Chapter 5
Ava
I don't sleep.
I pretend to, lying under furs with my breathing slow and my eyes closed, doing all the normal bedtime things.
But my body and my brain are having absolutely none of it.
Every time I drift close to actual sleep, my mind replays the moment Garruk knelt beside me, his breath ghosting across my lips, his voice saying he wouldn't stop—couldn't stop—once I understood what he was. Good luck sleeping after that.
Firelight dances across the cabin walls in hypnotic patterns.
The storm outside has settled into a steady low howl, less rage and more endurance, the kind of sound that makes you feel small and mortal.
Garruk sits in the second chair with his elbows on his knees and his head bowed slightly, watching the fire or listening to the storm or maybe listening to me. I'm not sure he ever truly relaxes.
After a while, I give up pretending.
"You don't have to sit there all night," I say quietly.
He lifts his head, and those gold eyes reflect the firelight like molten metal. "I’m keeping watch. You’re injured. You may need me."
I do need you. The realization hits like a lightning bolt. I’ve always prided myself on not needing anyone… and here I am, suddenly needing this man who isn’t even human.
"You don't have to keep watch,” I tell him. “I'm not going anywhere."
His gaze flicks to my ankle, then back to my face. "You can't go anywhere. You’re injured."
"Not the point."
"Then what is?"
I hesitate, not knowing what I'm trying to say until the words stumble out. "You don't have to protect me every second."
Slowly, he rises. He moves like something carved from stone—heavy, deliberate, careful—obviously not wanting to frighten me.
"It’s not protection as much as it’s… awareness," he says, stepping closer. His voice drops lower, softer, like he's afraid of startling me.
"Awareness?”
"Yes." He stops a few feet from the bed with his hands at his sides, like he doesn't trust himself to come closer. "You breathe, and I hear it. You shiver, and I feel it. You shift in pain and my body answers." His brows draw tight, tension written in every line of his face. "It's… instinct."
Something flutters deep in my chest, dangerous and pulling. I sit up straighter, and the movement pulls on my ankle, but I don't care. "Instinct like what? Animal instinct?"
"No." His jaw flexes. "Something else. Thurok’hai.”
Thurok’hai. I have no idea what it means, or even what language it is, but the word sends a thrill through me.
Something is happening between us, I’m sure of it. And he knows more than he’s saying.
"Garruk," I whisper. “Why won’t you tell me what’s happening here?"
His breath leaves him like truth is being ripped from his ribs. His voice comes out deep and strained, like he's fighting to keep control. "Because you’ll have a choice to make, and when you do, I want you to make it freely. I don’t want you to feel trapped here.”
I shake my head. "I don't feel trapped."
His eyes open, and there's a flare in them—hot, bright, hungry for something he's afraid he shouldn't want. "You should," he says softly. "But you don't."
I shake my head. "No. I don't."
"Why?" he whispers.
Because you carried me like I mattered. Because you touched me like I was fragile and fierce all at once.
Because accepting help from you doesn’t make me feel weak.
Because you look at me like you would face down the mountain itself if it meant keeping me safe.
I don't know how to say any of that without sounding unhinged, so I tell him the smallest truth.
"Because I feel safe here."
His breath stutters, and for a man his size, his reaction is so small, but the impact hits me square in the chest anyway.
"You shouldn't," he murmurs. "Ava. I'm not—"
"I know," I interrupt. "I know you're not human. That much is obvious."
His body goes perfectly still.
"I don't know what you are," I continue, holding his gaze. "But I'm not scared of you."
His hands flex slowly at his sides, like he wants to reach for me and is fighting the urge with everything he has.
The cabin shifts with the wind, and Garruk's breath leaves him in a low, shuddering exhale.
He steps closer—one step, then another—then stops right in front of me, towering but uncertain in a way that twists at something soft inside me.
"Ava," he says, shaping my name carefully like he's afraid of breaking it. "If you take one step toward me—just one—I won't have the strength to retreat again."
Heat rushes through me so fast I forget how to breathe. One step, that's all. But I can't stand, and my ankle laughs at the idea. So I do the only thing I can.
I reach out and place my hand over his.
His breath catches—actually catches—like I've punched the wind out of him. His hand is so big under mine, warm enough to melt the cold still clinging to my skin, and his fingers twitch like he's holding himself back by threads.
Slowly, painfully, he lifts his eyes to mine. "Ava…" he whispers, voice frayed.
"I'm not afraid," I whisper back.
He leans down, and our foreheads touch… just barely, soft as a sigh, electric as lightning. Everything inside me flares at once, heat and anticipation and desire and confusion tangled together in a way that doesn't feel wrong. It feels inevitable.
His breath brushes my lips, but he doesn't close the distance. He waits, trembling.
"You can kiss me," I murmur.
He makes a low sound that's almost a growl, almost a prayer, and then he bends, closing the final inch. It's a soft, careful kiss—not claiming, not consuming. Discovering.
Heat blooms low in my stomach while my fingers curl against his hand. He angles closer, slow and reverent, like he's cataloging every second. Then he pulls back—barely—his forehead resting against mine while his breath shudders out.
"If I continue," he murmurs, "I won't stop."
My heart hammers. "Who said I wanted you to?"
He squeezes his eyes shut, looking tortured and needy all at once. "Telling you what I am comes first," he says, voice ragged. "Then you choose."
He steps back with his chest rising and falling hard, putting distance where neither of us wants it, because he promised himself something I don't understand yet. The space between us feels cold, but the heat in my body doesn't fade.
"In the morning," he says, more vow than word. "When the storm breaks."
Tomorrow, when I can leave if I want to. I swallow hard.
"I'm not going to run away from you," I whisper.
He flinches like the words strike deep. "Don't promise that yet."
He turns away then, jaw tight and shoulders tense, as though holding himself together takes physical effort.
I sink back into the furs with my heart pounding and my lips tingling, and I know I'm in trouble.
Because I believe him, and because I don't want whatever tomorrow brings to change a damn thing.