It’s not the clipped, mechanical response from before. It’s rough, worn raw at the edges. Human, even if he isn’t human at all. He’s staring at me. Not scanning threats. Not tracking angles. Not calculating. Just… watching.
Warmth flickers in my chest. Relief, sharp and almost painful, spreads through me.
Behind us, I hear the faint echo of mechanical movement carrying over the sand. The hunter isn’t done. The reminder should snap me back into pure survival. Instead, I feel something else settle.
He’s here, and he chose me. My throat tightens. I swallow it, focusing forward and matching the pace of the others. My shoulder aches where he leans into me, my legs burn, my body screams for rest, but I don’t care.
I’d carry him if I had to, though he’s so big I don’t know how. I’d drag him if that’s what it takes.
“You’re hurting worse,” I say, even though it’s obvious.
He doesn’t argue. He takes a shaky breath. “Yes.”
“You don’t have to be strong. They will help you. I will.”
His jaw shifts, and he exhales slowly. His wings rustle, and he slaps the sand with his tail. Then he gives a slight nod. Small, but it’s a lot for him, and I know it.
We move, but every step feels like it costs him more.
He’s trying to hide it, but he’s not fooling anyone—least of all me. His weight shifts wrong every third step, his breathing tightens, and when his wings twitch, it’s not because he’s thinking about taking flight. It’s pain. Restraint. Control.
If the others notice, they don’t say anything. They don’t offer to take his weight or even look at him for too long. As far as they’re concerned, he’s the one who kidnapped me. They’re still unsure what to make of him.
I hate that. I hate that they’re watching him like he might turn at any second. I hate that part of me understands why. He hasn’t turned. He chose not to. That has to matter.
His arm tightens briefly across my shoulders, fingers curling slightly where they rest against my upper arm. Not hard. Not possessive. Just… needing balance. I shift into him without thinking.
“You don’t have to carry all of it,” I tell him quietly. “Not right now.”
His throat works. He swallows slowly. “If I stop, I don’t know if I get back up.”
It’s not dramatic. Not said for effect. Just truth—flat and unadorned. It hits harder than if he’d tried to reassure me.
“You don’t stop,” I say. “You lean.”
His breath stutters, then steadies again. A fractional nod, and we keep moving.
Ahead, Drazan stops near a low shelf of rock and signals with a raised fist. The others form a perimeter with the kind of efficiency that says this is drilled into them. They’re not panicked. They’re ready.
Drazan turns, his attention moving over the group, then landing on us. His gaze lingers on Kael a fraction longer than necessary. It’s not hostility. It’s… calculation. Assessment.
I feel Kael tense against me. Not outwardly. Not in a way anyone else would see. But I feel it in the way his weight changes, the way his fingers flex where they’re braced against me. It’s not fear or anger—more recognition. Something definitely unsettled and unresolved.
Drazan doesn’t step toward us yet. He waits. That waiting has its own weight.
“Can you keep moving?” Drazan asks, voice low but carrying.
It isn’t directed at me. Kael straightens slightly, enough that I feel the strain it costs him.
“Yes.”
It’s a lie. I hear it in the thinness of the word, but it’s also defiance. He’s refusing to show weakness, and I don’t know if that’s pride or something deeper. Drazan studies him a moment longer, then gives a single nod.
“We move when the others finish checking the perimeter.”
He turns away, not dismissive, but done for the moment. The others adjust their positions again, weapons never lowering. The silence is heavy. Kael’s breath is rough against my ear.
“He looks at me like I am the threat.”
