Kallum
Iwoke to the smell of coffee and the unfamiliar ache of stitches pulling against my skin.
Morning light filtered through the kitchen windows. I was still on the table where she’d left me, a blanket draped over my legs that I didn’t remember her putting there. My side throbbed with every breath, a dull reminder of how close I’d come to something permanent.
She was at the stove, her back to me. Her hair was loose, falling past her shoulders, and I watched her move for a moment before she realized I was awake. The economy of movement Torek had taught her, present even in small tasks.
“Coffee’s ready,” she said without turning.
“How long was I out?”
“All night. You needed it.”
I sat up slowly. The stitches held. She’d done good work.
“Any movement?”
“Nothing on sensors. The survivors are still regrouping somewhere in the hills.” She turned then, holding two cups. Her face was composed, unreadable, but her eyes found the bandages on my side before meeting mine. “How do you feel?”
“Functional.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I took the cup she offered. Our fingers brushed in the transfer. Neither of us pulled away.
“Better,” I admitted, “than I expected.”
She sat in the chair across from me. I could read the shadows under her eyes, the slight tension in her shoulders. She hadn’t slept. Had spent the night watching the perimeter while I was unconscious, vulnerable, trusting her to keep us both alive.
That trust should have felt dangerous. It felt like relief instead.
“About last night,” she started.
“Yes.”
She paused. “Yes what? I haven’t asked anything yet.”
“Whatever the question is. The answer is yes.”
Her eyes changed. Surprise, maybe. Or something warmer.
“You don’t know what I was going to say.”
“I know what I want you to say.”
She set down her cup. Stood. Crossed the space between us. Three steps. Deliberate. Like she’d made a decision and refused to second-guess it.
“What do you want me to say?” she asked.
I reached for her. My hand found her hip, pulled her closer until she was standing between my knees. The position put her face level with mine, her eyes green and searching.
“That you meant it,” I said. “Last night. The kiss. That it wasn’t just adrenaline or gratitude or proximity.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Then what was it?”
She leaned in. Her hands came up to my shoulders, careful to avoid the bandages, and her forehead touched mine.
“I’ve been alone a long time,” she said. “I got used to it. Told myself I preferred it. Safer that way.” Her breath was warm on my lips. “Then you showed up, and you made me remember what it felt like to want something.”
“What do you want?”
“You.” Simple. Direct. “I want you, Kallum. Not because you’re here or because we might die tomorrow. Because when you look at me, I feel like you really see me. Not what I can do for you, not what I survived, just... me.”
I kissed her.
She made a soft sound against my mouth. Her body pressed into mine, her weight settling against my chest, and I drew her in until she was straddling my lap on the kitchen table. The position put pressure on my wound. I didn’t care.
Her mouth opened under mine. She tasted like coffee and something sweeter underneath, and I wanted to map every corner of her, learn her the way I’d learned the farm’s defenses, thoroughly and completely.
My hands found the hem of her shirt. I paused there, a question.
“Yes,” she breathed against my mouth.
I pulled the fabric up, over her head. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath. Small breasts, darker nipples, a scar across her ribs that I’d ask about later.
She reached for my shirt, then stopped.
“The stitches,” she said.
“I don’t care about the stitches.”
“I do.” But she was smiling now, a real smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. “You’re going to pop them if we keep this up.”
“Worth it.”
“Kallum.”
I kissed her again instead of answering. Slower this time. Deeper. Her hips rocked against mine and I felt myself harden, felt her notice, felt her smile against my mouth.
The proximity alarm screamed.
We jerked apart. She was off my lap and reaching for her rifle before the sound finished registering, and I was right behind her, ignoring the flare of pain from my side.
“Perimeter two,” she said, checking the console. “East approach.”
I grabbed my weapon. Moved toward the door.
“Wait.” She was staring at the screen, frowning. “The signature’s wrong. Too small for a person. Too slow.”
We waited. I covered the door while she watched the monitors. The adrenaline had nowhere to go, pounding through me with no outlet.
“Wildlife,” she said finally. “One of the ridge cats, probably. Hunting in the fields.” She let out a breath, lowered her rifle. “False alarm.”
The silence that followed was thick with everything we’d been interrupted from.
She looked at me. I looked at her. Her shirt was still on the floor. Her hair was wild from my hands.
“When this is over,” I said.
“What?”
“When we’ve dealt with the reinforcements. When we’re not waiting for the next alarm.” I crossed to her. Touched her face the way I’d wanted to for days. “I want to finish this. Properly.”
“And if we don’t survive that long?”
“Then I’ll die wanting something worth wanting.”
She kissed me. Brief and hard and full of promise.
“When this is done,” she agreed. “But Kallum?”
“Yes?”
“What happens if this becomes more than just tonight?”
The question I’d been avoiding. The one I had to answer before we went any further.
“There’s something you need to understand,” I said. “About Vinduthi. About what happens when we mate.”
She went still. Listening.
“It’s not like human bonding. It’s biological. Permanent.” I made myself hold her gaze. “If we claim each other, my sigils will mark your skin. You’d feel what I feel. I’d feel what you feel. A constant connection, both directions, that can’t be undone.”
“Can’t be undone,” she repeated. “Ever?”
“Ever. There’s no separation. No changing your mind later.” I touched her face, gently. “I’ve watched my brothers go through it with their mates. It changes everything. But it’s permanent, Anhara. I need you to understand that before we go any further.”
She turned that over.
“And if we just... don’t claim? If we’re careful?”
“We can be careful tonight. But I wanted you to know what’s possible. What I’d want, eventually, if this becomes what I think it’s becoming.”
Her eyes searched my face. “Does it scare you? Being that connected to someone?”
I thought about it. Really thought, the way she deserved.
“I’ve been alone my whole life,” I said. “Even with my brothers, even with the team. There’s always been a distance. A wall I couldn’t...” I stopped. The words weren’t right. “I don’t know how to explain it.”
“Try.”
I looked at her. At the patience in her face, the openness. She wasn’t demanding an answer. She was giving me space to find one.
“When I’m with you,” I said slowly, “things feel different. The distance feels smaller. Like maybe I don’t have to keep everyone out just to keep myself intact.” I traced her cheekbone with my thumb. “I don’t have better words than that.”
“Those words are enough.”
“The answer is no. It doesn’t scare me.” I held her gaze. “The only thing that scares me is the thought of losing you before I’ve had the chance to know what we could be.”
She exhaled. A shaky sound. She pressed her face into my hand for a moment, and I felt the tremor in her shoulders.
“After,” she said. Softer now. A promise.
“After.”
Outside, the morning light was growing stronger. The ridge cat had moved on. The perimeter was secure, at least for now.
I bent to pick up her shirt, handed it to her. Our fingers touched in the transfer, and even that small contact sent heat through me.
Only hours until the reinforcements arrived.
I intended to survive every one of them.