9. Rakk
RAKK
"—and then Kaelen, brilliant strategist that he is, decides the best way to get the capra out of the armory is to chase it with a sword—"
Serah's laugh cuts me off, her head tipping back with genuine amusement, and my heart does something stupid and painful in my chest. The sound is rough, unused, like she's rediscovering how after years of forgetting.
Her throat moves with it, firelight from the distant settlement catching on the delicate line of her jaw, the curve of her smile.
Gods, she's beautiful when she laughs. Beautiful in ways that make my magic surge toward her, desperate to understand the feeling behind that expression, to taste the joy I helped create.
I force the pull back, locking it down with practiced control that's becoming harder to maintain every night we do this.
"A sword," she repeats, wiping at her eyes. "For a capra."
"A very aggressive capra," I defend. "It had already headbutted three warriors and was attempting to eat someone's boot."
"And Kaelen thought a weapon was the appropriate response to livestock."
"Kaelen thought intimidation would work. It didn't. The capra won." I grin at the memory. "Completely destroyed his dignity. He had to explain to Dad why there were sword marks all over the armory floor and a terrified capra loose in the mess hall."
She's still smiling, this soft, unguarded expression that makes her look younger. Makes her look like someone who hasn't survived six years of hell. I want to memorize this moment, burn it into my brain so I never forget what she looks like happy.
Want to keep making her laugh like this for the rest of my life.
The thought should terrify me. Instead it just settles somewhere deep, certain and immovable.
"You two are disasters," she says.
"We're entertaining disasters." I lean back against the boulder, letting my shoulder brush hers.
She doesn't pull away. Hasn't been pulling away as much lately, letting contact happen naturally instead of treating every touch like a threat.
"Besides, someone has to provide comic relief around here. Dad takes everything too seriously."
"He's the Chieftain. Serious is probably required."
"Serious is exhausting." I watch her profile, the way shadows play across her features. "Life's too short to be grim all the time."
She turns to look at me, amber-hazel eyes catching moonlight. There's something in her expression I can't quite read. Something that makes my magic strain against its restraints, wanting to understand what she's feeling, what she's thinking when she looks at me like that.
"What?" she asks.
"Nothing. Just—" I pause, searching for words that won't send her running. "You should laugh more. It's nice."
Her smile softens. Becomes something almost shy. "Haven't had much reason to laugh before."
Before. Before here. Before us sitting by this river every night, building something I'm terrified to name.
I want to ask what that means. Want to know everything about her past, every wound that needs healing, every moment of joy that was stolen. Want to gather all of it into my hands and somehow make it better, make her whole again.
But pushing for information she's not ready to give will only drive her away. So I just nod and start another story, this one about Zurkar accidentally summoning a minor earth spirit during a ritual and having to apologize profusely while it rearranged his entire herb garden.
She's laughing again, that rough wonderful sound, when the first raindrop hits my face.
I blink, suddenly aware of how dark it's gotten. When did the stars disappear? When did those massive clouds roll in, blocking out the sky?
Another drop. Then another. Then the sky opens up and rain pours down in sheets, cold and immediate and absolutely drenching.
Serah gasps, scrambling to her feet. Her hair is already plastered to her face, tunic clinging to her frame.
I stand, grabbing her hand without thinking. "There's a cave. Come on."
She doesn't pull away. Doesn't hesitate or question or demand explanations. Just lets me pull her after me through the darkness, trusting me to know where I'm going, trusting me not to hurt her.
The significance of that hits me somewhere vital. She's following me into the woods. Into a dark cave. Alone. This woman who cataloged exits and weapons her first week here, who flinched at every unexpected touch, who survived gods know what before finding us.
She trusts me.
The responsibility of that trust sits heavy and precious in my chest as I lead her up the path I've walked a hundred times. The cave entrance appears, a dark mouth in the cliff face barely visible through the downpour. I duck inside, pulling her after me into the sudden stillness.
Rain echoes outside, loud enough to drown out thought. We're both soaked through, water dripping onto the stone floor, breathing hard from the run.
"Gods," Serah mutters, wringing out her hair. "That came out of nowhere."
"Should've been paying more attention to the weather." I move deeper into the cave, grabbing dry wood from the stash I keep here. This isn't the first time I've used this place for shelter. "Fire'll warm us up."
She wraps her arms around herself, shivering slightly. The firelight from my tinderbox catches on water droplets clinging to her eyelashes, her throat, the hollow of her collarbone visible where her tunic has shifted.
I force my eyes away, focusing on getting the fire started. Forcing my magic back, away, locked down tight even as it strains toward her with desperate intensity.
The flames catch, flickering to life and throwing warm light across the cave walls. I add more wood carefully, building it up until heat starts pushing back the damp chill.
"Better?" I ask.
She moves closer to the fire, holding out her hands. "Yeah. Thanks."
Her clothes cling to her body, outlining every curve I've been trying not to notice for weeks.
The firelight paints her in gold and shadow, highlighting the delicate structure of her face, the unconscious grace in how she moves.
Her hair is darkened by water, hanging in thick waves down her back, and drops slide down her throat in paths I want to trace with my fingers.
I'm staring. Definitely staring. Should stop staring.
Can't stop staring.
She notices, glancing up with a questioning look. "What?"
I shake my head, words catching in my throat. Should deflect. Should make a joke about her looking like a drowned surri or something equally stupid that'll make her laugh and break this tension.
Instead what comes out is: "You're gorgeous."
The word falls between us, reverent and raw. Not my usual humor, not the careful banter we've built our conversations on. Just truth, whispered like prayer.
Her eyes widen. Something flickers across her face—shock, maybe, or disbelief. Like she's never heard that before. Like the concept itself is foreign.
"I mean—" I try to recover, to pull back from the vulnerability. Gods know she doesn't need another male gawking at her like so many have done before. "You're—the firelight—I'm not—"
"Rakk." She cuts me off quietly.
I close my mouth, heart hammering against my ribs.
My magic is pulling so hard toward her I can barely contain it, can barely remember why I need to keep it locked away.
Every instinct screams to reach out, to understand what she's feeling, to drown in the connection I know is possible if I just let go.
But I can't. Won't. Not without permission, not without certainty that she wants it too.
The silence stretches. Rain drums against stone. Fire crackles and pops.
"No one's ever said that to me before," she says finally. Her voice is barely audible over the storm. "Not like that."
The statement breaks something in my chest. "What?"
"They've called me pleasing. Fuckable. Good breeding stock." Each word is flat, emotionless. Clinical assessment of her own worth as measured by people who saw her as property. "But no one's ever looked at me like..." She trails off, arms wrapping tighter around herself.
I want to destroy everyone who ever made her believe those were the only ways she could be seen. Want to rip apart the entire gods-damned world that taught her she was nothing more than a body to be used.
"That's wrong," I manage. "Those people were wrong."
"Were they?" She meets my eyes, vulnerability naked in her expression. "I don't know how to be anything else. Don't know what it means to be seen as more than that."
My hands clench at my sides, fighting the urge to reach for her.
"You're more. You're—" Words fail. How do I articulate the thousand things I see when I look at her?
The strength, the intelligence, the wary courage that keeps her surviving despite everything?
The way she makes me laugh, the way she challenges me, the way she's started to trust despite having every reason not to?
"You're everything," I finish helplessly.
She's quiet for a long moment, studying me with those sharp eyes that always see too much. Then: "You make me laugh."
The non sequitur throws me. "What?"
"You make me laugh." She takes a step closer, firelight dancing across her features.
"No one's ever done that before. Never sat with me just because they wanted my company.
Never looked at me like I was..." She swallows hard.
"Like I was beautiful instead of fuckable.
Like I mattered beyond what my body could provide. "
My magic surges, desperate, straining against restraints that are fraying rapidly. I want her to know that she is so much more than that.
"Serah—"
"I don't know what this is," she continues, voice shaking slightly.
"Don't know how to want someone without being terrified.
Don't know how to trust that kindness isn't manipulation.
But you—" Another step closer. "You've never pushed.
Never demanded. Just kept showing up and making me laugh and treating me like I'm worth something. "