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Ryven: where are you, ash?

ME: Northwest.

Ryven: again?? how’s the northwest?

SEREN: South ridge was quiet. Two took each other out near the gorge. Candidate-on-candidate.

Ryven: yikes, already? second night, and it’s already the worst in people.

SEREN: Wait until the weather reaches them.

Ryven: two days, right?

SEREN: Two.

Ryven: nobody warns them?

SEREN: Weather is part of the Hunt.

Ryven: cruel

Ryven: also caught the checkpoint two feed some brick taxed your blondie two tablets

ME: Find out who.

Ryven: why? want to file paperwork?

ME: No.

Ryven: ...should I be worried for him?

ME: Depends. How attached is he to breathing?

Ryven: there he is. I’ll ask around.

I lock the slate.

Ryven and his fucking emojis.

There’s nothing left to watch from the pine.

Before I’ve decided anything, I’m moving. Pine needles soften my steps as I cross the last thirty yards, and by the time I stop, I’m standing over my prey.

Somewhere in his sleep, his fingers have found the knife again, curled loosely around the handle against his lap. His jacket is zipped to his chin, blond hair dried across his forehead, and for the first time since I met him, his face has stopped fighting. His jaw is loose. His mouth has gone soft in a way the day never allows.

Hard to believe that mouth belongs to the same pretty thing who killed a man this afternoon.

Whatever he’s dreaming about, he’d better be thinking about my proposal.

I strip the glove from my right hand.

I shouldn’t.

But my hand is already moving anyway, one finger following the line of his cheekbone. His skin is cool from the night and impossibly soft beneath my fingertip.

He doesn’t wake. Instead, he turns toward my hand in his sleep, lashes fluttering as his lips move around one half-swallowed word.

“Onyx.”