No.
I throw myself back so hard my shoulder hits the wall. Sera’s eyes open. Even in pain, she sees.
“Kavor?”
The sound of my name in her mouth almost destroys me.
“I need one breath,” I say.
My voice is wrong. Too low. Too rough. Too much growl and not enough male. Her gaze sharpens. Not afraid. Concerned instead. That is worse. The red tells me concern is an invitation. It is lying.
The Bijass is always a storyteller. It takes need and calls it right. It takes fear and calls it love. It takes love and tries to turn it into teeth. I press my burned palm against the wall, over another seam.
Cold light bites into my skin. Again. Pain clears a narrow path. I hold the path.
“You are hurt,” I say.
“Very observant.”
“I need to carry you.”
“That seems likely.”
“You must tell me if something is wrong in your spine or ribs.”
“I am not a healer.”
“Sera.”
“I can feel my legs.” She shifts one boot a fraction and hisses. “Unfortunately.”
“Ribs?”
“Angry.”
“Head?”
“Also angry.”
“Arm?”
“Insulted.”
Despite everything, something in my chest answers the shape of her words. Her mouth still has knives. Good. If she can cut, she is here. I move back to her carefully. Each breath is a war. Not against wanting. Wanting is easy. Against taking.
I slide one arm beneath her shoulders. The other beneath her knees. She clenches her jaw but does not cry out until I lift her. Then she breaks around a small sound. The red almost wins.
Almost. I freeze with her against my chest.
“Tell me,” I say.
“Ribs,” she gasps. “Left. Not broken, I think. Maybe bruised. Maybe I hate ribs now.”
“Arm?”
“Still attached. Still rude.”
“Head?”
