Page 34 of Ashborne: Defiance

I inhaled sharply and whipped my head around. Vane was on his feet, though swaying, still tied in his bonds in the shadows of those twin trees. The muscles at the back of his jaw flexed as he stared at me.

A strange mix of fear and thrill jangled through me—but for the first time, my watery muscles and bleary eyes didn’t fade into the background of an onslaught of sudden, impenetrable want.

I looked down at myself. At my chest, which ached woefully. It felt hollow and empty. But my heartbeat was finally a normal rhythm.

The need I’d been bathed in for days had eased to a trickle—and apparently, not just for me. Vane no longer looked like a caged animal.

His eyes remained dark. He was dirty and sweaty and his upper lip looked like it would curl back into a sneer at the slightest provocation.

But he stood firm, his weight evenly distributed on both feet, his shoulders broad and upright, instead of hunched.

I blinked and looked back and forth between my aching—but calm—heart, and his. I swallowed.

Was it over?

“I’m sorry if I frightened you. It was necessary,” he said in a low mutter, only barely loud enough for me to hear, despite the short distance.

I didn’t know what to say, so I pushed to my feet and brushed off my trousers, now caked in dirt and sap and the remnants of hunting small, unsavory creatures to keep us both alive.

Something was wrong. But not what had been wrong for all this time. Not that searing, impenetrable need. This was… hollow. Dissonant.

“Don’t fear me. I’m under control again,” he said quietly. His lips tightened, then he lifted his hands the few inches that he could. “If you could free my knots, I… I would be very grateful.”

I blinked at the sudden humility in his voice.

Was it a trick?

But I’d seen the way the leather abraded his wrists. I’d listened to the unholy sounds he made when he thought I was far enough away that I wouldn’t hear him. I’d watched him writhe in torment.

He’d fought a battle even more intensely than I had—which left me breathless. So, I hurried to his side, focusing on his hands and arms, not looking at his face, because I didn’t know what to say.

He looked so rugged.

Dirty. Sweaty. Exhausted.

Strong. Capable. Handsome.

That flutter began in my chest again, just as I reached him, and he hissed. But he didn’t pull his hand away when I gently took it and began working the knot.

He closed his eyes as I tentatively turned his wrist up and held it flat so I could slide my fingers between the slipknot—now stained with his blood—and the raw skin beneath it, and loosen the grip it held on him.

I winced as I did so, knowing the pressure, along with the salt on my skin, must hurt on the raw wounds. But Vane didn’t flinch. Just waited until I wriggled and loosened the knot, until the grip gave on the leather and it opened enough for his hand to draw out.

He groaned as he bent his elbow to lift the hand. But at least he was free on that side.

I stepped to his other side, working that strap in the same way until he could draw that hand free as well. To my surprise, he didn’t move immediately. Barely breathed. Like he was brittle. Ready to shatter. And any sharp movement might break him.

He watched darkly as I tossed both straps aside, then dropped his gaze, turning both hands over and back, shaking his head slowly, before shrugging off the leather jacket. We both winced as he pulled back the sleeves and drew them off his wrists.

The shirt underneath was revealed—dark, odorous stains under his arms, damp patches across his chest and back, the collar limp.

But the dirty linen fell from broad shoulders—bonier than they’d been a week before—and when he finally lifted his eyes to meet mine, they were sharp.

Dark.

“Thank you,” he said through his teeth.

“We need to wash.”