My mouth goes dry. The sample’s pulse brightens once. Kavor’s jaw tightens as if the words escaped before he decided they were allowed.
There. Too much. Too close. I should step back. I don’t.
“Everything?” I ask.
A mistake. His gaze falls to my mouth, only for a fraction of a second, but enough to set fire under every bruise.
“Pain,” he says, too rough. “Blood. Hunger. Stone. Fear. The old thing waking beneath us. The City that taught you to call wounds useful. Myself.”
The last word lands like a blade dropped hilt-first into my hand and I stare at him.
“Myself?” I ask.
His wings tighten and he looks away first. That should feel like victory, but it doesn’t.
“Forget it,” he says.
“No.”
His gaze returns to mine. I understand now why that word is so irritating when he uses it.
“No?” he asks.
“No. You do not get to say something like that and bury it under rocks.”
“This is not the place.”
“This is exactly the place. Everything here is buried and trying to kill us,” I say.
His mouth almost moves, but it doesn’t. The sample glows a little brighter. My arm aches. The wrong rhythm waits somewhere ahead. And still, this is the most dangerous thing in the chamber.
Kavor takes one step back. Not away. Out of restraint. A physical line drawn because if he doesn’t draw it, something else might.
“You are hurt,” he says.
“I noticed.”
“My instincts are not quiet.”
“Mine either.”
The words leave my mouth before I can catch them. His eyes sharpen. So do mine.
Oh. Stupid. Stupid mouth. Traitorous, underfed, overheated, blood-losing mouth.
“What instincts?” he asks.
“Survival.”
“Sera.”
“I want to survive. That’s an instinct.”
“Yes.”
“Good. We agree.”
“No.”
