Chapter 16 #2
November opened her mouth. Closed it. The healer nodded once, turned, and left.
Davn stood in the doorway. His gaze moved from November to Rhaezon.
He raised his eyebrows — a gesture so small it was almost invisible, yet communicated something vast and complex in a language the two men had built over a decade.
Then he stepped back and his footsteps receded down the stone corridor.
Silence. The fire. The rain against the windows, softer now, almost gentle.
"You should rest," Rhaezon said.
"A few more minutes." She pulled the blanket tighter. "I don't want to be alone."
His arms came back around her. She settled against his chest, the back of her head finding the hollow beneath his collarbone, her body fitting into the shape of him with an ease that should have alarmed her and did not.
"You can stay as long as you want."
Her stomach tightened. The words hung between them, plain and simple on their surface, and underneath — was he saying more than just tonight? Was he offering her this hour or something larger? Did she want him to be?
She thought about the word home in her mouth on the ride back. How it had fallen out without permission. How it had been true.
The fire worked on her. His warmth worked on her. The adrenaline had drained away and what replaced it was a bone-deep exhaustion that pulled at her from the inside, dragging her toward sleep with the insistence of a tide. She fought it. Not yet. There was something she needed to know first.
"What does halvyn mean?" The drunkard in the tavern had used the term when referring to Rhaezon. She wanted to know what it meant to him.
He stiffened behind her. The arms around her did not loosen, but every muscle in his torso locked for a single second before releasing. The fire cracked. She waited.
"A slur." His voice had gone flat. "For a Drakon who cannot shift. Defective." A pause so brief it barely existed. "Broken."
She sat up and turned in the circle of his arms until she faced him.
The firelight carved deep shadows along the left side of his face, the scarred side, the side he angled away in conversation, the side she had noticed him positioning toward walls and away from lamplight since the day they met.
The burn scars traced a map from his jaw down his neck and across his shoulder — she knew what lived beneath his shirt, the damaged tissue continuing to the wing that would never fly, the evidence of a night he had survived by accident and lived with on purpose.
Her hand came up. She watched it rise as if it belonged to someone else.
Her fingers found the ridge of scar tissue along his cheekbone and traced it the way she would trace a fracture line on an animal she was assessing, feeling for the shape of the damage so she could understand where it started and where it ended.
His breath stopped. His eyes went amber at the edges, the vertical pupils expanding in the firelight, and the scales along his jaw rose beneath her fingertips, warm and smooth and trembling with something that was not cold.
She traced the scar down the line of his jaw.
Along the corner of his mouth. Her fingers stopped just under his lower lip.
She did not know if it was the adrenaline, or the Aeltharian spirits still warm in her blood, or something else entirely that had made her brave enough to touch him like this.
She did not care. She had spent weeks being careful around him, reading his edges, noting where the boundaries were and staying on her side of them. She was done being careful.
"You're not broken."
His eyes burned amber. The scales spread down his neck, across the line of his collarbone where his shirt fell open at the throat, and she could feel the heat of them under her palm — not just warm but alive, pulsing, as if the fully-shifted Drakon in his blood was pressing against the inside of his skin to get closer to her hand.
She looked at his mouth.
She wanted to kiss him. The wanting was a pull low in her belly, a specific gravity centered on the six inches of air between her lips and his.
She wanted to close that distance. She wanted to know what he tasted like.
She wanted to find out if the resonance in his voice lived in his mouth, too, if she would feel it against her lips the way she felt it in her sternum.
The wanting frightened her. Not because of what he was. Because of what it would mean. A kiss was not a transaction. A kiss was not temporary. A kiss would make the thing between them real and real things could be lost, and she had already lost enough, and she was leaving in four weeks, and—
She leaned into him instead. Tucked her head beneath his chin. Pressed her ear against his chest.
His heart was galloping. Not the slow, controlled rhythm he had been giving her all evening.
A full stampede, hooves on hard ground, the thundering of something that had broken free of whatever corral he kept it in.
His chest rose and fell against her cheek in breaths that were not measured anymore, not deliberate, not controlled.
She had done that. Her fingers on his scars, her words in the firelit dark, and his heart had come undone.
She was not sorry.
His arms closed around her. Carefully. Completely.
One hand spread wide across her back, the other cradling the base of her skull, and she felt him press his lips to the top of her head — not quite a kiss, not quite not — and hold there.
Breathing her in. The scales along his forearms pressed warm against her shoulder blades through the blanket.
She closed her eyes. The fire murmured. The rain had stopped. His heart slowed by fractions beneath her ear, each beat still stronger and faster than it should have been, each beat saying a thing he had not said with words.
She let the warmth pull her under.