The thought is terrifying, thrilling, and far too inevitable.
I shake my head, trying to clear the haze of desire. Lust is a distraction I can’t afford. But even as I push those thoughts aside, I know the truth. This new awareness isn’t going anywhere. And underneath it, the question I've been circling finally surfaces, sharp and specific—if I have his child, is the child mine, or is the child his? Not legally. Not by Xythean custom. In his mind. In the only place that will matter when the baby is actually here. I need to know the answer before I let him near me again.
I slide into the tub. It’s hotter than I expect, but the burn fades fast, replaced by a deep loosening of muscle and thought. My legs float to the surface. It’s pure luxury after war-torn New Terra. I close my eyes and try to remember how to breathe.
I finish cleaning myself with the oils and soft brushes provided. My skin tingles, every inch hypersensitive. I wrap myself in a towel and move to the bundle of unfamiliar clothes. The underclothes are a soft mesh, cool against my skin. The outer robe is dark green, belted at the waist, loose enough to hide some of my shape but thin enough that I feel the draft through it.
I stare at myself in the mirrored surface of the water, hair wet and clinging to my neck, the mark on my finger still visible, still dark.
When I step back into the bedroom, Rythar is waiting. He’s changed, too. His hair is wet, tied back, and the scars on his face glisten. He’s put on a fresh tunic, deep blue. He looks at me, andfor a split second, relief passes over his face. Then it’s gone. As if he’d braced for me to be angry with him.
He slowly extends his hand to me.
“Come,” he says.
I hesitate, wondering if he will grab me or bark orders. He just waits, hand extended.
I reach for it, wondering what my future would look like with Rythar. The question sits under my tongue, waiting.
CHAPTER 19
OUR JUNGLE
ELENA – RYTHAR’S FORTRESS IN THE GREEN REACH
Rythar’s handcloses around mine. His grip is warm, even gentle, as he pulls me out of the room and up a flight of stairs. The stone is cool under my bare feet, smoother than the ragged concrete of my childhood. There is no need for words.
We climb several flights of stairs, then exit onto a rooftop where the world opens to an immense, flat expanse ringed with waist-high walls. We’re not at the top of the fortress, but we’re high up. From here, the jungle is an ocean of green. The treetops move like water, flowing in the wind. The air moves more up here, bringing scents in from around the jungle. Cinnamon floats in, and something like ripe peaches. Beneath that is the undercurrent of what I associate with growing things. The sky is vast, purple and blue with a bright sun. Up here, the Xythean sun doesn’t seem all that different from my old New Terran sun. From my glimpses of it while I was in the jungle, I thought it would be greener or bluer. But no, it’s white, and it’s warm on my skin.
Rythar releases my hand. He gestures toward a low table set near the edge, where two soft, woven mats face each other. The table is laid out for a meal. There’s more bread sliced into thick slabs, platters of sliced fruit, hunks of some charred proteinI don’t recognize, and smaller sauces and shredded things. Vegetables, maybe. There are no attendants, no servers. Just us.
I hesitate, wondering what this is. But there’s nothing performative about this. Everything on the table is a meal for the two of us.
He settles cross-legged on the larger mat. I sit across from him and find that the mat is surprisingly comfortable. It’s a dense, springy material that eliminates pressure points. Definitely synthetic, despite the rustic look. I keep my hands in my lap until he motions.
Eat.
I reach for the bread, tear off a piece, and chew it slowly. The taste is good. It’s dense and savory. There are so many herbs and seasonings here. So many flavors that I’ve never had, or haven’t had in a long while.
Rythar watches what I choose, and how much I finish before I slow down. Every time I reach for water, he fills my cup before I ask.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say.
“I will ensure you stay healthy.” He sets the pitcher down and leans across the table. His hand comes to the side of my neck. One of his fingers lies over the place my pulse runs, and he holds it there, checking.
"You have been by my side instead of staying hydrated." His voice drops. "Drink."
I drink. He doesn’t take his hand away until the cup is empty.
Then he sits back, pours again, and waits.
When my hand hovers near a plate, he pushes it closer.
“What is it?” I ask, eyeing a strip of the charred protein.
“Rontaraon,” he says.
“I don’t know that word.”
