“Yes.”
The simplicity of his responses should be infuriating. It isn’t. There’s a terrible honesty in his monosyllables—an admission that explanation is impossible, that the impulse itself defies the rational frameworks he usually employs. He wanted me badly enough to damage himself rather than violate my ability to refuse.
I don’t know what to do with that information.
“You’ve been hunting the Cardinal.”
Arax’s expression doesn’t change, but I see the fractional shift in his posture—surprise, maybe, at the topic change. Or relief. With him, the difference is nearly impossible to distinguish.
“I’ve been gathering intelligence on the Cardinal’s probable movements.”
“Intelligence you haven’t shared with me.”
“You were recovering. The information wasn’t urgent.”
“Bullshit.”
The profanity lands harder than I intended. His eyebrows lift—the closest thing to a visible reaction I’ve managed to provoke.
“The information concerns a target you have expressed intent to engage.” I cross the space between us, closing the careful four feet to a distance more confrontational. “That makes it relevant to me. That makes withholding it a choice you made without my input.”
“Your recovery?—”
“Is my concern, not yours.” I stop close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. Close enough that his scent fills my awareness—ash and metal and the particular chemistry that has become as familiar as my own heartbeat. “You don’t get to decide what I’m strong enough to hear. You don’t get to filter information based on what you think I can handle.”
His mouth flattens into a hard line—a visible effort at control. “I’m aware that you’re capable?—”
“Then act like it.”
The words come out sharper than intended. A flicker passes through his void-dark eyes—not anger, not offense. Closer to calculation. He’s reading me the way I’ve been reading him, piecing data from tone and posture and the rapid pulse hammering in my throat.
“I believe you’ve been making decisions about my safety without including me in the process. I believe you’ve been hunting a target we should be hunting as a pair. I believe you’re so afraid of losing me that you’ve stopped thinking about what I want.”
The last sentence lands with more force than I expected. He goes utterly motionless—the dangerous quiet before violence or confession. When he speaks, his voice has gone rough.
“I’m afraid of losing you.”
No qualification. No tactical framing. The bare admission, offered like a weapon laid at my feet.
“I know.” I don’t soften my own voice. Don’t offer comfort or reassurance. “But that fear doesn’t give you the right to make my choices for me. It doesn’t make you my keeper. It doesn’t transform me into an object to be protected rather than a person to be consulted.”
“I’ve never?—”
“Every night since we reached this shelter. You position yourself between me and the entrance. You wake before I do and pretend you’ve been awake for hours. You track my movements like I’m prey you’re afraid will bolt.”
His silence is confirmation enough.
“I’ve seen how you check the perimeter three times before you’ll settle for the night. I’ve noticed the way your hand drifts toward a weapon every time a sound carries from outside. You’re wound tighter than a crossbow string, and you’re burning through reserves you should be conserving.”
“My reserves are my concern.”
“They’re my concern too.” I take a step closer, blocking his escape into practicalities. “Because if you collapse from exhaustion at a critical moment, I’m the one who loses my partner. If you’re so depleted from constant vigilance that you can’t fight effectively, we both die.”
A shift passes through his expression—not softening, but reassessing. He’s processing this the way he processes all information: analytically, strategically, fitting my words into the operational framework he uses to understand the world.
“I know what I’m choosing.” I hold his gaze, not letting him hide behind the walls he’s built. “That’s the part you keep misreading. It’s not that I haven’t considered what you are. It’s that I have, and I’m still here. The question isn’t whether I’ll stay. The question is what you do with the fact that I mean it.”
“What I am?—”
“Is an assassin. A dragon. A creature capable of absolute violence who has—for reasons I don’t fully understand—decided that I’m worth protecting.” I let out a breath that carries more exhaustion than I intended to show. “I’m not asking for your protection, Arax. I’m telling you that if you’re going to claim me like a trophy, you’d better be prepared for the fact that this trophy has teeth. I don’t want a savior; I want the monster that makes every other nightmare in this Reach look small.”
