What the hell is wrong with you?
A wolf howled somewhere in the distance. Elora didn't even twitch. Whatever usually plagued her sleep had finally released its grip, leaving her curled against him like she belonged there.
Which was dangerous thinking.
She mumbled something soft and incoherent, her fingers tightening briefly in his shirt. His chest did something complicated in response—a twist of warmth and possession that he definitely wasn't ready to name.
I want you to stay. Here. With me.
The memory hit him harder than it should have. Not just the words, but the way she'd said them. Like she was asking for something she'd never been allowed to want before.
And he'd said yes without thinking. Not because it was smart, but because the alternative—leaving her to face the dark alone—felt impossible.
Shit.
This was new territory. Uncharted and potentially catastrophic. The smart play was to get her to Kilfaire, and walk away before this... whatever this was... got any more complicated.
But as he lay there in the dying firelight, watching her sleep peacefully for what might be the first time in months, Rell found himself not particularly interested in the smart play.
He stared at the stars for a long time. Counted breaths, cataloged threats, tried not to wonder what the fuck tomorrow would bring.
Elora’s worn brown cloak slipped from her shoulder, leaving her arm exposed to the cool night air. Rell reached over and tugged it back into place, his movements careful not to wake her.
The fabric caught on his finger—a tear near the edge. Nothing unusual about that. The thing was practically falling apart, frayed and patched in a dozen places. But something about the shape of this particular rip made him pause.
Familiar.
He frowned, studying the cloak more closely in the dying firelight. Now that he was actually looking at it—really looking—it was too small for her. The hem barely reached her thighs when she stood, more like a child's cloak than something meant for a grown woman. She never took the damn thing off, either. Slept in it, traveled in it, clutched it around herself like armor.
The tear was triangular, jagged at the edges like it had been caught on something sharp. Like iron bars.
Rell's blood went cold.
No.
He was losing his mind. Had to be. The stress of the job, the lack of sleep, the way Elora had crawled under his skin—it was making him see connections that didn't exist.
But his fingers traced the torn edge anyway, and his memory supplied the rest: Kira. That's what she'd told him her name was. Nine years old, maybe ten, with the same stubborn chin Elora had when she was being difficult. He remembered her from before—standing up to some village brat twice her size, chin lifted high, eyes blazing with pure defiance. She'd beensunshinein that grim little village. All joy and fire and unbreakable spirit.
Until the Snatchers took that away.
A cramped cage, a little girl with dark hair who could barely keep her eyes open. Drugged. Shivering. Looking at him with pupils too wide, fighting to stay conscious. He'd given her his cloak—his only one—through the bars, told her he'd save her, promised he'd come back for her.
He'd never came back.
The Snatchers had left him for dead, and by the time he'd crawled out of that ditch, they were gone. Vanished into the woods to collect more cargo. He'd searched for weeks, months, following cold trails and dead-end leads until the truth settled in his gut like poison. She was gone. Lost to the same machine that devoured children and spat out nothing but bones and nightmares.
You're being an idiot.
Thousands of children had brown cloaks. Hundreds had been taken by the Snatchers over the years. The odds of Elora being that same terrified girl were astronomical. Impossible.
Except.
Except she'd known exactly what the Snatchers were when he'd mentioned them back in Ravenpoint. Had gone pale as death, like the name itself was a blade pressed to her throat. And when she'd talked about being sold to them, about nearly dying before Tehvan found her...
Fuck.
His hand stilled on the fabric. If Elora was Kira—if he'd spent the last week protecting the same girl he'd failed to save all those years ago—then what did that make him? Lucky? Cursed? Given a second chance he sure as hell didn't deserve?
