Heat of a Thousand Suns
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Eridessa
Spending the day with Orán was a test of many things.
His ability to see the world through my eyes. Whether he could look upon my farm dwellers as more than abominations—whether he could recognize that here life is sustaining life, and whether he might come to understand them as I do: as creations of God, worthy of preservation.
I couldn’t save every species.
But many deserved a chance to survive what was coming, at the very least. I was simply giving them that chance.
Some lived here with me. Others occupied the nearby woods. Most stayed close, having grown accustomed to the food and shelter I provided. A few I’d already rehomed, sending them farther out for their safety, placing them where I hoped they’d be harder to find.
I wasn’t Noah.
There was no great ark waiting in the wings.
Just an old, rundown farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, miles between Green River and Fantasy Canyon, in what had once been southeastern Utah.
The canyons offered a natural barrier from the outside world—treacherous to cross—but over the years, I’d learned the safer paths and used them when I made the journey to spy on the Soul Serpent in the city he ruled, deep in the Colorado Rockies.
This homestead had in many ways become a sanctuary and one I would protect with my life.
I couldn’t save everyone, but I was doing my part for those I could.
Orán had initially judged me for my actions. I wondered if he still did.
I tried not to take it personally. Judgment came easily to Horsemen—it was woven into their nature. Yet I thought I’d seen something shift in him after spending time among the animals in the garden.
At least, I hoped I had.
Mucking out the stables is another test, one of trust. When we step inside, I hold out my hand. “Give me your wrists.”
He hesitates a moment before offering them, watching in open surprise as I work at the knot.
“If you’re going to be mucking stalls and helping me in here, you can’t exactly do that with your hands bound, can you?”
“I could try.”
I pause mid-motion.
“Though I imagine I’d get a good deal more done with them free. As Lila would say… consider me your workhorse, man.” His grin is impudent. A flicker of that playful side resurfacing.
“Sass will get you nowhere.”
A full-body shudder ripples through him as I loosen the rope that binds him. He tries to contain it, but a low groan slips past his lips anyway, like the rush of power flooding back in is both overwhelming and exhilarating.
He rubs at his wrists while rolling his neck and shoulders. When his eyes open again, they’re ringed with that distinctive inner light that marks him as other.
“So,” he says lightly, flexing his fingers, “if flattery doesn’t work and sass is off the table, care to inform me what does work with you?”
Now he’s just being cheeky.
I motion toward the wall lined with tools. “Hard work. And you’ll earn a good deal of my respect and trust if you don’t use any of those to stab me in the back.”
“In other words,” he says, following my gesture, “get to work and use them for what they were intended for. Shoveling horse shit.”
“It sounds like a great place to start, considering half of what’s in here belongs to your megabeast.”
His gaze drifts to his horse.
He makes a soft sound under his breath, barely audible, and she immediately ventures closer as if she’s been waiting for his attention all along. At her stall, he rests a hand against her neck, fingers brushing through her mane with familiarity.
The affection between them isn’t hard to miss… and, despite myself, I find it endearing.
“She’s a lovely horse,” I say quietly. “And she’s taken quite a liking to Lila. Truth be told, she prefers her over me.”
“Probably because she senses you’re more of a threat.”
I consider that as I grab a brush from the wall and step toward the next stall.
“Maybe,” I say. “Or maybe she just recognizes Lila is with child and knows to be gentle with her.”
I set to work, dragging the brush through Enoch’s coat in slow, steady strokes.
He leans into the pressure with a low, contented huff, his flank warm beneath my palm.
Around us, the stable breathes. Hooves scrape softly against straw.
Dust lifts in warm motes, drifting through the slanted light that filters between the barn’s wooden slats.
The air smells of hay and leather, earth and animal, as it should.
Neither of us speaks as we work in contented silence.
An hour passes in this manner, and then there’s the rhythmic sound of metal scraping through hay and packed dirt.
Orán works beside me without complaint, pitchfork biting into soiled bedding—lift, turn, toss.
There’s a grace to him even here, even while doing something as mundane as clearing stalls.
His Henley clings to his damp back, stretched across his shoulders and chest, the fabric pulling taut with each movement.
The sleeves are shoved to his forearms, and as he works, corded muscle flexes beneath the strain.
Every so often, our gazes meet across the narrow aisle.
Just brief flashes that spark something unspoken and fill the space with awareness. I ignore it as best as I can, and keep my mind on my own chores.
A while later, he wipes at his face with the back of his wrist, leaving a faint streak of grime along his cheek. A piece of straw catches in his hair and stays there, stubbornly upright.
I almost reach for it. But the memory of the last time I touched his hair has me promptly shutting down that idea. He swept me right off my feet and carried me to my bedroom. Unless I want to end up in that same position, it’s probably best that I keep my hands to myself.
The barn grows warmer as the work continues. The air is not oppressive, but inescapable with his presence.
Sweat beads at my temples. My blouse becomes a second skin. I fan myself for a moment to stave off the heat, but it does little good.
Orán, possibly experiencing the same, hooks his fingers beneath the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head. The motion is casual and innocent.
But my body’s reaction is not. An inner heat builds, and I fight it off with fervor.
Though he damn near makes that impossible. His skin is golden in a way that can’t be entirely natural, although that makes it no less praiseworthy. His chest rises and falls steadily as he resumes work, completely oblivious to the additional warmth he’s stirred up.
My grip tightens on the tool handle in my hand, and I fight the desire both building and warring within me.
My discipline eventually crumbles, as again and again, my gaze is drawn by what feels like a magnetic force to the man beside me.
It isn’t merely the sight of him in profile when he half turns to toss the hay, or the strong set of his jaw.
Or the ways his muscles flex when he drives the pitchfork into the stubborn patches of bedding.
Heaven, even the slow trace of sweat down his spine draws the eye.
No, what catches my attention and holds it is the history recorded in his flesh. The way his dark runes tell a story.
A story I find myself very much wanting to know more of.
Enough. Focus on your work, not the beautiful man.
Immortal.
Whatever.
So I do for as long as I’m able.
We trade places to spread fresh bedding, working in tandem without speaking. I shake out a bale of straw while he scatters it evenly with the pitchfork, the two of us moving around each other in close quarters, shoulders nearly brushing.
When they do, our eyes meet.
Something passes between us—the quiet acknowledgment of a tension neither of us is willing to name. The invisible line I’ve created and the temptation to erase it.
He shakes his head before he turns back to his task, chucking hay forward into the stall.
“If you want me to finish this task, then I’d suggest not looking at me in such a way. Gives a man ideas.”
I let out a slow breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “And what might those be?”
Peering back at me over his shoulder, the corner of his lips kicks up.
“Like how I’d love nothing more than to dirty you up even more than you already are.
” His eyes, when they find me, do a slow sweep down my frame, making his meaning clear.
“Perhaps revisit the lake and take my time appreciating every inch of our skin under the moonlight. Then spending another whole day in your bed where I like to learn everything about you that I didn’t the first night I spent there. ”
“Is that so?” I’m no longer working. His confession has impaired the coordination of my brain and my body.
“It is. Lying you out on one of these bales of hay and getting lost in you until the sun rises has been tempting me for the better part of this task. Get to know your body in all the ways I haven’t had the pleasure yet. In truth, it’s been the only thing on my mind as I work.”
“But there’s still much work to be done.”
He nods, and a full smile graces his lips. “After we’re finished, then?”
“I guess we’ll have to see, won’t we?”
He stops, plants the pitchfork in the ground, and sets his elbow at the top. Surprise overtakes his features. “That’s not a no.”
It’s my turn to laugh. “It’s not.”
His grin returns. “In that case, let’s work faster.”
It may be wrong of me to give him hope when I’m unsure if letting him back into my bed is the smartest thing to do. But my body is fully on board with that plan. It’s my mind that warns me to take caution.
He’s not a regular man. He’s a Horseman, and no matter how attractive he is, I can’t forget that.
We finish with the stalls and move on to feeding. I carry buckets while he measures grain, pouring it into troughs with practiced precision. The horses crowd in eagerly, their impatience a low chorus of snorts and stomps.
Before we leave them, Orán murmurs to his horse as she presses close. They rest their foreheads briefly against one another before he guides her back to her stall.