Chapter 29 Lia
LIA
Isit on the edge of a woven mat near a small fire, hands wrapped around a cup of warm tea I barely remember accepting. The heat seeps into my palms, grounding, but my thoughts keep drifting back to the ship lifting free of the sand—to the way the ground finally went still beneath my feet.
Rakkh moves through the camp with quiet efficiency, checking in without hovering. A word here. A nod there. No declarations. No explanations—just presence. The Zmaj accept it without question, the way they do when something has already been decided already.
When he returns to me, he does not sit right away. He crouches instead, lowering himself so his eyes are level with mine.
“You should eat,” he says softly.
“I will,” I promise, though my stomach still feels like it is vibrating with leftover adrenaline. I tip the cup slightly, then set it aside. “In a minute.”
He studies my face for a long moment, the firelight catching the ridges of his horns, the faint scars along his jaw. There is no impatience in his gaze. Only concern—and something else. Something cautious.
“You did not collapse,” he says, almost to himself.
I huff out a quiet laugh. “Is that the bar?”
“For today,” he replies. One corner of his mouth lifts. It is not a smile exactly, but it warms me anyway.
Silence stretches between us—not awkward, just full. I am acutely aware of how close he is, the way the dancing firelight sparkles off his scales, the way my body seems to lean toward him without conscious permission.
“Rakkh,” I say quietly.
“Yes.”
“I keep waiting for it to hit me. That moment where I realize how badly this could have gone.” I swallow. “Or how much it might still cost.”
His brow ridges draw together slightly. He reaches out, not fast or urgent, and brushes his knuckles against the back of my hand. There is a question in that touch.
I turn my hand over and lace my fingers with his. It feels right in a way that makes my chest ache.
“It will cost,” he says honestly. “Anything worth keeping does.”
I meet his gaze. “And you are still here.”
His grip tightens just a fraction. “I told you. I chose you.”
The words hit differently out here, under the open sky, with witnesses nearby and no ship humming beneath our feet. There is no crisis forcing the truth out of him now. No urgency demanding it. Just choice.
Heat blooms low in my belly, surprising me with its intensity. I draw a slow breath, trying, and failing, not to lean closer.
“I do not know what tomorrow looks like,” I admit.
“Neither do I,” he says. Then, quieter, “But tonight, you are safe.”
His thumb strokes once across my knuckles. A small, intimate motion that sends a shiver through me.
Around us, the camp continues to wind down. Someone laughs softly; a fire pops. Life, stubborn and persistent, carries on. Rakkh shifts, rising to his feet. For a heartbeat, disappointment flares until he offers me his hand.
“Come,” he says. “You need rest. And so do I.”
I take his hand without hesitation. As he helps me up, his grip lingers, not pulling me forward, not rushing me away. Just steady. Certain. Whatever comes next can wait until morning.
Tonight, it is enough to walk beside him through the firelight, back toward the quiet edge of camp, where the world finally feels survivable.
Rakkh leads me to the far edge of camp, where the dunes rise just enough to break the wind and the fires thin into scattered embers. His tent sits apart from the others—not exactly isolated, but intentionally distant. Close enough that we are not alone. Far enough that the world does not press in.
The fabric at the entrance stirs as he lifts it, warm air spilling out to meet us.
Inside, the space is dim and spare. A low pallet layered with hides.
A few personal items arranged with careful order.
It smells like him. Sun-warmed scales, desert wind, something deeper and steadier that settles instantly under my skin.
He pauses at the threshold, hand still holding mine.
“This is mine,” he says quietly. Careful—not possessive, but informative. An invitation. “If you would rather—”
“I do not,” I say at once, surprised by the certainty in my voice. I squeeze his fingers. “I want to be here.”
Something in him loosens. I feel it through his hand, through the way his shoulders drop just a fraction.
“Then, please, come in,” he says.
The tent closes behind us with a soft whisper. The sounds of camp dull, becoming distant and unimportant. For a moment we just stand there, facing each other in the half-light, as if neither of us wants to be the first to move.
Up close, everything about him feels more real. The faint nicks along his scales. The controlled power in the way he holds himself still. The care—always the care—in his eyes.
My pulse stutters.
“You are shaking,” he says softly.
“So are you,” I reply.
That earns me a quiet huff of breath that might be a laugh. He lifts one hand, slow enough that I can stop him if I want to. I do not. His fingers brush my cheek, warm and rough and infinitely gentle.
“I do not take lightly what this means,” he says. “If I cross this line with you, it is not… temporary.”
My throat tightens. “Good.”
His eyes darken, molten and intent. He leans his forehead against mine, horns angled carefully away, his breath mingling with mine.
“I have fought beside many,” he murmurs. “I have protected others. But choosing you—” He exhales. “That is different.”
“It feels different,” I whisper. “Being chosen.”
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. The tension between us is not frantic, but it is dense—coiled, full of promise instead of fear.
Rakkh’s arms slide around me, not enclosing, not trapping. Holding. I melt into him without thinking, my hands fisting lightly in the fabric of his pants, pressing my cheek to the solid coolness of his chest. His hearts beat slow and powerful beneath my ear.
“You are safe here,” he says again, and this time it is not reassurance. It is a vow.
I tilt my head back, meeting his gaze. The air between us feels charged, fragile, like the moment before lightning strikes. I want him to kiss me, but he does not. Yet.
Instead, he rests his brow against mine once more, breathing me in, grounding us both. Letting this moment exist without rushing it into something else. And somehow, that restraint—chosen, deliberate—makes everything that comes next feel inevitable.