Chapter 5 Leena
LEENA
The space between us stays exactly where he set it. Close enough that I can’t ignore him, far enough that he isn’t crowding me too much.
He hasn’t moved. Controlled. Everything about him is controlled. I draw in a slow breath, trying to force my pulse down from where it’s been sitting too high for too long.
Think, damn it. Logistics. Figure this out. He’s not a direct threat to me, but there’s no way I want this.
“Take me back,” I say.
He stares, unblinking, with no reaction. My heart beats once. Twice. Three times.
“Not safe.”
His words are short, curt, and delivered with absolute certainty. I press my lips together and shift my weight. His eyes track my motion without comment.
“That’s not your decision.”
No response. Not even the subtle recalibration I’d noticed before. It’s like the words don’t register as something that matters. My heart rate is still high. I swallow, blink slowly, then try again, going for a different tactic.
“They’re going to come looking for me,” I say. “A lot of them. You don’t want to be here when they do.”
Nothing. Not a flicker of concern. No shift in posture. If anything, his focus sharpens, like I just confirmed something instead of warning him. I exhale slowly. That didn’t work, so I try a different angle.
“If they find you—”
“They won’t.”
Flat. Certain. I stop. There are tells in that. He’s not defensive about it; it’s just a statement.
“You don’t know that.”
He stares for a long, silent moment before speaking. Unblinking, unmoving, so preternaturally still it’s unnerving. He’s thin for a Zmaj, malnourished. Those awful scars layered on top of each other tell a story too horrific to be conceived.
“I do.”
There’s no arrogance or guesswork in his tone. It’s a calculation. He’s already run that scenario and dismissed it. I glance at the thin light filtering through the ceiling then back to him.
“Even if they don’t find you,” I say, quieter now, “I can’t stay here.”
That shifts something. It’s subtle, but there. A subtle tightening of his shoulders, a rustle of his wings, a twitch of his tail.
Recalculation. Good. Finally something I can work with.
I step forward, not toward the exit, just closing the distance between us by a fraction. I’m testing his reactions. Trying to understand. Gathering data so I can figure out what to do next. He doesn’t move, so I hold.
“Then we go back,” I say.
It’s simple and logical. The only solution that makes sense, but his response is immediate.
“No.”
He doesn’t say it harshly or loudly, just final. I let out a short breath, something between frustration and disbelief.
“You’re not listening.”
“I am.”
He says it softly and sounds so sincere for a second that I think he means it. That he actually believes he understands what I’m saying. But if he does, then that’s worse. Because then this isn’t some mistake, it’s a plan, but for what?
“Then you’re choosing not to understand,” I say.
His head tilts, but I don’t see confusion, there’s something else. He moves, not toward me or away, past me.
He shifts fast enough that I feel the air move before I register what he’s doing. One step, then another, placing him at an angle that changes the entire space again. My pulse ticks up.
“What are you doing?”
He doesn’t answer. His attention has shifted toward the slope, toward the thin points in the ceiling where light leaks through. He’s listening and the stillness changes. A beat passes, then another, and then—
“We move.”
The words are quiet, but final. I blink.
“What?”
He looks at me. His eyes are hard and cold and there’s something in them that makes my heart skip and my breath catch with fear.
“Not safe here.”
I shake my head, cold sweat beading on the back of my neck.
“No. We’re not going anywhere. You brought me here but you can take me back.”
He takes a step toward me. It’s not aggressive, but my heart spikes anyway. There’s no mistaking the intent. We’re moving, whether I want it or not. I shift back a half step, sand sliding under my heel.
“Stop,” I say, sharply.
He keeps coming. The space between us compresses. The ground slips and I’m forced to stop moving unless I want to lose my footing. He’s too close, but pauses, watching. Waiting.
For what I don’t know. I hold my ground, jaw tight.
“I’m not going with you,” I say.
A heartbeat. Another. Nothing. Another then—
“Stay.”
I blink, thrown off by the change of intent.
“Stay?”
He nods once, small and sharp, but very controlled.
“Safe.”
I stare, shaking my head.
“That’s not how this works.”
“No?” Another beat. Then, more deliberate: “Come.”
It’s not a request, but not exactly a command either. Still it’s close enough. Fear flutters in my chest and my stomach is churning, but I can’t just go along like this.
“No,” I say, firmly. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
Silence. He watches, measures, then moves, coming closer. Still not moving fast or violently, but with a certainty that makes my chest tighten painfully. I try to step back because I am certain that standing still isn’t going to work.
He’s narrowed the space, and every instinct I have tells me not to break it the wrong way, so I hold, waiting and watching.
He shifts first, moving past me with smooth, controlled movements.
He angles toward the sloped wall, one hand bracing briefly against the packed sand as he tests it. Then he looks back at me.
“Come,” he says with the same quiet certainty.
“No,” I say, shaking my head.
His gaze flicks to the ceiling, to the thin places where light leaks through, then back to me again.
“Not safe.”
“I’m not following you into the middle of nowhere,” I snap. “I don’t even know where we are.”
He doesn’t react to my tone or respond further. He just turns and starts moving, not fast, not even checking if I’m following, just… going.
Good. Let him go. That solves the problem. Except—
I look around the tunnel we’re in and realize I really don’t know where I am. Tajss is dangerous, and going out in the desert alone is a death sentence in the best of circumstances. I don’t know what’s out there, but whatever he saw he believed it wasn’t safe.
And that certainty hasn’t cracked once.
I swear under my breath and push forward, climbing after him before I can overthink it.
I’m all but crawling as I make my way up the slope.
The sand shifts under my hands, loose at first, then packing tighter the higher I go.
He’s already near the top, moving like the ground isn’t trying to slide out from under him.
He reaches the ceiling and it breaks open, letting the double red suns’ light and heat pour in.
I reach the opening a second later and the world opens up. Heat slams onto me and the light is blinding. The endless red and white striated sand stretches in every direction, broken only by the rise and fall of dunes and distant rock formations that shimmer.
Too exposed. Too open. The ground shifts. I feel it before I see it.
The sand beneath my feet loosens, the surface giving way as the slope destabilizes under my weight. My balance goes fast. Too fast to recover cleanly. My foot sinks, the rest of me following as the sand slides, dragging me down with it.
“Damn it—”
I twist, trying to dig in, to find something solid but there isn’t anything. The dune gives. The entire face of it collapsing in a slow, heavy rush. Then he’s there.
His arm catches around my waist, hard enough to stop my fall, but controlled enough not to crush the air out of me. The force of it yanks me sideways, out of the worst of the slide, pulling me against him as the sand continues to cascade past where I was standing a second ago.
My breath punches out anyway.
“Let go—”
I twist against him on instinct, trying to regain my footing, but he doesn’t release me. He shifts his stance instead, bracing against the ground, positioning himself between me and the sliding sand.
He’s shielding me.
The realization explodes. The dune continues to give way for another few seconds, sand pouring down in a heavy, relentless sheet before it finally slows, settling into a new, unstable slope. He doesn’t move or let me go until the ground stops shifting.
Then—slowly—he loosens his grip. Not all the way. Just enough that I can stand on my own. I pull back immediately, creating space. Needing space. My heart is hammering from the sudden drop.
“I had that,” I say automatically.
A lie and we both know it. He doesn’t call me on it or react at all. His attention is moving, scanning the surrounding terrain, tracking something I can’t see.
I glance at the slope. The section I was standing on is gone. Completely collapsed into a loose, unstable spill of sand that would have taken me with it. Farther than I expected. Harder than I could have stopped.
My stomach tightens. He saw that coming before I did. I look at him. He’s scanning the horizon, body angled slightly in front of me again, not touching, but close enough that I can feel the space he’s holding.
Not controlling. Protecting. My pulse slows a fraction. It’s not trust, not even close, but something shifts.
“You knew that was going to happen,” I say.
His gaze flicks back to me.
“Yes.”
No hesitation and no explanation, just a fact. I look at the collapsed dune then back at him. He’s not guessing; he’s reading this place in a way I can’t. And whether I like it or not that matters.
The wind shifts, carrying heat and something sharper beneath it, sand and grit lifted just enough to sting where it hits.
I turn into it, squinting as it drags across my face and see that he’s already adjusted.
He shifts his stance without apparent thought, angling so his body breaks the worst of it before it reaches me.
Still not close enough to touch or to trap, but just enough to protect. And it is intentional.
I notice, but I don’t comment.
I brush sand from my arms again, more out of habit than necessity, then let my hands fall. Silence stretches between us. It’s less sharp, but still tense. I study him again, this time without the urgency from before.
He’s watching everything. Tracking the horizon, the dunes, the shifting light, but his attention returns to me in intervals. Checking. I deliberately take a step closer and he stills.
I close the distance another fraction. Close enough that I can see the fine detail of the scars, the uneven lines where skin healed wrong, the subtle strain in his posture as he compensates without thinking about it.
He doesn’t move away or step forward. He holds very still. I lift my hand without hesitation. I’m not testing the speed of his reaction; I already know what it will be. I press my fingers lightly against his arm.
The shift happens the same way it did before. Subtle. Controlled. But unmistakable.
The tension drains out of him in a slow, quiet release. His shoulders lower by a fraction. His breathing deepens, evening out as if something inside him has been forced into alignment. I exhale slowly, not surprised anymore. I don’t know how or why, but the reaction is clear.
“Okay,” I say, softer now.
I leave my hand there for a second longer and he doesn’t pull away or react. He just settles. I pull back and like before it returns. The tension. The readiness. The constant edge beneath everything.
It’s not aggressive, toward me at least, but it’s present. I watch it happen, tracking it and confirming the reactions. It’s not random. It’s not my imagination. It’s me. I look up, meeting his eyes.
“You calm down when I touch you.”
His gaze locks on mine and there’s no confusion or hesitation in his eyes or on his face.
“Yes.”
He says that like it’s not something to question, just something that is. I let out a small breath, something that almost turns into a laugh before I catch it.
“That’s… useful.”
He doesn’t react to that either. Doesn’t seem to assign value to the statement. Just holds my gaze, waiting. For what I’m starting to believe is direction or instruction. Something to anchor to that isn’t whatever is running under his skin. I glance out over the dunes again, then back at him.
“Fine,” I say. “I’m not staying here.”
His posture shifts immediately, like something in him clicks into place.
“Move.”
I narrow my eyes slightly.
“That’s not how this works. We move because I decide we move. Not because you say so.”
A beat. Then—
“Yes.”
I blink, thrown off. I didn’t expect him to agree to that.
“That’s not what I—”
“Move,” he repeats.
Same tone. Same certainty. But now there’s something else in it. It’s not a command, more an expectation, like he already assumes I will.
I look back out at the dunes. The collapsed slope. The shifting sand. The heat pressing down. The complete lack of anything resembling safety. I exhale, slow and controlled.
“I don’t trust you,” I say.
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“Yes.”
I shake my head slightly.
“You’re not making a great case for yourself.”
No response, of course. I look at him, then at the path ahead. No good options. Just better ones. I step forward. Past him.
He falls in beside me, not crowding or touching, but close enough that I feel the space he’s holding. How it’s controlled, protective, and constant.
I don’t look at him. I don’t need to. Because now I know exactly what he’s doing. And whether I like it or not, I’m moving with him.