“You’re failing quietly.”
“Yes.”
I reach for him. This time he doesn’t wait for more than the lift of my hand. He comes to me, and the kiss changes again. Slower. Closer.
I am careful because of my ribs, until I’m not. Until his mouth moves along my jaw and the bond sends a ribbon of warmth through every place I hurt. Not healing. Not exactly. It answers pain with something larger.
I make a sound I cannot turn into sarcasm. Kavor goes still.
“Pain?”
“No.”
“Sera.”
“Not pain.”
His eyes flare. Good. Let him understand.
I take his hand and guide it to the hem of my torn shirt.
“Help me,” I say.
He does.
Carefully. Maddeningly carefully. The fabric lifts over my good arm first, then my wounded one, his fingers gentle around the bandage, his breath gone rough when he sees the bruises across my ribs. His face hardens.
I touch his jaw. “Don’t.”
“They hurt you.”
“The floor hurt me. The system hurt me. You did not.”
His gaze rises to mine.
“And if you look at me like I’m broken, I will bite you.”
The red sparks in his eyes. Not danger. Interest. Well. That worked differently than expected.
“Later,” he promises, and my breath catches.
The almost-smile appears. Menace. Beloved menace. I pull him down to me.
The next kiss has teeth. Not enough to hurt. Enough to tell my body this is not medical. Not crisis. Not survival.
Want.
Mine.
His.
Ours.
He lays me back against the padded platform with such care I nearly protest, then forget how when his mouth follows the line of my throat. His hand moves over me slowly, learning without taking, pausing at every hitch in my breath, until I curse at him.
“Kavor.”
“Yes.”
