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My hands stay at my sides because I don’t trust them not to shake—and because anything I could offer would be too small to matter.

Carter’s last breath doesn’t move.

Doesn’t fade.

It sits there with us, lodged under my ribs, heavy enough to hurt.

And I understand then—slow and sick and terrible—why Malek never let this rot.

He has been living with the math for six years.

Carter died looking for me.

I lived being found.

XXIII

You told me to come at you

“You’re still keeping your right side exposed.”

I swipe sweat off my brow, grit catching under my nails, and glare as Malek circles me like time isn’t a thing that applies to him. “No, I’m not. You’re just moving around me like a damn blur.”

The barn is suffocating. Malek dragged out an old wood-burning stove and fed it until it roared, then shut the door like he wanted to trap every molecule of heat with us. Sweat slicks my spine. Dust sticks to my skin. Maybe it wouldn’t feel so unbearable if he weren’t insisting on hand-to-hand drills—me slipping in the dirt, him correcting every angle of my stance until my muscles shake and my temper snaps.

“You think what waits out there is going to slow down for your sake?” His voice is low, clipped. His bare shoulders gleam with sweat as he prowls a slow circle around me. He doesn’t wipe it away. Just lets the heat claim him. “They won’t. Get up. Come at me. And stop leaving that right side open.”

My eyes track him without blinking. Every shift of muscle. Every controlled step. His harrow knife rides low against his back—the same one he used on the deer. The same one he used on the Iron Gospel man in the woods.

The memory tastes metallic.

I push to my feet and wipe my palms down my thighs, grounding myself before he can see the flicker in me. He circles again, smooth and deliberate, predatory without rushing. I match him, breath steady, refusing to give him my back.

Outside, a crow caws—ragged and sharp. The sound echoes twice, like something answered it a beat too late.

My pulse answers.

His hand snaps out. Fast. Precise.

I pivot before he expects it, instinct flaring hot and immediate. He recovers instantly, dropping low like he means to take me straight to the dirt—but I slip sideways, breath burning, my fingers brushing the heat of his ribs before I’m gone again.

“Better,” he grits.

He feints high and grabs low. I duck under his arm and my knuckles graze the waistband of his pants.

That’s when I feel it. The knife. Warm from his skin. Heavy. Present.

I don’t think.

I take.

My fingers hook the hilt and pull in one clean motion, leather whispering against steel. Malek stops mid-stride like the air just changed around us.

“Selah.”

My name drops out of him rough, threaded with something dark.

My pulse climbs into my throat. Sweat slicks my hands, but my grip stays steady as I lift the blade. He steps toward me.