Chapter 16 Leena
LEENA
The ground tilts, not enough to fall, but enough that I slip. There’s a delay between what I tell my body to do and what it actually does. I correct and keep moving, trying not to slow us down.
The rock cuts get tighter and the path grows more uneven. Sand thins into hard edges and broken stone. Every step takes more focus than the last. Then I miss one.
My foot catches instead of clearing, and I trip. I get my hand up, hitting the wall to steady myself. I inhale sharply, holding down the urge to yelp. He stops.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
His hand closes around my arm, but not like before. This isn’t correction; it’s assessment. He looks me over—quick, precise, taking in everything. My breathing, posture, and how much delay I’m costing us. Everything I can’t hide. I pull back.
“I can keep going.”
“You are slowing.”
I exhale, irritation flaring even as I know he’s right.
“I’m adjusting.”
He doesn’t argue or agree. He just looks at me a second longer. Then his attention shifts past me. He’s scanning, recalculating.
“We stop.”
The words snap through me.
“No.” I shake my head before he finishes the thought. “We don’t have time to stop. They’re tightening the pattern. We just saw—”
“You will fail.”
I go still, not because of what he said, but because of how he said it. No edge. No frustration. Just certainty.
I open my mouth to argue and nothing comes out because part of me already knows he’s right. Every step is taking more effort. My reactions are slower. My focus is fractured, and out here, that’s not a weakness. It’s a liability.
He’s already moving again, but not forward. He’s going sideways, off the narrow path and into a tighter break in the rock where the ground dips sharply. The walls close in enough that I have to turn sideways to follow.
“This isn’t better,” I say, pushing after him. “It’s tighter. If they come through here—”
“They will not.”
Again with the certainty. I follow because I don’t have a better option. Because I don’t trust myself to argue and move at the same time anymore.
The cut deepens as we move, the light shifting as the rock rises higher around us. The red glare of the suns dulls, replaced by shadow and reflected heat trapped between the walls. The air changes, cooling away from the direct light.
That’s the first sign. The second is the ground.
The sand disappears almost completely, replaced by packed earth and stone that doesn’t shift under my weight. Then a break. Not a clean opening. A split.
The rock fractures downward into a narrow crevasse, deep enough that the bottom disappears into shadow. He goes down without hesitation, and I follow, lowering myself carefully, boots finding uneven holds as the light above narrows and the temperature drops another degree.
The air is not just cooler; it’s older. The scent hits a second later. Dry. Mineral. And something else beneath it. Faintly organic.
He lands first, turning immediately, hands up to guide me the last drop instead of letting me take it on my own. I don’t argue and let him catch me. The contact is brief, but it lingers. His hands gripping my waist long enough that I feel the difference when it’s gone.
I step back, taking in the space. The crevasse widens at the base, opening into a tunnel that curves out of sight. The walls are smooth, worn by something that moved through it over and over again. This isn’t natural erosion; it’s deliberate.
“Zmelja,” I say, the word slipping out as recognition clicks into place.
He nods once.
“Yes.”
I turn slowly, tracking the shape of the tunnel, the way it bends and narrows in places before widening again.
“They burrowed through here,” I murmur. “Deep enough to stay below the heat. Below the storms.”
“Below scan.”
That pulls my attention back to him.
“You think this will block them?”
“Yes.”
No hesitation or doubt, and I believe him. The tension knotting my muscles eases a fraction. It’s not gone, but it eases enough that I feel it.
Fatigue hits hard. My legs feel heavier. My shoulders tighter. My focus looser. I lean back against the wall just for a second. Just to breathe.
He moves closer, not fast, not forcing, just there. The space between us narrows. The confined tunnel makes it unavoidable, the walls too close to allow distance even if I wanted it. I should move. Create space. Reset. I don’t.
Because for the first time since we turned away from the city, we’re not moving. Not running or reacting. We’re here, in this moment.
The silence settles around us, thick and contained, the outside world cut off by layers of stone and distance. No wind. No open sky. No immediate threat.
Just him. Too close. Too aware.
And the quiet stretching longer than it should. The quiet doesn’t last. Not because something outside breaks it. Because I do.
I push away from the wall before the stillness can settle too deep, forcing myself upright, forcing my body to keep moving even when every part of it would rather stay exactly where it is.
“We shouldn’t stay near the opening,” I say, more to keep my thoughts from drifting than because he hasn’t already considered it. “If they track us this far—”
“They will not.”
His voice is contained by the tunnel walls, but no less certain. I glance at him.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
No explanation, just that same unshakable certainty. It should frustrate me. It did, earlier. Now I just take it in. Because every time I’ve questioned him so far, he’s been right. That doesn’t make this easier. It just makes arguing pointless.
“Fine,” I say, exhaling slowly. “Then we move deeper anyway. Just in case.”
This time he doesn’t argue. Which tells me he already intended to.
We move further into the tunnel, the space narrowing before opening again into a wider section where the walls curve upward and the ceiling dips low enough that he has to angle slightly to avoid brushing it.
The ground is smoother. Worn, but not recently. It’s old and feels long abandoned.
“Zmelja don’t reuse tunnels like this,” I murmur, tracing the wall lightly with my fingers as we pass. “Once they move on, they don’t come back.”
“Good.”
I almost smile. The further we go, the more the outside world falls away.
The red glare fades completely, replaced by muted shadows and the faint ambient light filtering down through cracks above. The temperature drops another degree, the air stiller.
Contained. Safe.
The word forms, but I don’t say it out loud. I don’t trust my voice enough. My body reacts, steps slowing, breathing evening out without me forcing it. And with that, everything I’ve been holding down pushes closer to the surface.
I stop, not because something is wrong, but because I can’t not. My legs don’t want to take another step. I lean against the curve of the tunnel, not pretending it’s temporary.
“I need a minute,” I admit.
The words feel heavy because I hate saying it. Hate needing it. He doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t move away either.
He stays where he is, close enough that I feel the shift of air when he adjusts his stance, his presence filling the space in a way that has nothing to do with size and everything to do with… him.
I close my eyes for a second, just a second. Let the quiet settle in. Let the tension drain a fraction more. And then I feel his hand resting lightly against my arm. Checking.
The contact is not sharp or immediate. More… careful and aware. I open my eyes slowly.
He’s closer. Not by much, but enough that the space between us is smaller. The air warmer. My skin is warmer.
I should move. I know I should. Reset the distance. Reestablish something. I don’t.
Because the way he’s looking at me, it’s not just focus or calculation, it’s something else. Something less controlled that is closer to the surface. The edge I’ve been noticing since this started.
Only now it’s not just sharp. It’s pulling.
My breath shifts, not faster, deeper. His gaze drops, not away. Tracking the movement, the rise and fall of my chest. The way my body reacts to his proximity whether I want it to or not.
Awareness spikes. Sharp. Sudden.
I straighten slightly, pushing off the wall just enough to create space. He tightens his hand just enough to stop the movement before it fully happens. My pulse kicks.
“That’s—” I start.
The words don’t finish because he steps closer, closing the space I just tried to make. The tunnel doesn’t give us much room to begin with. Now there’s none.
My back presses against the wall. This time I don’t pretend it’s by choice. His body is right there.
Heat.
Presence.
Control held just beneath the surface.
Too close.
Too aware.
Every part of me reacts at once.
My breath catches.
My fingers curl slightly against the stone behind me.
And still I don’t push him away.
Because this—this is different from before.
Before, everything he did was calculated. Measured. Now there’s something else driving it. Something that doesn’t wait. Doesn’t pause.
Doesn’t ask.
His hand shifts from my arm and slides, slowly, down to my wrist. Then back up again. Like he’s tracking something he doesn’t fully understand. Or trying to.
His gaze follows the movement. Focused. Locked. And then it lifts back to my face. There’s something in his eyes I haven’t seen this close before. Not this unfiltered.
My pulse jumps again. Not from fear, exactly. From everything else.
“This is a bad idea,” I say, but the words don’t have the strength they should.
They don’t stop anything. They don’t even slow it. Because even as I say it, I don’t move.
And neither does he. The space between us holds, charged.
Balanced on something that feels like it could tip in either direction. Control or something very close to losing it.