Chapter 7
Zeke should have been exhausted. Should have collapsed hours ago from blood loss, hypothermia, and the sheer physical drain of tracking Michelle through a blizzard. Instead, he felt wired. Alert. The Legion presence in his veins hummed with satisfaction, feeding him energy he shouldn’t have had.
Draanthing thing was getting stronger.
He looked over at the bed. Michelle's fever had broken before dawn, leaving her skin cool to the touch and her breathing deep and steady. He was pleased to see that the infection was retreating... the angry red streaks on her leg fading to pale pink. He’d still monitored every breath and every flutter of her eyelids, waiting for signs the fever might return.
But she’d slept since the herbs took hold, her body finally healing instead of fighting.
And he’d watched over her like some kind of predator guarding its prey.
No, not prey… mate.
The Legion purred approval at the thought, sending heat through his system that had nothing to do with the dying fire.
She stirred, her hand sliding across the furs as she stretched.
A soft sound escaped her lips, half sigh, half yawn, and her eyes fluttered open.
Those brown eyes were clear now, no trace of fever’s glassy confusion.
Her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks as she blinked away sleep, and his heart lurched sideways.
She looked warm and rumpled, dark hair spilling across the furs. When she offered him a sleepy smile, every rational thought in his head evaporated.
Too beautiful. Too delicate for a monster like him.
Mine.
She pushed herself up on her elbow, muscles moving under soft skin. Then she froze as the furs slipped down her body, revealing the swell of her breasts. Heat burned red banners onto her cheeks, and she grabbed the covers, pulling them up to her chin.
“I, um...” Her voice was rough with sleep, the husky tone making something primal stir within him. “My clothes?”
“Still drying.” He pulled off his shirt and held it out to her, careful to keep his eyes on her face even as his peripheral vision caught glimpses of pale shoulders and the elegant curve of her neck. The fabric was warm from his body heat, carrying his scent. “This should work.”
She took it, her fingers brushing his as she clutched it against her chest. The brief contact sent a jolt up his arm. “Could you—?”
Nodding, he turned his back before she could finish to give her privacy. The rustle of fabric as she dressed tested his self-control. His claws threatened to emerge, so he curled his hands into fists until his knuckles went white.
“Okay. I’m decent.”
When he turned around, his shirt swamped her slight frame. The sleeves hung past her fingertips, and the hem reached mid-thigh, revealing long legs that made his mouth go dry. The fabric clung to her curves, outlining the shape of her breasts, the dip of her waist.
Draanth. The sight of her in his clothes ignited possessive fire in his veins.
She moved to the edge of the pallet, her injured leg stiff but functional. Pausing, she stared down at her calf with wide eyes.
“What is this?” Her fingers traced the black shell that encased her lower leg, smooth as glass under her touch. “It wasn’t here before.”
Warmth crawled up his neck. “Healing cast. Izaean technique.”
Her eyebrows shot up as she examined the rigid covering more closely. “It’s incredible. How did you—?”
“Izaean secret,” he said, turning away before she could ask more questions. The truth, that it was made from his blood, his essence, would sound insane. Or worse, terrifying.
She tested her weight on the leg, then looked up at him. “It doesn’t hurt at all.”
“It shouldn’t. The break is immobilized.” He busied himself with the fire, adding fuel to the dying flames. “Keep it dry and it’ll heal.”
She settled on the makeshift bed’s edge, her scent reaching him as she moved…
warm skin and something uniquely hers that made his pulse spike.
Her bare legs dangled over the side, pale skin marked with fading bruises that made rage surge through his blood.
He’d slept with her naked form pressed against him all night, skin to skin, but somehow seeing those slender legs in daylight felt more intimate. More dangerous.
“How do you feel?” he asked, crouching beside the small flames. Heat radiated against his face and chest, but it was nothing compared to the fire her presence kindled in his blood.
“Better. Much better.” She rotated her ankle warily, and he watched the delicate movement with fascination. “Whatever you did worked.”
Pulling breadfruit and tubers from their supplies, he sliced them with more force than necessary. The knife blade caught the firelight as he worked, movements sharp and controlled. “Ketara root tea. Velix leaves for the wound. And the cast.”
The food sizzled as he dropped it into the heated pan, filling the cabin with rich, nutty smells. His stomach growled in response, he hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning. Behind him, she shifted on the pallet, the soft sound of her breathing mixing with the crackle of flames.
He felt her watching him, her gaze tracing the line of his shoulders, the movement of muscle under skin.
“I set some traps while you were sleeping,” he said, focusing on the food instead of the way his shirt gaped at her neckline when she leaned forward. “I’ll check them later. We might have meat for dinner.”
“You’ve been busy.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The movement bared the elegant arch of her neck, making his mouth water. “Thank you. For everything.”
Color rose in his cheeks. “Don’t thank me. I should have caught the infection sooner. Should have—”
“Stop that right now.” Her voice was firm and when he glanced back, the look in her eyes was fierce. The expression transformed her face, adding steel beneath the softness. “You saved my life. Multiple times.”
He flipped the breadfruit slices, using the task to avoid her eyes. The golden pieces were crispy on one side, tender on the other. Perfect.
Unlike him.
“Tell me about your life,” she asked softly. “Before all this. What was it like growing up on Parac’Norr?”
His hand stilled on the spatula. What was there to tell? That he’d been shipped off like damaged cargo when he was eight years old? That his childhood had ended the day his blood rage first manifested?
“Nothing much to say. I came here when I was young. Trained. Became a warrior.” He shrugged, making it sound casual. “Standard progression.”
“How young?” Her voice had gone quiet, careful.
The question hung in the air. He could lie, deflect... change the subject. But something in her tone made him answer honestly.
“Eight.”
Silence stretched between them. When he looked up, her face was pale with shock and growing outrage. Her hands were clenched into fists in her lap, knuckles white against the dark fabric of his shirt.
“Eight years old?” Her voice cracked on the words, raw with emotion. “They sent you away when you were eight?”
“My blood rage manifested early.” He served the cooked food onto two plates, his movements mechanical. The smell of hot breadfruit filled the space between them. “I was sent here for everyone’s safety.”
“Whose safety?” Fire sparked in her brown eyes, turning them molten. Her nostrils flared with anger, and color stained her cheeks. “You were a child. A baby.”
The fierce protectiveness in her voice did something strange to his chest. Like warmth and pain twisted together until he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. Her scent sharpened with her fury… something wild and protective that called to every possessive instinct he had.
“The system works.” He shrugged. “Keeps everyone safe.”
“Bullshit.” Her chin lifted in defiance, and he memorized the stubborn line of her jaw. “It’s barbaric. Tearing children away from their families—”
“I don’t remember much from before.” The lie came easily.
“Do you want children of your own?” she asked after a moment.
He paused, food halfway to his mouth. Want children? The concept was so foreign that he struggled to process it. “I’ve never considered it. The Izaean have no females, so it’s never been an option.”
“There are plenty of younger human women with the construction crews,” she pointed out. Her voice was neutral, but tension radiated through the set of her shoulders. “And the supply teams that fly in materials. If you wanted...”
He shrugged, discomfort crawling under his skin. “Not interested.”
“Why not?” The question was soft, but her eyes never left his face.
The air left his lungs. Because what if he passed along his curse? What if his children inherited the blood rage that marked them as monsters? Any child he had would be born here, trapped on Parac’Norr like he was.
Imprisoned for life.
“I wouldn’t want to pass along my curse.”
Surprise flickered in her eyes, and he caught the quick intake of her breath. “Why do you think you’re cursed?”
Because he was. Because violence lived in his soul, and he could tear apart ferals with his bare hands and feel satisfaction instead of horror. Because the blood rage made him into something monstrous.
“You saw what I did out there.” He nodded to the door. “What I’m capable of.”
She leaned forward, setting her plate aside. Her small hand settled on his forearm, fingers tracing the edge of a scar. The touch sent electricity through his veins, her skin warm and soft against his.
“You were protecting me.” Her grip tightened on his arm, anchoring him to the moment.
“You have no idea what they were going to do.” Her face went tight, fury and remembered terror warring in her expression.
Lines appeared around her eyes, and her breathing quickened.
“The worst kind of violence. Things that would have broken me.”
Her fingers pressed into his skin like she was afraid he might disappear. “I’m glad you were there, Zeke. Those bastards deserved everything they got.”