeling that had bloomed in his chest.
"I'm ready."
He looked back. She was dressed, her injured ankle held carefully off the ground as she braced against the cave wall. Her eyes met his, and he saw his own fierce tenderness reflected back at him.
"Come," he said, crossing to her. "We'll reach the watchtowers by midmorning."
He lifted her as he had before, settling her against his chest with her arms around his neck. She weighed nothing to him, but the warmth of her, the solid reality of her body pressed against his, was a weight he'd carry gladly for the rest of his life.
She reached up and touched his face, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "Ralvar. Thank you."
"You don't need to thank me."
"I know." She rose slightly in his arms and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, where his lips met the smooth ivory of his tusks. "I'm doing it anyway."
A sound rumbled through his chest. His arms tightened around her.
"When this is finished," he said, "when you're safe and sanctuary is granted—I am going to worship you until you forget gratitude exists. Until the only word you remember is my name."
Heat flickered in her eyes. "Promises, promises."
"That," he said, turning toward the pale morning light, "is not a promise. It is an oath."
