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Her thigh grazes my crotch. By accident, but my body couldn’t care less about intent. Heat pools low in my gut.

Fuck. Not like this. Not again.

I force myself to speak. “You’re welcome.”

Esme stiffens, then scrambles off me like I’m on fire. To be fair, I kind of am. Her boot catches my ribs, and her elbow jabs my shoulder. Graceless and pissed off, she gets to her feet and hauls me upright with her. “I don’t need you to save me.”

“And yet,” I swipe dirt off my shoulder with my restrained hands, “here we are.”

Then everything changes.

Her breath evens out, and the tension between us shifts to a new pitch as she touches my jaw. I flinch back, but she follows me, yanking off the blindfold in one sharp motion.

Light sears my eyes. I squeeze them shut as moisture streams down my cheeks. Gradually, I open them again, squinting through the tears and allowing my vision to adjust in increments.

Slowly, the world resolves.

At the sight of the vivid blue sky, homesickness spikes in my heart. Mountains rise in every direction, peaks crowned in snow that glows white and gold in the morning sun. Closer, a vast green meadow spreads out below us. Wildflowers scatter color through the grass. Birds wheel overhead, calling to each other.

Then I glance over at Esme.

She stands three feet away from me, her hand raised and holding the blindfold. Her hair has mostly escaped its braid, the dark strands flying in the wind. Dirt streaks her cheeks and shirt, and she has purple shadows under her eyes.

She seems exhausted, wary, and ready to flee or fight.

“You look like hell.” I can’t stop myself from raising my bound hands to brush her hair off her face.

Her expression softens for an instant. “Funny, you look like a prisoner.”

I almost smile. “Fair enough.” Saving her life clearly isn’t enough to dull her sharp tongue. For some ridiculous reason, that only heightens her appeal.

Our banter dies, and Esme spins and begins climbing again without checking to see if I’ll follow. I can tell her fear hasn’t disappeared.

Good.

Except that thought doesn’t land how it should. Instead, the idea of frightening her feels like a loss, and that startles me more than I care to admit.

She should be afraid. And I should stop thinking with my dick. Then we’ll both be safe. At least until I have to kill her mentor.

Luckily, her Warden abilities don’t come with telepathy.

I shadow her up the trail. Seeing again makes things both easier and more difficult.

Easier because I no longer walk blind and rely on my magic. More difficult because Esme fills my visual field with the seductive twitch of her ass while I maintain a careful distance between us, like I might snap at any moment and act on yesterday’s threats.

The silence stretches until I can’t stand it. “About that witch. I don’t think you’re as sheltered as I first thought.”

Esme doesn’t glance back. For a moment, I think she’s going to ignore me entirely.

“I never felt sheltered. That was my sister, Calla. She’s the one who charmed everybody. Wore fancy dresses. Went to galas. I…” She trails off as she adjusts her grip on the boulder she uses to pull herself up a particularly steep section of the trail. “I didn’t go to galas.”

I’m not shocked she comes from enough wealth that she was raised with silk and servants and every comfort money can buy.

But no galas?

Even I’ve attended galas. Usually as a guard, but sometimes as a guest, always watching the rich gorge on expensive cuisine and dance in lavish attire while pretending the people they deem beneath them don’t exist. I despised all the cursed peacocking and posturing at those things.

Maybe Esme’s father only had enough wealth to send one daughter to galas and chose the sister he deemed most likely to attract a suitor. “So what did you do if you weren’t at galas being charming or decorative?”