Chapter 11
LEENA
For a moment, there is only his arm around me, his body angled over mine, the space between us nonexistent. The heat of the sand, the pressure of the rock, the weight of him—it all stays exactly where it was, like time stalled the second he pulled me in.
I am hyper-aware of everything.
The steady rise and fall of his chest. The way his grip has not shifted, not even a fraction. The tension threaded through him—not sharp like before, but not gone either.
Held. Not just me. Him.
My breath slows, whether I mean for it to or not, matching the rhythm of his without conscious thought. It is easier to stay still than to test what happens if I do not. Easier to let the moment sit, suspended between what just happened and whatever comes next.
Because something changed. I feel it.
Not just the urgency. Not just the reaction to the sky or the threat moving beyond the dunes.
Him.
The way his grip locked. The way it did not release when it should have.
Carefully, slowly, I shift my hand from where it rests against his arm—not pushing, not pulling away. Just… moving enough to feel the difference. The tension is still there, but it is not the same as before.
Before, everything about him was measured. Controlled. Every movement calculated down to the smallest adjustment. This—this is something else.
Less precise. More… instinct.
The realization settles quietly, but it does not sit lightly.
I turn my head, not enough to break the position, just enough to catch the edge of his profile in my peripheral vision. His focus is outward. Locked on the dunes. Tracking something I cannot see, but he is not entirely there the way he was before.
“There’s nothing above us right now,” I say, keeping my voice low, steady, giving him something to anchor to that is not whatever is running through him. “It moved off. You can—”
I stop. Because even as I say it, he does not move. There is no shift back to that careful, controlled distance he kept before. He stays exactly where he is. A beat passes. Then another.
And slowly, his grip changes. It is not a release, not even close. More a fraction of pressure easing, enough that I feel the difference between restraint and something else.
I pull in a quiet breath and shift, testing it more deliberately, turning slightly within the space he has created, expecting him to correct it. He does not. I make another small movement, enough to create a sliver of space between us.
His hand tightens, not as hard as before, but enough. It is an instinctive response. Unfiltered. My pulse ticks up, because that—that was not controlled.
I still, not because he forces me to, but because I am suddenly very aware of how thin the line is between what he is choosing… and what he is not.
Another second passes. Then, finally, his grip loosens. It is like something in him is pulling back one layer at a time. When the space opens, I step forward, putting a careful distance between us. Enough to breathe. Enough to think. But not far.
I stare at him, but he does not look back. His attention is on the horizon, scanning, tracking, listening for something I cannot detect. The sky above us is quiet. Too quiet. The space between us does not feel any wider at all.
He steps, and we move, but not with the same rhythm as before. Something about it has shifted. It is subtle, but there. The space between us is not as clearly defined. Not the careful distance he kept before, but not the forced proximity from a few moments ago.
I fall into step, adjusting as the sand shifts underfoot, my balance coming easier, my awareness sharper. I am not just watching the terrain anymore. I am watching everything. The dunes. The wind. The sky. Him.
My gaze flicks upward, scanning the empty red for any flicker of movement, any distortion in the light that might signal something coming before we hear it.
Nothing.
That does not mean anything. I drag in a slow breath, forcing myself to focus forward.
“I don’t think the city’s far,” I say, keeping my voice low, steady. “Another few hours, maybe less if we keep this pace.”
He does not respond, but adjusts the path almost imperceptibly. I feel the way he chooses terrain.
“You’ll see it before we reach it,” I continue. “The structures break the horizon. Stone, metal—some of it still intact.”
“Cover,” he says.
“Yes,” I say. “The kind that blocks aerial scans. At least… it should.”
The hesitation slips in before I can stop it because I am not sure of anything anymore. We humans were sure before. After the bomb stopped the Invaders. After the sky cleared, but before everything we thought we ended—came back.
“We thought we had handled this,” I say, quietly, more to myself than to him. “All of it. The pirates. The invaders. Everything off-world.”
He does not answer, but I do not expect him to. Because whatever took him was apparently never part of that fight. Which is a heavy thought. We know there are other planets out there, but how many? How many different aliens want Tajss?
“I don’t think they were with who took you. They weren’t part of what happened to you,” I muse. “They came after.”
“Yes.”
I glance over. He is still scanning, tracking, and moving like every second matters. Because it does.
“They know about Tajss now,” I say.
“Yes.”
No hesitation. No doubt. I exhale slowly, forcing the tension down before it spirals into full-blown panic.
“Then this is not just about you,” I continue. “This is not just recovery. It is reconnaissance. They are mapping. Testing. Figuring out how to—”
The hum cuts across the sky again. Close and sharp. I snap my head up.
“There—”
I do not finish before he is moving. He does not pull me along or force me, I follow. Because now I recognize the shift before he even speaks. The urgency and the immediacy of the threat.
We drop off the side of the dune together. I move with him, matching his direction, my footing adjusting automatically as we cut across the slope and into the lower trough. Faster. Cleaner. Better.
The hum dips, sweeping wider and angling across the dunes ahead instead of directly over us.
“They’re expanding the pattern,” I say, breath tight but controlled. “Not just searching—they’re—”
“Herding.”
I stop for half a second because that is exactly what it feels like.
“They’re pushing us,” I say.
“Yes.”
My pulse spikes.
“Toward what?”
He does not answer, but changes direction again. Sharper and more deliberate. He is not avoiding, he is choosing. And that is when I realize we are not just reacting—we are moving with purpose.
I match him without hesitation, adjusting my pace to his as my focus narrows to the same things he is watching now. The terrain. The angles. The sky. The patterns. Learning. Adapting.
Because if I do not, I will not keep up. And if I do not keep up, I do not survive.
The hum passes again, wider, sweeping. Tightening the net. I glance at him once, just for a second. At the way he moves. At the way nothing about him hesitates. At the way his focus has sharpened into something that does not leave room for doubt.
I glance at him, then at the dunes ahead. We are not running. We are being moved. And whatever is out there—
Already knows where we are going.